FROnniLTON TO 
 
 •TENNYSON- .. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 d^np (§0pt|n0l|t l^a 
 
 Slielf..-i--i-:S 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
. . . stepping there, vjith fare lovjard the sun. 
 
 Stopped seldom to pluck ivecds or ask their names. — Browning. 
 
 FROM 
 
 MILTON TO TENNYSON 
 
 MASTERPIECES OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 EDITED WITH 
 NOTES DESCRIPTIVE AND CRITICAL 
 
 BY 
 
 L. DuPONT SYLE, M.A. (YALE) 
 
 Instructor in English in the University of California 
 
 fi. 
 
 
 I'^MAY'^o 1894*1 
 
 Boston ;, A, f,.(^i 
 
 ALLYN AND BACON' 
 1894 
 
t^''^'^ 
 
 Copyright, 1S94 
 By L. D. SY LE 
 
 PRESS or 
 
 laoditoell anU ffiburdjiU 
 
 BOSTON 
 
SODALIVM VALEDICTORI YALENSIVM 
 
 ANNI MDCCCL.WIX 
 
 ILlogtr SEijraton Bobjcrs 
 
 Studeiiti Doctissiino 
 Condiscipulo Fidelissiino 
 Atnico Consiautissimo ^ 
 
 AMICITIAE 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Foreword ix 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 L' Allegro i 
 
 II Penseroso 5 
 
 Lycidas lo 
 
 On Shakespeare 15 
 
 On his having Arrived at the Age of Twenty-three . 16 
 
 To the Lord General Cromwell 16 
 
 On the Late Massacre in Piedmont . . . . • '7 
 
 On His Blindness . 17 
 
 To Cyriack Skinner 18 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 To MY DEAR Friend, Mr. Congreve 19 
 
 Alexander's Feast 21 
 
 The Character of a Good P^vrson 27 
 
 POPE. 
 
 Epistle to Mr. Jervas 31 
 
 Epistle to Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington ... 33 
 
 Epistle to Augustus 38 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 Winter •. . 50 
 
 JOHNSON. 
 
 The Vanity of Human Wishes 61 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard .... 71 
 
 The Bard 75 
 
 (V) 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The Deserted Village 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 The Winter Morning Walk . 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night 
 
 Tam o' Shanter 
 
 To A Mouse 
 
 To a Mountain Daisy 
 
 Bannockburn 
 
 A Red, Red Rose 
 
 For a' That and a' That 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 The Ancient Mariner 
 
 [Modern Greece] . 
 
 [Venice] .... 
 
 [Cascata del Marmore] 
 
 [The Coliseum] 
 
 [The Coliseum by Moonlight] 
 
 [St. Peter's] . 
 
 [The Ocean] . 
 
 [The Isles of Greece] . 
 
 She Walks in Beauty . 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 From Childe Harold, Canto ii. 
 
 Manfred, Act iii., Sc. 4. 
 Childe Harold, Canto iv. 
 
 " " " iv. 
 
 Don Juan, " iii. 
 
 The Hebrew Melodies 
 
 Song of Saul before his Last Battle " 
 
 KEATS. 
 The Eve of St. Agnes .... 
 Ode to a Nightingale .... 
 On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 Lines Written among the Euganean Hills 
 
 The Cloud 
 
 To A Skylark 
 
 Sonnet. — To the Nile .... 
 Sonnet. — Ozymandias .... 
 
 PAGE 
 80 
 
 92 
 
 97 
 103 
 109 
 no 
 
 1X2 
 
 "3 
 
 113 
 
 115 
 
 135 
 
 138 
 
 142 
 
 143 
 145 
 
 146 
 
 149 
 152 
 
 155 
 155 
 
 156 
 
 168 
 171 
 
 172 
 1S2 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. page 
 
 To A Highland Oiri. 189 
 
 To A Sky- Lark 191 
 
 To THE Cuckoo 192 
 
 TiNTERN Abbey . . 193 
 
 Laodamia ........... 197 
 
 Ode on the Intimations of Immortality .... 202 
 
 Ode to Duty 208 
 
 Sonnet. — To Milton 21a 
 
 MACAULAY. 
 
 HORATIUS 211 
 
 CLOUGH. 
 
 Qua Cursum Ventus 230 
 
 Mari Magno, or Tales on Board [Prologue] . . . -231 
 
 The Lawyer's First Tale 233 
 
 [.Sometimes called "The Clergyman's First Tale."] 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 The Scholar-Gipsy . 241 
 
 The Forsaken Merman 248 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 A Transcript from Euripides 253 
 
 [From " Balaustion's Adventure."] 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 Q^NONE 
 
 The Miller's Daughter .... 
 The Passing of Arthur .... 
 The Splendor Falls .... 
 
 Home they Brought her Warrior Dead 
 Break, Break, Break .... 
 
 The Brook , 
 
 Crossing the Bar , = . . . 
 
 275 
 282 
 289 
 302 
 303 
 304 
 304 
 306 
 
A separate Table of Contents is provided for 
 The Notes. 
 
FOREWORD. 
 
 T^HOUGH intended primarily for High Scliools, it is hoped 
 -*- that this little book may prove not useless in College 
 classes that pursue a sketch — or outline — course in English 
 Literature. 
 
 To the High School teacher the following explanations may 
 be useful : 
 
 1. The short Biographies are intended as mere outlines 
 which the pupil, if time allow, shall fill in from his reading of 
 larger works. These works are indicated in the Bibliography, 
 under the heading Life and Times. 
 
 2. The Bibliography of Criticism, it is hoped, will assist 
 the teacher in his search for the best that has been thought 
 and said upon the poet whom his class is studying. Perhaps 
 advanced pupils also can use some portion of this Bibliog- 
 raphy with profit, but if they have spare time, I should en- 
 courage them to read more extensively in the works of the 
 poet himself rather than in the works of those who have writ- 
 ten about him. 
 
 3. The reference library, placed where the pupil can con- 
 sult it daily, should contain : 
 
 i. Books for which there are no equivalents : Pope's 
 Translation of the Iliad; Lang, Leaf and Myer's Translation 
 of the Iliad; Palmer's Translation of the Odyssey; Dryden's 
 and Conington's Translations of the .'Eneid ; The Century 
 Dictionary. 
 
 ii. The following hooks or their equivalents : Lippincott's 
 Biographical Dictionary; Lippincott's Gazetteer; Smith's 
 Smaller Classical Dictionary ; Rich's Dictionary of Greek and 
 Roman Antiquities ; Gayley's Classic Myths in English Litera- 
 ture ; Ginn's Classical Atlas ; Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase 
 
 (Ix) 
 
FORE WORD. 
 
 and Fable ; Green's Short History of the English People ; 
 McCarthy's History of Our Own Times ; Skeat's Etymological 
 Dictionary (Student's edition) ; Whitney's Essentials of Eng- 
 lish Grammar; Bain's Rhetoric (new edition in 2 vols.); 
 Hale's Longer English J^oems ; The English Men of Letters 
 Series. 
 
 4. The principles of Metrics will be found laid down in 
 Abbott & Seelye's English Lessons for English People, and in 
 Gummere's Poetics. It has been thought unnecessary, there- 
 fore, to give such information in the notes. 
 
 5. Exigencies of space have compelled me reluctantly to 
 omit Scott's Lady of the Lake from the place it should have 
 occupied in this book. This defect the student should 
 remedy by reading that poem in the excellent edition of Pro- 
 fessor W. L Rolfe. 
 
 Grateful acknowledgments are due to the following gentle- 
 men : To Professor C. M. Gayley of the University of Cali- 
 fornia for constant advice and valuable criticism upon the 
 treatment of all poets represented in this book ; to Professor 
 W. D. Whitney of Yale LIniversity for permission to draw 
 freely for definitions upon the Century Dictionary ; to Pro- 
 fessor H. A. Beers of Yale University for helpful suggestion 
 embodied in the notes on Milton, Dryden and Pope ; to Pro- 
 fessor A. F. Lange of the University of California for similar 
 suggestions in the notes on Milton ; to Professor J. C. Rolfe 
 of the University of Michigan for permission to condense in- 
 formation on certain points from his scholarly and exhaustive 
 edition of Macaulay's Lays ; to Professor C. B. Bradley of the 
 University of California for advice in the selection of the 
 extracts from Burns and Browning ; to Professor Isaac Flagg 
 of the University of California for the happy Latin phrasing 
 he has given to the thought of the editor's inscription. 
 
 Berkeley, California, 
 
 March 15, 1894. 
 
MILTON 
 
 L'ALLEGRO. 
 
 Hence, loathed Melancholy, 
 
 Of Cerberus and blackest Midniglit born 
 In Stygian cave forlorn 
 
 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ! 
 Find out some uncouth cell, 5 
 
 Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings. 
 And the night-raven sings ; 
 
 There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks, 
 As ragged as thy locks. 
 
 In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10 
 
 But come, thou Goddess fair and free. 
 In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, 
 And by men heart-easing Mirth ; 
 Whom lovely Venus, at a birth. 
 
 With two sister Graces more, 15 
 
 Two ivy-crowned Bacchus bore : 
 Or whether (as some sager sing) 
 The frolic_ wind that breathes the spring, 
 Zephyr, with Aurora playing. 
 
 As he met her once a-Maying, 20 
 
 There, on beds of violets blue, 
 And fresh-blown roses washed in dew. 
 Filled her with thee, a daughter fair. 
 So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 
 
 Haste thee, nymph, and bring with tliee 25 
 
 Jest, and youthful Jollity, 
 Quips and Cranks and wanton Wiles, 
 Nods and Becks and wreathed Smiles, 
 
MIL TON. 
 
 Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
 
 And love to live in dimple sleek ; 30 
 
 Sport that wrinkled Care derides. 
 
 And Laughter holding both his sides. 
 
 Come, and trip it, as you go. 
 
 On the light fantastic toe ; 
 
 And in thy right hand lead with thee 35 
 
 The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty ; 
 
 And, if 1 give thee honour due. 
 
 Mirth, admit me of thy crew. 
 
 To live with her, and live with thee. 
 
 In unreprov^d pleasures free ; 40 
 
 To hear the lark begin his flight, 
 
 And, singing, startle the dull night, 
 
 From his watch-tower in the skies, 
 
 Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
 
 Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 45 
 
 And at my window bid good-morrow. 
 
 Through the sweet-briar or the vine. 
 
 Or the twisted eglantine ; 
 
 -While the cock, with lively din. 
 
 Scatters tlie rear of darkness thin ; 50 
 
 And to the stack, or the barn-door. 
 
 Stoutly struts his dames before : 
 
 Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
 
 Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, 
 
 From the side of some hoar hill, 55 
 
 Through the high wood echoing shrill : 
 
 Sometime walking, not unseen. 
 
 By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green. 
 
 Right against tlie eastern gate 
 
 Where the great Sun begins his state, 60 
 
 Robed in flames and amber light. 
 
 The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
 
 While the ploughman, near at hand, 
 
 Whistles o'er the furrowed land. 
 
 And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65 
 
 And the mower whets his scythe, 
 
 And every shepherd tells his tale 
 
n ALLEGRO. 
 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
 
 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures. 
 
 Whilst the landskip round it measures : 7° 
 
 Russet lawns, and fallows grey. 
 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
 
 Mountains on whose barren breast 
 
 The labouring clouds do often rest ; 
 
 Meadows trim, with daisies pied ; 75 
 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; 
 
 Towers and battlements it sees 
 
 Bosomed high in tufted trees. 
 
 Where perhaps some beauty lies. 
 
 The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 80 
 
 Hard by a cottage chimney smokes 
 
 From betwixt two ag6d oaks. 
 
 Where Corydon and Thyrsis met 
 
 Are at their savoury dinner set 
 
 Of herbs and other country messes, 85 
 
 Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses : 
 
 And then in haste her bower she leaves, 
 
 With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
 
 Or, if the earlier season lead, 
 
 To the tanned haycock in the mead. go 
 
 Sometimes, with secure delight, 
 
 The upland hamlets will invite, 
 
 When the merry bells ring round. 
 
 And jocund rebecks sound 
 
 To many a youth and many a maid 95 
 
 Dancing in the checkered shade. 
 
 And young and old come forth to play 
 
 On a sunshine holiday. 
 
 Till the livelong daylight fail : 
 
 Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 
 
 With stories told of many a feat. 
 
 How Faery Mab the junkets eat. 
 
 She was pinched and pulled, she said ; 
 
 And he, by Friar's lantern led, 
 
 Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 105 
 
 To earn his cream-bowl dulv set. 
 
MILTON. 
 
 When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 
 
 His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 
 
 That ten day-labourers could not end ; 
 
 Then lies him down, the lubber fiend, iio 
 
 And, stretched out all the chimney's length. 
 
 Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 
 
 And crop-full out of doors he flings. 
 
 Ere the first cock liis matin rings. 
 
 Thus, done the tales, to bed they creep, 115 
 
 By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 
 
 Towered cities please us then. 
 
 And the busy hum of men. 
 
 Where throngs of knights and barons bold. 
 
 In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, 120 
 
 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
 
 Rain influence, and judge the prize 
 
 Of wit or arms, while both contend 
 
 To win her grace whom all commend. 
 
 There let Hymen oft appear 125 
 
 In saffron robe, with taper clear. 
 
 And pomp, and feast, and revelry. 
 
 With mask and antique pageantry ; 
 
 Such sights as youthful poets dream 
 
 On summer eves by haunted stream. 130 
 
 Then to the well-trod stage anon. 
 
 If Jonson's learned sock be on, 
 
 Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child. 
 
 Warble his native wood-notes wild. 
 
 And ever, against eating cares, 135 
 
 Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
 
 iVIarried to immortal verse, 
 
 Such as the meeting soul may pierce. 
 
 In notes with many a winding bout 
 
 Of linked sweetness long drawn out 140 
 
 With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 
 
 The melting voice through mazes running, 
 
 Untwisting all the chains that tie 
 
 The hidden soul of harmony ; 
 
 That Orpheus' self may heave his head 145 
 
IL PENSEROSO. 
 
 From golden slumber on a bed 
 
 Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 
 
 Such strains as would have won the ear 
 
 Of Pluto to have quite set free 
 
 His half-regained Eurydice. 150 
 
 These delights if thou canst give, 
 
 Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 
 
 IL PENSEROSO. 
 
 Hence, vain deluding Joys, 
 
 The brood of Folly without fatlier bred ! 
 How little you bested, 
 
 Or filled the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
 Dwell in some idle brain, 5 
 
 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess. 
 As thick and numberless 
 
 As the gay motes that people the sun-beams. 
 Or likest hovering dreams. 
 
 The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 10 
 
 But, hail ! thou Goddess sage and holy ! 
 Hail, divinest Melancholy ! 
 Whose saintly visage is too bright 
 To hit the sense of human sight. 
 
 And therefore to our weaker view 15 
 
 O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; 
 Black, but such as in esteem 
 Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. 
 Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove 
 To set her beauty's praise above 20 
 
 The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers oftended. 
 Yet thou art higher far descended : 
 Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore 
 To solitary Saturn bore ; 
 
 His daughter she ; in Saturn's reign 25 
 
 Such mixture was not held a stain. 
 
MIL TON. 
 
 Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
 
 He met her, and in secret shades 
 
 Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
 
 Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 
 
 Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure. 
 
 Sober, steadfast, and demure. 
 
 All in a robe of darkest grain, 
 
 Flowing with majestic train, 
 
 And sable stole of cypress lawn 35 
 
 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
 
 Come ; but keep thy wonted state. 
 
 With even step, and musing gait. 
 
 And looks commercing with the skies, 
 
 Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 40 
 
 There, held in holy passion still. 
 
 Forget thyself to marble, till 
 
 With a sad leaden downward cast 
 
 Thou fix them on the earth as fast. 
 
 And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, 45 
 
 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. 
 
 And hears the Muses in a ring 
 
 Aye round about Jove's altar sing; 
 
 And add to these retired Leisure, 
 
 That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 50 
 
 But, first and chiefest, with thee bring 
 
 Him that yon soars on golden wing. 
 
 Guiding the fiery- wheeled throne. 
 
 The Cherub Contemplation ; 
 
 And the mute silence hist along, 55 
 
 'Less Philomel will deign a song. 
 
 In her sweetest saddest plight. 
 
 Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 
 
 While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 
 
 Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 60 
 
 Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly. 
 
 Most musical, most melancholy ! 
 
 Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among 
 
 I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 
 
 And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65 
 
IL PENSEROSO. 
 
 On the dry smooth-shaven green, 
 
 To behold the wandering moon. 
 
 Riding near her highest noon, 
 
 Like one that had been led astray 
 
 Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 70 
 
 And oft, as if her head she bowed. 
 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 
 Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
 
 I hear the far-oflf curfew sound. 
 
 Over some wide-watered shore, 75 
 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar ; 
 
 Or, if the air will not permit. 
 
 Some still removed place will fit. 
 
 Where glowing embers through the room 
 
 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 80 
 
 Far from all resort of mirth. 
 
 Save the cricket on the heartli. 
 
 Or the bellman's drowsy charm 
 
 To bless the doors from nightly liarm. 
 
 Or let my lamp, at midnight liour, 85 
 
 Be seen in some high lonely tower. 
 
 Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, 
 
 With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere 
 
 The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
 
 What worlds or what vast regions hold 90 
 
 The immortal mind that hath forsook 
 
 Her mansion in this fleshly nook ; 
 
 And of those demons that are found 
 
 In fire, air, flood, or underground. 
 
 Whose power hath a true consent 95 
 
 With planet or with element. 
 
 Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
 
 In sceptred pall come sweeping by, 
 
 Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line. 
 
 Or the tale of Troy divine, 100 
 
 Or what (though rare) of later age 
 
 Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 
 
 But, O sad Virgin ! that thy power 
 
 Might raise Musaeus from his bower ; 
 
MILTON. 
 
 Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 105 
 
 Such notes as, warbled to the string. 
 
 Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, 
 
 And made Hell grant what love did seek ; 
 
 Or call up him that left half-told 
 
 The story of Cambuscan bold, no 
 
 Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
 
 And who had Canace to wife, 
 
 That owned the virtuous ring and glass, 
 
 And of the wondrous horse of brass, 
 
 On which the Tartar king did ride ; 115 
 
 And if aught else great bards beside 
 
 In sage and solemn tunes have sung. 
 
 Of turneys, and of trophies hung. 
 
 Of forests, and enchantments drear. 
 
 Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 
 
 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, 
 
 Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
 
 Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont 
 
 With the Attic boy to hunt. 
 
 But kerchieft in a comely cloud, 125 
 
 While rocking winds are piping loud. 
 
 Or ushered with a shower still. 
 
 When the gust hath blown his fill. 
 
 Ending on the rustling leaves. 
 
 With minute-drops from off the eaves. 130 
 
 And, when the sun begins to fling 
 
 His flaring beams, me. Goddess, bring 
 
 To arched walks of twilight groves. 
 
 And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 
 
 Of pine, or monumental oak, 135 
 
 Where the rude axe with heavdd stroke 
 
 Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, 
 
 Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 
 
 There, in close covert, by some brook, 
 
 Where no profaner eye may look, 140 
 
 Hide me from day's garish eye. 
 
 While the bee with honeyed thigh. 
 
 That at her flowery work doth sing. 
 
IL PENSEROSO. 
 
 And the waters murmuring, 
 
 With such consort as they keep, 145 
 
 Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep. 
 
 And let some strange mysterious dream 
 
 Wave at his wings, in aii^y stream 
 
 Of lively portraiture displayed, 
 
 Softly on my eyelids laid; 150 
 
 And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 
 
 Above, about, or underneath. 
 
 Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, 
 
 Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 
 
 But let my due feet never fail 155 
 
 To walk the studious cloister's pale, 
 
 And love the high embow6d roof. 
 
 With antique pillars massy-proof. 
 
 And storied windows richly dight. 
 
 Casting a dim religious light. 160 
 
 There let the pealing organ blow. 
 
 To the full-voiced quire below. 
 
 In service high and anthems clear. 
 
 As may with sweetness, through mine ear. 
 
 Dissolve me into ecstasies, 165 
 
 And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 
 
 And may at last my weary age 
 
 Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
 
 The hairy gown and mossy cell. 
 
 Where I may sit and rightly spell 170 
 
 Of every star that heaven doth shew, 
 
 And every herb that sips the dew, 
 
 Till old experience do attain 
 
 To something like prophetic strain. 
 
 These pleasures, Melancholy, give; 175 
 
 And I with thee will choose to live. 
 
10 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 LYCIDAS. 
 
 In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned in his 
 passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637; and, by occasion, foretells the 
 ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height. 
 
 Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, 
 
 Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
 
 I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, 
 
 And with forced fingers mde 
 
 Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5 
 
 Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 
 
 Compels me to disturb your season due ; 
 
 For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime. 
 
 Young Lycidas, and liath not left his peer. 
 
 Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 10 
 
 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rime. 
 
 He must not float upon his watery bier 
 
 Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. 
 
 Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
 
 Begin, then. Sisters of the sacred well 15 
 
 That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ; 
 Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
 Hence with denial vain and coy excuse : 
 So may some gentle iVTuse 
 
 With lucky words favour my destined urn, 20 
 
 And, as he passes, turn 
 And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud ! 
 
 For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, 
 Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; 
 Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 25 
 
 Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, 
 We drove a-field, and both together heard 
 What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn. 
 Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 
 Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 3° 
 
 Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. 
 
LYCIDAS. 11 
 
 Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute ; 
 
 Tempered to the oaten flute 
 
 Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel 
 
 From the glad sound would not be absent long; 35 
 
 And old Damcetas loved to hear our song. 
 
 But, oh I the heavy change, now thou art gone, 
 Now thou art gone and never must return ! 
 Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, 
 With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 40 
 
 And all their echoes, mourn. 
 The willows, and the hazel copses green. 
 Shall now no more be seen 
 Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
 As killing as the canker to the rose, 45 
 
 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze. 
 Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, 
 When first the white-thorn blows ; 
 Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 
 
 Where were ye. Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50 
 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? 
 For neither were ye playing on the steep 
 Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie. 
 Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
 
 Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 55 
 
 Ay me ! I fondly dream 
 
 " Had ye been there," . . . for what could that have done? 
 What could the Muse herself that Orpheus l^ore. 
 The Muse herself, for her enchanting son. 
 Whom universal nature did lament, 60 
 
 When, by the rout that made the hideous roar. 
 His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
 Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? 
 
 Alas ! what boots it with uncessant care 
 To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade, 65 
 
 And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 
 Were it not better done, as others use. 
 To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. 
 Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? 
 Fame is the spur tliat the clear spirit dotli raise 70 
 
12 MILTON. 
 
 (That last infirmity of noble mind) 
 
 To scorn delights and live laborious days ; 
 
 But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
 
 And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
 
 Conies the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, 75 
 
 And slits the thin-spun life. " But not tlie praise," 
 
 Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears : 
 
 "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
 
 Nor in the glistening foil 
 
 Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, 80 
 
 But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
 
 And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
 
 As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
 
 Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed/' 
 
 O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood. 85 
 
 Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, 
 That strain I heard was of a higher mood. 
 But now my oat proceeds, 
 And listens to the Herald of the Sea, 
 
 That came in Neptune's plea. 90 
 
 He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds. 
 What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain ? 
 And questioned every gust of rugged wings 
 That blows from oflf each beaked promontory. 
 They knew not of his story ; 95 
 
 And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
 That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed : 
 The air was calm, and on the level brine 
 Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
 It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 100 
 
 Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark. 
 That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 
 
 Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, 
 His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge. 
 Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105 
 
 Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. 
 "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?" 
 Last came, and last did go, 
 The Pilot of the Galilean Lake ; 
 
Z YCIDAS. 13 
 
 Two massy keys he bore of metals twain no 
 
 (Two golden opes, the iron shuts amain). 
 
 He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : — 
 
 " How well could I have spared for thee, young swain. 
 
 Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake. 
 
 Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! 115 
 
 Of other care they little reckoning make 
 
 Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, 
 
 And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 
 
 Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold 
 
 A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least 120 
 
 That to the faithful herdman's art belongs ! 
 
 What recks it them ? What need they ? They are sped : 
 
 And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
 
 Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ; 
 
 The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 125 
 
 But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw. 
 
 Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 
 
 Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 
 
 Daily devours apace, and nothing said. 
 
 But that two-handed engine at the door 130 
 
 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." 
 
 Return, Alpheus ; the dread voice is past 
 That shiimk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, 
 And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
 Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 135 
 
 Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
 Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 
 On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks. 
 Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, 
 That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 140 
 
 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
 Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. 
 The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 
 The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet. 
 The glowing violet, 145 
 
 The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine. 
 With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head. 
 And every flower that sad embroider}* wears ; 
 
14 MILTON. 
 
 Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 
 
 And dafFadillies fill their cups with tears, 150 
 
 To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 
 
 For so, to interpose a little ease. 
 
 Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 
 
 Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 
 
 Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled; 155 
 
 Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
 
 Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 
 
 Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
 
 Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 
 
 Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 160 
 
 Where the great Vision of the guarded mount 
 
 Looks toward Namancos and Bayona\s hold. 
 
 Look homeward. Angel, now, and melt with ruth : 
 
 And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 
 
 Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, 165 
 For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead. 
 Sunk thougli he be beneath the watery floor. 
 So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed. 
 And yet anon repairs his drooping head. 
 And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 1 70 
 
 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : 
 So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high. 
 Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves. 
 Where, other groves and other streams along. 
 With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 175 
 
 And hears the une.xpressive nuptial song. 
 In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
 There entertain him all the Saints above, 
 In solemn troops, and swee-t societies. 
 
 That sing, and singing in their glory move, 1 80 
 
 And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
 Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
 Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, 
 In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
 To all that wonder in that perilous flood. 185 
 
 Thus sang the imcouth swain to the oaks and rills. 
 
ON SHAKESPEARE. 15 
 
 While the still morn went out with sandals grey : 
 
 He touched the tender stops of various quills. 
 
 With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : 
 
 And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 190 
 
 And now was dropt into the western bay. 
 
 At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue : 
 
 To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 
 
 ON SHAKESPEARE. 1630. 
 
 What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones 
 
 The labour of an age in piled stones? 
 
 Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid 
 
 Under a star-ypointing pyramid? 
 
 Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 5 
 
 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? 
 
 Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
 
 Hast built thyself a livelong monument. 
 
 For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art. 
 
 Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 10 
 
 Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
 
 Those Delphic lines with deep impression took. 
 
 Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving. 
 
 Dost make us marble with too much conceiving. 
 
 And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie i 5 
 
 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 
 
16 MTLTON. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY- 
 THREE. 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth. 
 
 Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year ! 
 
 My hasting days fly on with full career, 
 
 But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. 
 
 Perhaps my semblance might deceive the tnitli 5 
 
 That I to manhood am arrived so near ; 
 And inward ripeness doth much less appear, 
 That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. 
 
 Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, 
 
 It shall be still in strictest measure even 10 
 
 To that same lot, however mean or high. 
 
 Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven. 
 All is, if I have grace to use it so. 
 As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. 
 
 TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL, MAY, 1652, 
 
 ON THE PROPOSALS OF CERTAIN MINISTERS AT THE COMMITTEE 
 FOR PROPAGATION OF THE GOSPEL. 
 
 Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 
 Not of war only, but detractions rude. 
 Guided by faith and matchless fortitude. 
 To peace and trutli thy glorious way has plouglied. 
 
 And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 5 
 
 Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued, 
 While Darwen stream, with blood of Scot's imbrued. 
 And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, 
 
 And Worcester's laureate wreath : yet much remains 
 
 To conquer still; Peace hath her victories 10 
 
 No less renowned than War : new foes arise, 
 
 Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. 
 Help us to save free conscience from the paw 
 Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw. 
 
SONNETS. 17 
 
 ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. 
 
 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 
 Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ; 
 Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old. 
 When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones, 
 
 Forget not : in thy book record their groans 
 
 Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
 Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled 
 Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
 
 The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
 
 To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow 
 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
 
 The triple Tyrant ; that from these may grow 
 A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, 
 Early may fiy the Babylonian woe. 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
 
 When I consider how my light is .spent 
 
 Ere half my days in this dark world and wide. 
 And that one talent which is death to hide 
 Lodged with me useless, tliough my soul more ])ent 
 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 
 My true account, lest He returning chide, 
 "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" 
 I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 
 
 That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need 
 Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state 
 
 Is kingly : thousands at his bidding speed, 
 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
 They also serve who only stand and wait." 
 
18 MIL TON. 
 
 TO CYRIACK SKINNER. 
 
 CvRiACK, this three years' day these eyes, though clear, 
 
 To outward view, of blemish or of spot. 
 
 Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; 
 
 Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
 Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 5 
 
 Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
 
 Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
 
 Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer 
 Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? 
 
 The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied 10 
 
 In Liberty's defence, my noble task. 
 Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 
 
 Tliis thought might lead me through the world's vain mask 
 
 Content, though blind, had I no better guide. 
 
DRYDEN. 
 
 TO MY DEAR FRIEND, MR. CONGREVE, 
 
 ON HIS COMEDY CALLED THE DOUBLE DEALER. 
 
 Well then, the promised hour is come at last, 
 The present age of wit obscures the past : 
 Strong were our sires, and as they fouglit they writ. 
 Conquering with force of arms and dint of wit : 
 Theirs was the giant race before the flood ; 5 
 
 And thus, when Charles returned, our empire stood. 
 Like Janus, he the stubborn soil manured. 
 With rules of husbandry the rankness cured ; 
 Tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude. 
 And boisterous English wit with art endued. 10 
 
 Our age was cultivated thus at length. 
 But what we gained in skill we lost in strength. 
 Our builders were with want of genius curst ; 
 The second temple was not like the first ; 
 Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length, 15 
 
 Our beauties equal, but excel our strength. 
 Firm Doric pillars found your solid base, 
 The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space ; 
 Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace. 
 In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise : 20 
 
 He moved tlie mind, but had not power to raise. 
 Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please, 
 Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease. 
 In differing talents both adorned their age. 
 One for the study, t'other for the stage. 25 
 
 (19) 
 
20 DR YD EN. 
 
 But both to Congreve justly shall submit, 
 
 One matched in judgment, both o'ermatchecl in wit. 
 
 In him all beauties of this age we see, 
 
 Etherege his courtship, Southern's purity. 
 
 The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherly. 30 
 
 All this in blooming youth you have achieved ; 
 
 Nor are your foiled contemporaries grieved. 
 
 So much the sweetness of your manners move, 
 
 We cannot envy you, because we love. 
 
 Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw 35 
 
 A beardless Consul made against the law, 
 
 And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome, 
 
 Though he with Hannibal was overcome. 
 
 Thus old Romano bowed to Raphael's fame. 
 
 And scholar to the youth he taught became. 40 
 
 O that your brows my laurel had sustained ! 
 Well had I been deposed, if you had reigned : 
 The father had descended for the son. 
 For only you are lineal to the throne. 
 
 Thus, when the State one Edward did depose, 45 
 
 A greater Edward in his room arose : 
 But now, not I, but poetry is curst; 
 For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first. 
 But let them not mistake my patron's part 
 
 Nor call his charity their own desert. 50 
 
 Yet this I prophesy : Thou shalt be seen. 
 Though with some short parentliesis between. 
 High on the throne of wit, and, seated there. 
 Not mine — that's little — but thy laurel wear. 
 Thy first attempt an early promise made ; 5 5 
 
 That early promise this has more than paid. 
 So bold, yet so judiciously you dare. 
 That your least praise is to be regular. 
 Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought, 
 But genius must be born, and never can be taught. 60 
 
 This is your portion, this your native store : 
 Heaven, that but once was prodigal before, 
 To Shakespeare gave as much ; she could not give him more. 
 
 Maintain your post : that's all the fame you need ; 
 
ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 21 
 
 For 'tis impossible you should proceed. 65 
 
 Already I am worn with cares and age, 
 
 And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage : 
 
 Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense, 
 
 I live a rent-charge on His providence : 
 
 But you, whom every Muse and grace adorn, 70 
 
 Whom I foresee to better fortune born. 
 
 Be kind to my remains ; and oh, defend. 
 
 Against your judgment, your departed friend ! 
 
 Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue, 
 
 But shade those laurels which descend to you: 75 
 
 And take for tribute what these lines express ; 
 
 You merit more, nor could my love do less. 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST; 
 OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. 
 
 A SOXG IX HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY: 1 697. 
 
 ■'TWAS at the royal feast for Persia won 
 By Philip's warlike son : 
 Aloft in awful state 
 The godlike hero sate 
 
 On his imperial throne ; 5 
 
 His valiant peers were placed around ; 
 Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound : 
 
 (So should desert in arms be crowned). 
 The lovely Thais, by his side. 
 
 Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, 10 
 
 In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
 Happy, happy, happy pair I 
 None but the brave. 
 None but the brave. 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. 15 
 
22 DR YDEN. 
 
 Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
 
 None but the brave. 
 
 None but the brave. 
 None but tlie brave deserves the fair 
 
 Timotheus, placed on high 20 
 
 Amid the tuneful quire, 
 With flying fingers touched tlie lyre : 
 The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
 And heavenly joys inspire. 
 The song began from Jove, 25 
 
 Who left his blissful seats above, 
 (Such is the power of mighty love). 
 A dragon's fiery form belied the god : 
 Sublime* on radiant spires he rode, 
 When he to fair Olympia pressed : 30 
 
 And while he sought her snowy breast, 
 Then round her slender waist he curled, 
 And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 
 The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, 
 A present deity, they shout around; 35 
 
 A present deity, the \aulted roofs rebound : 
 With ravished ears 
 The monarch hears. 
 Assumes the god. 
 
 Affects to nod, 40 
 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 With ravished cars 
 The monarch hears 
 Assumes the god, 
 
 Affects to nod, 45 
 
 And seems to shape the spheres. 
 
ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 23 
 
 3 
 The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, 
 Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. 
 The jolly god in triumph comes ; 
 
 Sound the trumpets, beat tlie drums ; 50 
 
 Flushed with a purple grace 
 He shows his honest face : 
 Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes. 
 Bacchus, ever fair and young. 
 
 Drinking joys did first ordain; 55 
 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 
 Rich the treasure. 
 Sweet the pleasure. 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 60 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 
 
 Rich the treasure, 
 
 Sweet the pleasure. 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 65 
 
 4 
 Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; 
 Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
 And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 
 The master saw the madness rise. 
 
 His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 70 
 
 And while he heaven and earth defied, 
 Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 
 He chose a mournful Muse, 
 Soft pity to infuse ; 
 He sung Darius great and good, 75 
 
 By too severe a fate, 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 
 
 Fallen from his high estate. 
 And weltering in his blood ; 
 
24 DR YDEX. 
 
 Deserted at his utmost need So 
 
 By those his former bounty fed ; 
 On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
 With not a friend to close his ej'es. 
 With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
 
 Revolving in his altered soul 85 
 
 The various turns of chance below ; 
 And, now and then, a sigh he stole. 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Revolving in his altered soul 
 
 The various turns of chance below ; 90 
 
 And, now and then, a sigh he stole. 
 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 5 
 The mighty master smiled to see 
 That love was in the next degree ; 
 
 'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, 95 
 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
 Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
 War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
 Honour but an empty bubble ; 100 
 
 Never ending, still beginning. 
 Fighting still, and still destroying: 
 
 If the world be worth thy winning 
 Think, O think it worth enjoying : 
 
 Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 105 
 
 Take the good the gods provide thee. 
 The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
 So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 
 Gazed on the fair 110 
 
 Who caused his care. 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed again ; 
 At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. H5 
 
ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 25 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 The prince, unable to conceal liis pain, 
 Gazed on the lair 
 Who caused his care. 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed again ; 1 20 
 
 At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 6 
 Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
 A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
 Break his bands of sleep asunder, 125 
 
 And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
 Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
 Has raised up his head ; 
 As awaked from the dead, 
 And amazed, he stares around. 130 
 
 Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries. 
 See the Furies arise ; 
 See the snakes that they rear, 
 How they hiss in their hair. 
 And the sparkles that tlash from their eyes! 135 
 
 Behold a ghastly band. 
 Each a torch in his hand ! 
 Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain. 
 And unburied remain 
 
 Inglorious on the plain: 140 
 
 Give the vengeance due 
 To the valiant crew. 
 Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
 How they point to the Persian abodes. 
 And glittering temples of their hostile gods! 145 
 
 The princes applaud with a furious joy ; 
 And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 
 Thais led the way, 
 To light him to his prey. 
 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 156 
 
26 DR YDEN. 
 
 And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 
 
 Thais led the way, 
 
 To light him to his prey, 
 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 
 
 7 
 Thus long ago, 155 
 
 Ere heaving bellows learned to blow. 
 While organs yet were mute, 
 Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
 And sounding lyre. 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 160 
 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
 Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 
 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 165 
 
 With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 
 
 Or both divide the crown: 
 He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
 
 She drew an angel down. 170 
 
 GRAND CHORUS. 
 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. 
 
 Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 175 
 
 With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 
 Or both divide the crown : 
 
 He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
 
 She drew an angel down. 1 80 
 
THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON. 27 
 
 THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON. 
 
 IMITATED FROM CHAUCER, AND ENLARGED. 
 
 A PARISH-PRIEST was of the pilgrim-train ; 
 An awful, reverend, and religious man. 
 His eyes diffuse a venerable grace. 
 And charity itself was in his face. 
 
 Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor, 5 
 
 (As God hath clothed his own ambassador) ; 
 For such on earth his blessed Redeemer bore. 
 Of sixty years he seemed ; and well miglit last 
 To sixty more, but tliat he lived too fast ; 
 Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense 10 
 
 And made almost a sin of abstinence. 
 Yet had his aspect nothing of severe, 
 But such a face as promised him sincere. 
 Nothing reserved or sullen was to see. 
 
 But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity; 15 
 
 Mild was his accent, and his action free. 
 With eloquence innate his tongue was armed ; 
 Though harsh the precept, yet the preacher charmed ; 
 For, letting down the golden chain from high. 
 He drew his audience upward to the sky : 20 
 
 And oft with holy hymns he charmed their ears 
 (A music more melodious than the spheres) : 
 P"or David left him, when he went to rest. 
 His lyre ; and after him he sung the best. 
 He bore his great commission in his look: 25 
 
 But sweetly tempered awe, and softened all he spoke. 
 He preached the joys of Heaven and pains of Hell, 
 And warned the sinner with becoming zeal ; 
 But on eternal mercy loved to dwell. 
 
 He taught the gospel rather than the law ; 30 
 
 And forced himself to drive, but loved to draw. 
 For fear but freezes minds ; but love, like heat. 
 Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat. 
 
28 DRYDEN. 
 
 To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard. 
 Wrapped in his crimes, against the storm prepared; 35 
 
 But wlien the milder beams of mercy play. 
 He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak awav. 
 
 Lightnings and thunder (Heaven's artillery) 
 As harbingers before the Almighty fly : 
 
 Those but proclaim his stj'le, and disappear ; 40 
 
 The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there. 
 
 The tithes his parish freely paid he took ; 
 But never sued, or cursed with bell and book. 
 With patience bearing wrong, but offering none : 
 Since every man is free to lose his own. 45 
 
 The country churls, according to their kind, 
 (Who grudge their dues, and love to be behind). 
 The less he sought his offerings, pinched the more. 
 And praised a priest contented to be poor. 
 
 Yet of his little he had .some to .spare, 50 
 
 To feed the famished, and to clothe the bare : 
 For mortified he was to that degree, 
 A poorer than himself he would not see. 
 True priests, he said, and preachers of the word, 
 Were only stewards of their sovereign Lord, 55 
 
 Nothing was theirs ; but all the public store. 
 Entrusted riches to relieve the poor ; 
 Who, should they steal, for want of his relief. 
 He judged himself accomplice with the thief. 
 
 Wide was his parish ; not contracted close 60 
 
 In streets, but here and there a straggling house : 
 Yet still he was at hand, without request, 
 To serve the sick, to succour the distressed ; 
 Tempting, on foot, alone, without affright, 
 The dangers of a dark tempestuous night. 65 
 
 All this the good old man performed alone. 
 Nor spared his pains ; for curate he had none. 
 Nor durst he trust another with his care ; 
 Nor rode himself to Paul's, tlie public fair. 
 To chaffer for preferment with his gold, 70 
 
 Where bishoprics and sinecures are sold ; 
 But duly watched liis flock, by night and day ; 
 
THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON. 29 
 
 And from the prowling wolf redeemed the prew 
 And hungry sent the wily fox away. 
 
 The proud he tamed, the penitent lie clieered : 75 
 
 Nor to rebuke the rich offender feared. 
 His preaching much, l)ut more his practice wrouglit ; 
 (A living sermon of the truths he taught) ; 
 For this by rules severe his life he squared : 
 That all might see the doctrine which they heard. 80 
 
 For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest ; 
 (The gold of heaven, who bear the (iod impressed) : 
 But when the precious coin is kept unclean. 
 The sovereign's image is no longer seen. 
 If they be foul on whom the people trust, 85 
 
 Well may the baser brass contract a rust. 
 
 The prelate for his holy life he prized : 
 The worldly pomp of prelacy despised. 
 His Saviour came not with a gaudy show. 
 Nor was his kingdom of the world below. 90 
 
 Patience in want, and poverty of mind. 
 These marks of church and churchmen he designed, 
 And living taught, and dying left behind. 
 The crown he wore was of the pointed thorn ; 
 In purple he was crucified, not born. 95 
 
 They who contend for place and higli degree. 
 Are not his sons, but those of Zebedee. 
 
 Not but he knew the signs of earthly power 
 Might well become Saint Peter''s successor ; 
 The holy father holds a double reign, 100 
 
 The prince may keep his pomp, the fisher must be plain. 
 
 Such was the saint ; who shone with every grace. 
 Reflecting, Mose.s-like, his Maker's face. 
 God saw his image lively was expressed; 
 And his own work, as in creation, blessed. 105 
 
 The tempter saw him too with envious eye. 
 And, as on Job, demanded leave to try. 
 He took the time when Richard was deposed, 
 And high and low with happy Harry closed. 
 This Prince, though great in arms, the priest withstood, iio 
 Near though he was, yet not the next of blood. 
 
30 DRYDEN. 
 
 Had Richard unconstrained resigned the throne, 
 
 A King can give no more than is his own ; 
 
 The titled stood entailed, had Richard had a son. 
 
 Conquest, an odious name, was laid aside ; 115 
 
 Where all submitted, none the l:)attle tried. 
 The senseless j^lea of right by Providence 
 Was by a flattering priest invented since ; 
 And lasts no longer than the present sway, 
 But justifies the next who comes in play. 120 
 
 The people's right remains ; let those who dare 
 Dispute their power, when they the judges are. 
 
 He joined not in their choice, because he knew 
 Worse might and often did from change ensue. 
 Much to himself he thought; but little spoke; 125 
 
 And, undeprived, his benefice forsook. 
 
 Now, through the land, his cure of souls he stretched, 
 And like a primitive apostle preached. 
 Still cheei'ful ; ever constant to his call ; 
 
 By many followed; loved by most, admired by all. 130 
 
 With what he begged, his brethren he relieved ! 
 And gave the charities himself received ; 
 Gave, while he taught ; and edified the more. 
 Because he showed by proof "twas easy to be poor. 
 
 He went not with the crowd to see a shrine; 135 
 
 But fed us by the way with food divine. 
 
 In deference to his virtues, I forbear 
 To show you what the rest in orders were : 
 This brilliant is so spotless, and so bright. 
 He needs no foil, but shines by his own proper light. 140 
 
POPE. 
 
 EPISTLE TO MR. JERVAS, WITH MR. DRYDEN'S 
 TRANSLATION OF FRESNOY'S ART OF 
 PAINTING 
 
 This Verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse 
 This from no venal or ungrateful Muse. 
 Whether thy hand strike out some free design, 
 Where Life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line ; 
 Or blend in beauteous tints the coloured mass, 5 
 
 And from the canvas call the mimic face : 
 Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire 
 Fresnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native Fire : 
 And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame. 
 So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name; lo 
 
 Like them to shine thro" long succeeding age. 
 So just thy skill, so regular my rage. 
 
 Smit with the love of Sister-Arts we came, 
 And met congenial, mingling flame with flame; 
 Like friendly colours found them both unite, 15 
 
 And each from each contract new strength and light. 
 How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day. 
 While summer-suns roll unperceiv'd away; 
 How oft our slowly-growing works impart. 
 While Images reflect from art to art; 20 
 
 How oft review ; each finding like a friend 
 Something to blame, and something to commend ! 
 
 What flattering scenes our wand'ring fancy wrought, 
 Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought ! 
 Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly, 25 
 
 (31) 
 
32 POPE. 
 
 Fir'd with Ideas of fair Italy. 
 
 With thee, on Raphael's Monument I n"',ourn. 
 
 Or wait inspiring Dreams at Maro's Urn : 
 
 With thee repose, where Tully once was laid, 
 
 Or seek some Ruin's formidable shade : 30 
 
 While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to \iew. 
 
 And builds imaginary Rome anew ; 
 
 Here thy well-study'd marbles fix our eye ; 
 
 A fading Fresco liere demands a sigh : 
 
 Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare, 35 
 
 Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air, 
 
 Caracci's strength, Correggio's softer line, 
 
 Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine. 
 
 How finish'd with illustrious toil appears 
 This small, well-polish'd (jem, the work of years! 40 
 
 Yet still how faint by precept is exprest 
 The living image in the painter's breast I 
 Thence endless streams of fair Ideas flow. 
 Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow ; 
 Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies 45 
 
 An Angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes. 
 
 Muse ! at that Name thy sacred sorrows shed, 
 Those tears eternal that embalm the dead : 
 Call round her Tomb each object of desire, 
 Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire : 50 
 
 Bid her be all that cheers or softens life. 
 The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife : 
 Bid her be all that makes mankind adore ; 
 Then view this Marble, and be vain no more ! 
 
 Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage; 55 
 
 Her modest cheek shall warm a future age. 
 Beauty, frail flow'r that ev'ry season fears. 
 Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years. 
 Thus Churcliill's race shall other hearts surprise, 
 And other Beauties envy Worsley's eyes ; 60 
 
 Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow. 
 And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow. 
 
 Oh, lasting as those Colours may they shine, 
 Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line ; 
 
EPISTLE TO LORD Bl'RLJNGTON. 33 
 
 New graces yearly like thy works display, 65 
 
 Soft without weakness, without glaring gay ; 
 
 Led by some rule, that guides, but not constrains ; 
 
 And finished more thro" happiness than pains. 
 
 The kindred Arts shall in their praise conspire ; 
 
 One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. 70 
 
 Yet should the (iraces all thy figures place. 
 
 And breathe an air divine on ev'ry face ; 
 
 Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll 
 
 Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul ; 
 
 With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie, 75 
 
 And these be sung 'till Granville's Mira die ; 
 
 Alas ! how little from the grave we claim ! 
 
 Thou but preserv'st a Face, and I a Name. 
 
 EPISTLE TO RICHARD BOYLE, EARL OF 
 BURLINGTON. 
 
 "Tis strange, the Miser should his Cares employ 
 To gain those Riches he can ne'er enjoy : 
 Is it less strange, the Prodigal should waste 
 His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste ? 
 Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats; 5 
 
 Artists must choose his Pictures, Music, Meats : 
 He buys for Topham, Drawings and Designs, 
 For Pembroke, Statues, dirty Gods, and Coins ; 
 Rare monkish Manuscripts for Hearne alone. 
 And Books for Mead, and Butterflies for Sloane. * * * 10 
 
 For what has Virro painted, built, and planted? 
 Only to show, how many Tastes he wanted. 
 What brought Sir Visto's ill got wealth to waste ? 1 5 
 
 Some Dsmon whisper'd, " Visto ! have a Taste." 
 Heav'n visits with a Taste the wealthy fool. 
 And needs no Rod but Ripley with a Rule. 
 See ! sportive fate, to punish awkward pride. 
 Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a Guide : 20 
 
34 POPE. 
 
 A standing sermon, at each years expense, 
 That never Coxcomb reached Magnificence ! 
 
 You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse. 
 And pompous buildings once were things of Use. 
 Yet shall, my Lord, your just, your noble rules 25 
 
 Fill half the land with Imitating-Fools ; 
 Who random drawings from your sheets shall take, 
 And of one beauty many blunders make ; 
 Load some vain Church with old Theatric state. 
 Turn Arcs of triumph to a garden-gate ; 30 
 
 Reverse your Ornaments, and hang them all 
 On some patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall ; 
 Then clap four slices of Pilaster on't, 
 That, lacVI with bits of rustic, makes a Front ; 
 Shall call the winds thro' long arcades to roar, 35 
 
 Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door : 
 Conscious they act a true Palladian part. 
 And, if they starve, they starve by rules of art. 
 
 Oft have you hinted to your brother Peer 
 A certain truth, which many buy too dear: 40 
 
 Something there is more needful than Expense, 
 And something previous ev'n to Taste — 'tis Sense : 
 Good Sense, which only is the gift of Heav'n, 
 And tho' no Science, fairly worth the seven : 
 A Light, which in yourself you must perceive ; 45 
 
 Jones and Le Notre have it not to give. 
 
 To build, to plant, whatever you intend. 
 To rear the Column, or the Arch to bend, 
 To .swell the Terrace, or to sink the Grot ; 
 In all, let Nature never be forgot. 50 
 
 But treat the Goddess like a modest fair. 
 Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare ; 
 Let not each beauty everywhere be spy'd. 
 Where half the .skill is decently to hide. 
 He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, 55 
 
 Surprises, varies, and conceals the Bounds. 
 
 Consult the Genius of the Place in all ; 
 That tells the Waters or to rise, or fall ; 
 Or helps tli' ambitious Hill the heav'ns to scale, 
 
EPISTLE TO LORD BURLINGTON. ' 35 
 
 Or scoops in circling theatres the Vale; 60 
 
 Calls in the Country, catches op'ning glades, 
 
 Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades ; 
 
 Now breaks, or now directs th' intending Lines ; 
 
 Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs. 
 
 Still follow Sense, of ev'ry Art the Soul, 65 
 
 Parts answ'ring parts shall slide into a whole. 
 Spontaneous beauties all around advance. 
 Start ev'n from Difficulty, strike from Chance ; 
 Nature shall join you ; Time shall make it grow 
 A Work to wonder at — perhaps a Stowe. 70 
 
 Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls ; 
 And Nero's Terraces desert their walls : 
 The vast Parterres a thousand hands shall make, 
 Lo ! CoBHAM comes, and floats them with a Lake : 
 Or cut wide views thro' Mountains to the Plain, 75 
 
 You'll wish your hill or sheltered seat again. 
 Ev'n in an ornament its place remark, 
 Nor in an Hermitage set Dr.' Clarke. 
 
 Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete ; 
 His Quincunx darkens, his Espaliers meet ; 80 
 
 The Wood supports the Plain, the parts unite. 
 And strength of Shade contends with strength of Light ; 
 A waving Glow the bloomy beds display. 
 Blushing in bright diversities of day. 
 
 With silver-quiv'ring rills mseander'd o'er — 85 
 
 Enjoy them, you ! Villario can no more ; 
 Tir'd of the scene Parterres and Fountains yield. 
 He finds at last he better likes a Field. 
 
 Thro' his young Woods how pleas'd Sabinus stray'd, 
 Or sat delighted in the thick"ning shade, 90 
 
 With annual joy the redd'ning shoots to greet. 
 Or see the stretching branches long to meet ! 
 His Son's fine Taste an op'ner Vista loves, 
 Foe to the Dryads of his Father's groves ; 
 One boundless Green, or flourish'd Carpet views, 95 
 
 With all the mournful family of Yews ; 
 The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made. 
 Now sweep those Alleys they were born to shade. 
 
36 POPE. 
 
 At Timon's Villa let us pass a day, 
 Where all ci"\- out. "What sums are tlu'own away!" loo 
 
 So proud, so grand : of that stupendous air, 
 Soft and Agreeable come never there. 
 Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught 
 As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. 
 To compass this, his building is a Town. 105 
 
 His pond an Ocean, his parterre a Down : 
 Who but must laugh, the Master when he sees, 
 A puny insect, shivYing at a breeze ! 
 Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around I 
 
 The whole, a laboured Quarry above ground: iio 
 
 Two Cupids squirt before ; a Lake behind 
 Improves the keenness of the Northern wind. 
 His Gardens next your admiration call, 
 On ev'ry side you look, behold the Wall ! 
 
 No pleasing intricacies intervene, 115 
 
 No artful wildness to perple.x the scene ; 
 Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother, 
 And half the platform just reflects the other. 
 The sufi'ring eye inverted Nature sees, 
 
 Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees ; 1 20 
 
 With here a Fountain, never to be play tl ; 
 And there a Summer-house, that knows no shade ; 
 Here Amphitrite sails thro' myrtle bow'rs ; 
 There Gladiators fight, or die in flowVs ; 
 
 Un-watered see the drooping sea-horse mourn. 125 
 
 And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty Urn. 
 
 My Lord advances with Majestic mien, 
 Smit with the mighty pleasure, to be seen : 
 But soft, — by regular apiDroach, — not yet, — 
 First thro" the length of yon hot Terrace sweat; 130 
 
 And when uj) ten steep slopes you've dragg'd }our thighs. 
 Just at his Study-door he'll bless your eyes. 
 
 His Study ! with what Authors is it stor'd ? 
 In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord ; 
 To all their dated Backs he turns you round: 135 
 
 These Aldus printed, these Du Sueil has bound. 
 Lo some are Vellum, and the rest as good 
 
ErrSTLE TO LORD BURLINGTON. 
 
 For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood. 
 
 For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look. 
 
 These shelves admit not an\- modern book. 140 
 
 And now the Chapel's silver bell you hear. 
 That summons vou to all the Pride of Prav'r : 
 Light quirks of Music, broken and uneven. 
 Make the soul dance upon a Jig to Heav'n. 
 On painted Ceilings you devoutly stare, 145 
 
 Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre, 
 On gilded clouds in fair e.xpansion lie, 
 And bring all Paradise before your eye. 
 To rest, the Cushion and soft Dean invite. 
 Who never mentions Hell to ears polite. 150 
 
 But hark I the chiming Clocks to dinner call ; 
 A hundred footsteps scrape the marble Hall : 
 The rich BulTet well-colour'd Serpents grace, 
 And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. 
 Is this a dinner? this a Genial room? 155 
 
 No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb. 
 A solemn Sacrifice, perform'd in state, • 
 You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. 
 So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear 
 Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there. 160 
 
 Between each Act the trembling salvers ring. 
 From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King. 
 In plenty starving, tantalizM in state. 
 And complaisantly help'd to all I hate. 
 Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave, 165 
 
 Sick of his civil Pride from Morn to Eve ; 
 I curse such lavish cost and little skill. 
 And swear no Day was ever past so ill. 
 
 Yet hence the Poor are cloth'd, the Hungry fed ; 
 Health to Himself, and to his Infants bread 170 
 
 The Lab'rer bears : What his hard Heart denies, 
 His charitable Vanity supplies. 
 
 Another age shall see the golden Ear 
 Embrown the Slope, and nod on the Parterre, 
 Deep Harvests bury all his pride has plann'd, 175 
 
 And laughing Ceres re-assume the land. 
 
38 POPE. 
 
 Who then shall grace, or who improve the Soil? 
 Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle. 
 Tis Use alone that sanctifies Expense, 
 And Splendour borrows all her rays from Sense. i8o 
 
 His Father's Acres who enjoys in peace, 
 Or makes his Neighbours glad, if he increase : 
 Whose cheerful Tenants bless their yearly toil. 
 Yet to their Lord owe more than to the soil ; 
 Whose ample Lawns are not asham"d to feed 185 
 
 The milky heifer and deserving steed ; 
 Whose rising Forests, not for pride or show. 
 But future Buildings, future Navies grow: 
 Let his plantations stretch from down to down, 
 First shade a Country, and then raise a Town. 190 
 
 You too proceed! make falling Arts your care, 
 Erect new wonders, and tlie old repair ; 
 Jones and Palladio to themselves restore. 
 And be whatever Vitruvius was before : 
 
 'Till Kings call forth th' Ideas of your mind, 195 
 
 (Proud to accomplish what such hands designed), 
 Bid Harbours open. Public Ways extend. 
 Bid Temples, worthier of the God, ascend ; 
 Bid the broad Arch the dang'rous Flood contain. 
 The Mole projected break the roaring Main ; 200 
 
 Back to his bounds their subject Sea command. 
 And roll obedient Rivers thro' the Land : 
 These Honours Peace to happy Britain brings. 
 These are Imperial Works, and worthy Kings. 
 
 EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. [GEORGE II.] 
 
 While you, great Patron of Mankind ! sustain 
 The balanced World, and open all the Main ; 
 Your Country, chief in Arms, abroad defend, 
 At home, with Morals, Arts, and Laws amend ; 
 How shall the Muse, fi-om such a Monarch, steal 
 
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. 39 
 
 An hour, and not defraud the Public Weal? 
 
 Edward and Henry, now the Boast of Fame, 
 And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred Name, 
 After a life of genYous Toils endur'd. 
 
 The Gaul subdu'd, or Property secured, 10 
 
 Ambition humbled, mighty Cities storm'd, 
 Or Laws established, and the world reformed ; 
 Closed their long Glories with a sigh, to find 
 Th' unwilling Gratitude of base mankind ! 
 All human Virtue, to its latest breath, 15 
 
 Finds Envy never conquered but by Death. 
 The great Alcides, ev'ry Labour past. 
 Had still this Monster to subdue at last. 
 Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray 
 Each star of meaner merit fades away ! 20 
 
 Oppressed we feel the beam directly beat. 
 Those Suns of Glory please not till they set. 
 
 To thee, the World its present homage pays. 
 The Harvest early, but mature the praise : 
 Great Friend of Liberty ! in Kings a Name 25 
 
 Above all Greek, above all Roman Fame : 
 Whose Word is Truth, as sacred and rever'd. 
 As Heaven's own Oracles from Altars heard. 
 Wonder of Kings ! like whom, to mortal eyes 
 None e'er has risen, and none e'er shall rise. 30 
 
 Just in one instance, be it yet confest. 
 Your People, Sir, are partial in the rest: 
 Foes to all living worth except your own, 
 And Advocates for folly dead and gone. 
 Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old; 35 
 
 It is the rust we value, not the gold. 
 Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learn'd by rote. 
 And beastly Skelton Heads of Houses quote : 
 One likes no language but tlic Faery Queen ; 
 A Scot will fight for Christ's Kirk o' the Green ; 40 
 
 And each true Briton is to Ben so civil. 
 He swears the Muses met him at the Devil. 
 
 Tho' justly Greece her eldest sons admires. 
 Why should not We be wiser than our sires? 
 
40 POPE. 
 
 In ev'ry Public virtue we excel; 45 
 
 We build, we paint, we sing, we dance as well, 
 And learned Athens to our art must stoop. 
 Could she behold us tumbling thro' a hoop. 
 
 If Time improve our Wit as well as Wine 
 Say at what age a Poet grows divine? 50 
 
 Shall we, or shall we not, account him so. 
 Who died, perhaps, an hundred years ago? 
 End all disputes ; and fix the year precise 
 When British bards begin t' immortalize? 
 
 "Who lasts a century can have no flaw, 55 
 
 "1 hold that Wit a Classic, good in law." 
 
 Suppose he wants a year, will you compound? 
 And shall we deem him Ancient, right and sound, 
 Or damn to all eternity at once, 
 At ninety-nine, a Modern and a Dunce? 60 
 
 "We shall not quarrel for a year or two; 
 " By courtesy of England, he may do." 
 
 Then by the rule tliat made the Horse-tail bare, 
 I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair. 
 And melt down Ancients lil-ce a heap of snow : 65 
 
 While you to measure merits, look in Stowe, 
 And estimating authors by the year. 
 Bestow a Garland only on a Bier. 
 
 Shakespear (whom you and ev'ry Play-house bill 
 Style the divine, the matchless, what you will) 70 
 
 For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight, 
 And grew Immortal in his own despite. 
 Ben, old and poor, as little seem'd to heed 
 The Life to come, in ev'ry Poet's Creed. 
 Who now reads Cowley? if he pleases yet, 75 
 
 His Moral pleases, not his jjointed wit ; 
 Forgot his Epic, nay Pindaric Art ; 
 But still I love the language of his heart. 
 
 "Yet surely, surely, these were famous men! 
 "What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben? bo 
 
 " In all debates where Critics bear a part, 
 " Not one Init nods, and talics of Jonson's Art, 
 "Of .Shakespear's Nature, and of Cowley's Wit; 
 
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. 41 
 
 "How Beaumont's judgment check'd what Fletcher writ; 
 "How Shad well hasty, Wycherley was slow; 85 
 
 " But for the Passions, Southern sure and Rowe. 
 " These, only these, support the crowded stage, 
 " From eldest Heywood down to Gibber's age." 
 
 All this may be ; the People's Voice is odd, 
 It is, and it is not, the voice of God. go 
 
 To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays. 
 And yet deny the Careless Husband praise, 
 Or say our Fathers never broke a rule ; 
 Why then, I say, the Public is a fool. 
 
 But let them own, that greater Faults than we 95 
 
 They had, and greater Virtues Fll agree. 
 Spenser himself affects the Obsolete, 
 And Sydney's verse halts ill on Roman feet : 
 Milton's strong pinion now not Heav'n can bound. 
 Now Serpent-like, in prose he sweeps the ground, 100 
 
 In Quibbles Angel and Archangel join. 
 And God the Father turns a School-divine. 
 Not that I'd lop the Beauties from his book, 
 Like slashing Bentley with his desp'rate hook. 
 Or damn all Shakespear, like th' affected Fool 105 
 
 At court, who hates whate'er he read at school. 
 
 But for the Wits of either Charles's days, 
 The Mob of Gentlemen who wrote with Ease ; 
 Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more, 
 (Like twinkling stars the Miscellanies o'er) iio 
 
 One Simile, that solitary shines 
 In the dry desert of a thousand lines, 
 
 Or lengthened Thought that gleams through many a page. 
 Has sanctify'd whole poems for an age. 
 
 I lose my patience, and I own it too, 1 1 5 
 
 When works are censur'd, not as bad but new ; 
 While if our Elders break all reason's laws. 
 These fools demand not pardon, but Applause. 
 
 On Avon's bank, where fiow'rs eternal blow, 
 If I but ask, if any weed can grow; 120 
 
 One Tragic sentence if I dare deride 
 Which Betterton's grave action dignify'd, 
 
42 POPE. 
 
 Or well-mouth'd Booth with emphasis proclaims, 
 
 (Tho' but, perhaps, a muster-roll of Names) 
 
 How will our Fathers rise up in a rage, 125 
 
 And swear, all shame is lost in George^s Age ! 
 
 You'd think no Fools disgrac"d the former reign, 
 
 Did not some grave Examples yet remain, 
 
 Who scorn a Lad should teach his father skill. 
 
 And, having once been wrong, will be so still. 130 
 
 He, who to seem more deep than you or I, 
 
 Extols old Bards, or Merlin's Prophecy, 
 
 Mistake him not ; he envies, not admires, 
 
 And to debase the Sons, exalts the Sires. 
 
 Had ancient times conspir'd to disallow 135 
 
 What then was new, what had been ancient now? 
 
 Or what remained, so worthy to be read 
 
 By learned Critics, of the mighty Dead? 
 
 In Days of Ease, when now the weary Sword 
 Was sheath'd, and Luxury with Charles restored; 140 
 
 In ev'ry taste of foreign Courts improved, 
 "All, by the King's Example, liv'd and lov'd." 
 Then Peers grew proud in Horsemanship t' excel, 
 Newmarket's Glory rose, as Britain's fell ; 
 The Soldier breath'd the Gallantries of France, 145 
 
 And ev'ry flow'ry Courtier writ Romance. 
 Then Marble, soften'd into life, grew warm : 
 And yielding Metal flow'd to human form : 
 Lely on animated Canvas stole 
 
 The sleepy Eye, that spoke the melting soul. 150 
 
 No wonder then, when all was Love and sport, 
 The willing Muses were debauch'd at Court : 
 On each enervate string they taught the note 
 To pant, or tremble thro' an Eunuch's throat. 
 
 But Britain, changeful as a Child at play, 155 
 
 Now calls in Princes, and now turns away. 
 Now Whig, now Tory, what we lov'd we hate ; 
 Now all for Pleasure, now for Church and State ; 
 Now for Prerogative, and now for Laws ; 
 Effects unhappy from a Noble Cause. 160 
 
 Time was, a sober Englishman would knock 
 
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. 43 
 
 His servants up, and rise by five o'clock, 
 
 Instruct liis Family, in evry rule, 
 
 And send his Wife to cliurch, his Son to school. 
 
 To worship like his Fathers, was his care; 165 
 
 To teach their frugal Virtues to his Heir; 
 
 To prove, that Luxury could never hold ; 
 
 And place, on good Security, his Gold. 
 
 Now times are chang'd, and one Poetic Itch 
 
 Has seiz'd the Court and City, poor and rich: 170 
 
 Sons, Sires, and Grandsires, all will wear the bays. 
 
 Our Wives read Milton, and our Daughters Plays, 
 
 To Theatres, and to Rehearsals throng. 
 
 And all our Grace at table is a Song. 
 
 I, who so oft renounce the Muses, lie, 175 
 
 Not — 's self e'er tells more Fibs than I ; 
 
 When sick of Muse, our follies we deplore. 
 
 And promise our best Friends to rime no more ; 
 
 We wake next morning in a raging fit. 
 
 And call for pen and ink to show our Wit. 180 
 
 He serv'd a 'Prenticeship, who sets up shop ; 
 Ward try'd on Puppies, and the Poor, his Drop ; 
 Ev'n Radcliff's Doctors travel first to France, 
 Nor dare to practise till they've learn'd to dance. 
 Who builds a Bridge that never drove a pile? 185 
 
 (Should Ripley venture, all the world would smile) ; 
 But those who cannot write, and those who can, 
 All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man. 
 
 Yet, Sir, reflect, the mischief is not great ; 
 These Madmen never hurt the Church or State: 190 
 
 Sometimes the Folly benefits Mankind ; 
 And rarely Av'rice taints the tuneful mind. 
 Allow him but his plaything of a Pen, 
 He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men : 
 Flight of Cashiers, or Mobs, he'll never mind; 195 
 
 And knows no losses while the Muse is kind. 
 To cheat a Friend, or Ward, he leaves to Peter; 
 The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre, 
 Enjoys his Garden and his book in quiet ; 
 And then — a perfect Hermit in his diet. 200 
 
44 POPE. 
 
 Of little use the Man you may suppose, 
 Who says in verse what others say in prose ; 
 Yet let me show, a Poet's of some weight, 
 And (tho' no Soldier) useful to the State. 
 What will a Child learn sooner than a Song? 205 
 
 What better teach a Foreigner the tongue? 
 What's long or short, each accent where to place. 
 And speak in public with some sort of grace? 
 I scarce can think him such a worthless thing, 
 Unless he praise some Monster of a King; 210 
 
 Or Virtue, or Religion turn to sport. 
 To please a lewd or unbelieving Court. 
 Unhappy Dryden ! — In all Charles's days, 
 Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays ; 
 And in our own (excuse some Courtly stains) 215 
 
 No whiter page than Addison remains. 
 He, from the taste obscene reclaims our youlli, 
 And sets the Passions on the side of Truth, 
 Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art. 
 And pours each human Virtue in the heart. 220 
 
 Let Ireland tell, how Wit upheld her cause. 
 Her Trade supported, and supplied her Laws ; 
 And leave on Swift this grateful verse engrav'd : 
 "The Rights a Court attacked, a Poet sav'd." 
 Behold the hand that wrought a Nation's cure, 225 
 
 Stretch'd to relieve the Idiot and the Poor, 
 Proud Vice to brand, or injur'd Worth adorn, 
 And stretch the Ray to Ages yet unborn. 
 Not but there are, who merit other palms ; 
 Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with Psalms ; 230 
 The Boys and (jirls whom charity maintains, 
 Implore your help in these pathetic strains : 
 How could Devotion touch the country pews. 
 Unless the Gods bestow'd a proper Muse? 
 Verse cheers their leisure. Verse assists their wcjrk, 235 
 Verse prays for Peace, or sings down Pope and Turk. 
 The silenc'd Preacher yields to potent strain. 
 And feels that grace his pray'r besought in vain ; 
 The blessing thrills thro' all the lab'ring throng, 
 
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. 45 
 
 And Heav'n is won by Violence of Song, 240 
 
 Our rural Ancestors, with little blest. 
 Patient of labour when the end was rest, 
 lndulg"d the day that housed their annual grain, 
 With feasts, and oflTrings, and a thankful strain ; 
 The joy their wives, their sons, and servants share, 245 
 Ease of their toil, and part'ners of their care : 
 The laugh, the jest, attendants on the bowl. 
 Smoothed evVy brow, and open'd ev'ry soul : 
 With growing years the pleasing Licence grew. 
 And Taunts alternate innocently flew. 250 
 
 But Times corrupt, and Nature, ill-inclin'd, 
 Produc"d the point that left a sting behind ; 
 Till friend with friend, and families at strife, 
 Triumphant Malice rag'd thro' private life. 
 Who felt the wrong, or fear'd it, took th' alarm, 255 
 
 AppeaPd to Law, and Justice lent her arm. 
 At length, by wholesome dread of statutes bound, 
 The Poets learn'd to please, and not to wound : 
 Most warp VI to Flattery's side ; but some, more nice, 
 Preserv"d the freedom, and forebore the vice. 260 
 
 Hence Satire rose, that just the medium hit, 
 And heals with Morals what it hurts with Wit. 
 
 We conquer'd France, but felt our Captive's charms ; 
 Her Arts victorious triumph'd o'er our Arms ; 
 Britain to soft refinements less a foe, 265 
 
 Wit grew polite, and Numbers learn'd to flow. 
 Waller was smooth ; but Dryden taught to join ' 
 The varying verse, the full-resounding line. 
 The long majestic March, and Energy divine. 
 Tho' still some traces of our rustic vein 270 
 
 And splay-foot verse, remain'd, and will remain. 
 Late, very late, correctness grew our care, 
 When the tir'd Nation breath'd from civil war. 
 Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire, 
 Show'd us that France had something to admire. 275 
 
 Not but the Tragic spirit was our own, 
 And full in Shakespear, fair in Otway shone : 
 But Otway fail'd to polish or refine, 
 
46 POPE. 
 
 And fluent Sliakespear scarce effaced a line. 
 
 Ev'n copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, 280 
 
 The last and greatest Art, the Art to blot. 
 
 Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire 
 
 The humbler Muse of Comedy require. 
 
 But in known Images of life, I guess 
 
 The labour greater, as th' indulgence less. 285 
 
 Observe how seldom ev"n the best succeed : 
 
 Tell me if Congreve's Fools are Fools indeed? 
 
 What pert, low Dialogue has Farquhar writ ! 
 
 How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit ! 
 
 The stage how loosely does Astraea tread, 290 
 
 Who fairly jDuts all Characters to bed ! 
 
 And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws, 
 
 To make poor Pinky eat with vast applause ! 
 
 But fill their purse, our Poet's work is done. 
 
 Alike to them, by Pathos or by Pun. 295 
 
 O you ! whom Vanity's light bark conveys 
 On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise. 
 With what a shifting gale your course you ply, 
 For ever sunk too low, or borne too high ! 
 Who pants for glory finds but short repose. 300 
 
 A breath revives him, or a breath o"erthrows. 
 Farewell the stage ! if just as thrives the play, 
 The silly bard grows fat, or falls away. 
 
 There still remains, to mortify a Wit, 
 The many-headed Monster of the Pit : 305 
 
 A senseless, worthless, and unhonour"d crowd ; 
 Who, to disturb their betters mighty proud. 
 Clattering their sticks before ten lines are spoke, 
 Call for the Farce, the Bear, or the Black-joke. 
 What dear delight to Britons Farce affords ! 310 
 
 Ever the taste of Mobs, but now of Lords ; 
 (Taste, that eternal wanderer, which flies 
 From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes). 
 The Play stands still ; damn action and discourse, 
 Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse; 315 
 
 Pageants on Pageants, in long order drawn, 
 Peers, Heralds, Bishops, Ermine, Gold and Lawn ; 
 
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. 47 
 
 The Champion' too ! and, to complete the jest, 
 
 Old Edward's Armour beams on Gibber's breast. 
 
 With laughter sure Democritus had died, 320 
 
 Had he beheld an Audience gape so wide. 
 
 Let Bear or Elephant be e'er so white. 
 
 The people, sure, the people are the sight ! 
 
 Ah luckless Poet I stretch thy lungs and roar, 
 
 That Bear or Elephant shall heed thee more; 325 
 
 While all its throats the Gallery extends. 
 
 And all the Thunder of the Pit ascends ! 
 
 Loud as the Wolves, on Orcas's stormy steep. 
 
 Howl to the roarings of the Northern deep, 
 
 Such is the shout, the long-applauding note, 330 
 
 At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat ; 
 
 Or when from Court a birth-day suit bestow'd, 
 
 Sinks the lost Actor in the tawdry load. 
 
 Booth enters — hark ! the Universal peal ! 
 
 "But has he spoken?"' Not a syllable. 335 
 
 What shook the stage, and made the People stare? 
 
 Cato's long Wig, flow'r'd gown, and lacquer'd chair. 
 
 Yet lest you think I rally more than teach. 
 Or praise malignly Arts I cannot reach, 
 Let me for onca presume t' instruct the times, 340 
 
 To know the Poet from the Man of rimes: 
 'Tis lie, who gives my breast a thousand pains. 
 Can make me feel each Passion that he feigns : 
 Enrage, compose, with more than magic Art, 
 Witli Pity, and with Terror, tear my heart ; 345 
 
 And snatch me, o'er the earth, or thro' the air. 
 To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where. 
 
 But not this part of the Poetic state 
 Alone, deserves the favour of the Great ; 
 Think of those Authors, Sir, who would rely 350 
 
 Alore on a Reader's sense, than Gazer's eye. 
 Or who shall wander where the Muses sing? 
 Who climb their mountain, or who taste their spring? 
 How shall we fill a Library with Wit, 
 When Merlin's Cave is half unfurnish'd yet? 355 
 
 My Liege ! why Writers little claim your thought. 
 
48 POPE. 
 
 I guess ; and, with their leave, will tell the fault : 
 
 We Poets are (upon a Poet's word) 
 
 Of all mankind, tlie creatures most absurd : 
 
 The season, wlien to come, and when to go, 360 
 
 To sing, or cease to sing, we never know ; 
 
 And if we will recite nine hours in ten, 
 
 You lose your patience, just like other men. 
 
 Then too we hurt ourselves, when to defend 
 
 A single verse, we quarrel with a friend ; 365 
 
 Repeat unask'd ; lament, the Wit's too fine 
 
 For vulgar eyes, and point out ev'ry line. 
 
 But most, when straining with too weak a wing, 
 
 We needs will write Epistles to the King ; 
 
 And from the moment we oblige the town, 370 
 
 Exp'ect a place, or pension from the Crown ; 
 
 Or dubb'd Historians, by express command, 
 
 T' enroll your Triumphs o'er the seas and land. 
 
 Be caird to Court to plan some work divine. 
 
 As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine. 375 
 
 Yet think, great Sir! (so many Y'irtues shown) 
 Ah think, what Poet best may make them known? 
 Or choose at least some Minister of Grace, 
 P'it to bestow the Laureate's weighty place. 
 
 Charles, to late times to be transmitted fair, 380 
 
 Assign'd his figure to Bernini's care ; 
 And great Nassau to Kneller's hand decreed 
 To fix him graceful on the bounding Steed ; 
 So well in paint and stone they judg'd of merit : 
 But Kings in Wit may want discerning Spirit. 3S5 
 
 The Hero William, and the Martyr Charles, 
 One knighted Blackmore, and one pension'd Quarles ; 
 Which made old Ben, and surly Dennis swear, 
 "No Lord's anointed, but a Russian Bear." 
 
 Not with such majesty, such bold relief, 390 
 
 The Forms august, of King, or conqu'ring Cliief, 
 E'er swell'd on marble, as in verse have shin'd 
 (In polish'd verse) the Manners and the Mind. 
 Oh! could I mount on the Maeonian wing. 
 Your Arms, your Actions, your repose to sing! 395 
 
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. 49 
 
 What seas you traversed, and what fields you fought ! 
 
 Your Country's Peace, how oft, how dearly bought ! 
 
 How barb'rous rage subsided at your word, 
 
 And Nations wonderd while they droppYl the sword ! 
 
 How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep, 400 
 
 Peace stole her wing, and wrapt the world in sleep ; 
 
 'Till earth's extremes your mediation own. 
 
 And Asia's Tyrants tremble at your Throne — 
 
 But Verse, alas I your Majesty disdains ; 
 
 And I'm not us'd to Panegyric strains : 405 
 
 The Zeal of Fools oifends at any time. 
 
 But most of all, the Zeal of Fools in rime. 
 
 Besides, a fate attends on all I write. 
 
 That when I aim at praise, they say 1 bite. 
 
 A vile Encomium doubly ridicules ; 410 
 
 There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools. 
 
 If true, a woeful likeness ; and if lies, 
 
 "Praise undeserv'd is scandal in disguise:" 
 
 Well may he blush, who gives it, or receives ; 
 
 And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves 415 
 
 (Like Journals, Odes, and such forgotten things 
 
 As Eusden, Philips, Settle, writ of Kings) 
 
 Clothe spice, line trunks, or, flutt'ring in a row. 
 
 Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Solio. 
 
THOMSON. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year, 
 Sullen and sad, with all his rising train ; 
 Vapors, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme; 
 These, that exalt the soul to solemn thought. 
 And heavenly musing. * * * ^ 
 
 Now when the cheerless empire of the sky 
 To Capricorn the Centaur Archer yields. 
 And fierce Aquarius stains the inverted year. 
 Hung o'er the furthest verge of heaven, the sun 
 Scarce spreads o'er ether the dejected day. 45 
 
 Faint are his gleams, and ineffectual shoot 
 His struggling rays, in horizontal lines. 
 Through the thick air; as, clothed in cloudy storm. 
 Weak, wan, and broad, he skirts the southern sky ; 
 And, soon-desceuding, to the long, dark night, 50 
 
 Wide-sliading all, tlie prostrate world resigns. 
 Nor is the night unwished ; wliile vital heat. 
 Light, life, and joy, the dubious day forsake. 
 Meantime, in sable cincture, shadows vast, 
 Deep-tinged and damp, and congregated clouds, 55 
 
 And all the vapory turbulence of heaven, 
 Involve the foce of things. Thus Winter falls, 
 A heavy gloom oppressive o'er the world. 
 Through Nature shedding influence malign, 
 And rouses up the seeds of dark disease. 60 
 
 The soul of man dies in him, loathing life, 
 And black with more than melancholy views. 
 The cattle droop ; and o'er the furrowed land, 
 
 (50) 
 
WINTER, 51 
 
 Fresh from the plow, the dun-discolored flocks, 
 
 Untended spreading, crop tlie wholesome root. 65 
 
 Along the woods, along the moorish fens. 
 
 Sighs the sad Genius of tlie coming storm ; 
 
 And up among the loose disjointed cliffs. 
 
 And fractured mountains wild, the brawling brook 
 
 And cave, presageful, send a hollow moan, 70 
 
 Resounding long in listening Fancy's ear. 
 
 Then comes the father of the tempest forth, 
 Wrapt in black glooms. First, joyless rains obscure 
 Drive througli the mingling skies with vapor foul. 
 Dash on the mountain's brow, and sliake the woods 75 
 
 That gruml)ling wave below. The misightly plain 
 Lies a brown deluge ; as the low-bent clouds 
 Pour flood on flood, yet unexhausted still 
 Combine, and deepening into night shut up 
 The day's fair face. The wanderers of heaven, 80 
 
 Each to his liome, retire ; save those that love 
 To take their pastime in the troubled air. 
 Or skimming flutter round the dimply pool. 
 The cattle from the untasted fields return. 
 And ask with meaning low, their wonted stalls, 85 
 
 Or ruminate in the contiguous shade. 
 Thither the household feathery people crowd — 
 The crested cock, with all his female train. 
 Pensive and dripping ; while the cottage hind 
 Hangs o'er the enlivening blaze, and taleful there 90 
 
 Recounts his simple frolic : much he talks, 
 And much he lauglis, nor recks the storm tliat blows 
 Without, and rattles on liis humble roof. 
 
 Wide o'er the brim, with many a torrent swelled. 
 And the mi.xed ruin of its banks o'erspread, 95 
 
 At last the roused-up riVer pours along : 
 Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes, 
 From the rude mountain, and the mossy wild, 
 Tumbling through rocks abrupt, and sounding far ; 
 Then o'er the sanded valley floating spreads, 100 
 
 Calm, sluggish, silent ; till again, constrained 
 Between two meeting hills, it bursts away, 
 
52 THOMSON. 
 
 Where rocks and woods o'erhang the turbid stream ; 
 
 There gathering triple force, rapid and deep, 
 
 It boils, and wheels, and foams, and thunders through.** * 105 
 
 The keener tempests come ; and fuming dun 
 From all the livid east, or piercing north, 
 
 Thick clouds ascend — in whose capacious womb 225 
 
 A vapory deluge lies, to snow congealed. 
 Heavy they roll their fleecy world along; 
 And the skv saddens with the gathered storm. 
 Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, 
 At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes 230 
 
 Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day 
 With a continual flow. The cherished fields 
 Put on their winter-robe of purest white. 
 'Tis brightness all ; save wliere the new snow melts 
 Along the mazy current. Low, the woods 235 
 
 Bow their hoar head ; and, ere the languid sun 
 Faint from the west emits his evening ray. 
 Earth's universal face, deep-hid and cliill. 
 Is one wild dazzling waste that buries wide 
 
 The works of man. Drooping, the laborer-ox 240 
 
 Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands 
 The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, 
 Tamed by the cnael season, crowd around 
 The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 
 Which Providence assigns tliem. One alone, 245 
 
 The redbreast, sacred to the household gods. 
 Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky. 
 In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves 
 His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 
 His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first 250 
 
 Against the window beats; then, brisk alights 
 On the warm hearth ; then, liopping o'er the floor, 
 Eyes all the smiling family askance. 
 And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is ; 
 Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs 255 
 
 Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 
 Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, 
 Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 
 
WINTER. 53 
 
 By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs. 
 
 And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, 260 
 
 Urged on by fearless want. The l^leating kind 
 
 Eye the black heaven, and next the glistening earth, 
 
 With looks of dumb despair; tlien, sad dispersed. 
 
 Dig for the withered lierb through heaps of snow. 
 
 Now, shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind; 265 
 Baffle the raging year, and fill their pens 
 With food at will ; lodge them below the storm. 
 And watch them strict : for from the bellowing east. 
 In this dire season, oft the whirlwind's wing 
 Sweeps up the burden of whole wintry plains 270 
 
 At one wide waft, and o'er the hapless flocks. 
 Hid in the hollow of two neighboring hills. 
 The billowy tempest whelms ; till, upward urged, 
 The valley to a shining mountain swells. 
 Tipped with a wreath high-curling in the sky. 275 
 
 As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce 
 All Winter drives along the darkened air. 
 In his own loose-revolving fields the swain 
 Disastered stands ; sees other hills ascend. 
 Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes, 280 
 
 Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; 
 Nor finds tlie river, nor the forest, hid 
 Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on 
 From hill to dale, still more and more astray — 
 Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, 285 
 
 Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home 
 Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth 
 In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul ! 
 What black despair, what horror fills his heart ! 
 When for the dusky spot which fancy feigned 29c 
 
 His tufted cottage, rising through the snow. 
 He meets the roughness of the middle waste, 
 Far from the track, and blest abode of man ; 
 While round him night resistless closes fast, 
 And every tempest, howling o'er his head, 295 
 
 Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 
 Then throng the busy shapes into his mind. 
 
54 THOMSON. 
 
 Of covered pits, unfathomably deep, 
 
 (A dire descent !) beyond the power of frost ; 
 
 Of faitliless bogs ; of precipices huge, 300 
 
 Smoothed up with snow; and, (what is land unknown, 
 
 Wliat water), of the still unfrozen spring, 
 
 In the loose marsh or solitary lake. 
 
 Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 
 
 These check his fearful steps ; and down he sinks 305 
 
 Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift. 
 
 Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death ; 
 
 Mixed with the tender anguish Nature shoots 
 
 Through the wrung bosom of the dying man — 
 
 His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 310 
 
 In vain for him the officious wife prepares 
 
 The lire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ; 
 
 In vain his little children, peeping out 
 
 Into the mingling storm, demand their sire. 
 
 With tears of artless innocence. Alas! 315 
 
 Nor wdfe, nor children, more shall he behold. 
 
 Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve 
 
 The deadly Winter seizes ; shuts up sense : 
 
 And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold. 
 
 Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse — 320 
 
 Stretched out, and bleaching in the northern blast. * * * 
 
 Now, all amid the rigors of the year. 
 In the wild depth of Winter, while without 425 
 
 The ceaseless winds blow ice, be my retreat. 
 Between the groaning forest and the shore. 
 Beat by the boundless multitude of waves, 
 A rural, sheltered, solitary .scene ; 
 
 Where ruddy fire and beaming tapers join 430 
 
 To cheer the gloom. There studious let me sit, 
 And hold high converse with the mighty dead ; 
 Sages of ancient time, as gods revered. 
 As gods beneficent, who blessed mankind 
 With arts, with arms, and humanized a world. 435 
 
 Roused at the inspiring thought, I throw aside 
 The long-lived volume ; and. deejD-musing, hail 
 The sacred shades, that slowly-rising pass 
 
WINTER. 55 
 
 Before my wondering eyes. First Socrates, 
 
 Who, firmly good in a corrupted state, 440 
 
 Against the rage of tyrants single stood 
 
 Invincible ! calm reason's holy law, 
 
 That voice of God within the attentive mind. 
 
 Obeying, fearless, or in life or death : 
 
 Great moral teacher ! wisest of mankind ! 445 
 
 Solon the next, who built his commonweal 
 
 On equity's wide base ; by tender laws 
 
 A lively people curbing, yet undamped 
 
 Preserving still that quick peculiar fire. 
 
 Whence in the laureled field of finer arts, 450 
 
 And of bold freedom, they unequalled shone — 
 
 The pride of smiling Greece, and human-kind. » 
 
 Lycurgus then, who bowed beneath the force 
 
 Of strictest discipline, severely wise. 
 
 All human passions. Following him, 1 see, 455 
 
 As at Thermopyls he glorious fell, 
 
 The firm devoted chief, who proved by deeds 
 
 The hardest lesson which the other tauglit. 
 
 Then Aristides lifts his honest front ; 
 
 Spotless of heart, to wliom tlie unflattering voice 460 
 
 Of freedom gave the noblest name of Just ; 
 
 In pure majestic poverty revered ; 
 
 Who, even his glory to his country's weal 
 
 Submitting, swelled a haughty rival's fame. 
 
 Reared by his care, of softer ray, apj^ears 465 
 
 Cimon sweet-souled ; whose genius, rising strong. 
 
 Shook off the load of young debauch : abroad 
 
 The scourge of Persian pride, at home tlie friend 
 
 Of every worth and every splendid art — 
 
 Modest, and simple, in the pomp of wealth. 470 
 
 Then the last worthies of declining Greece, 
 
 Late-called to glory, in unequal times, 
 
 Pensive, appear. The fair Corinthian boast, 
 
 Timoleon, tempered happy, mild and firm. 
 
 Who wept the brother while the tyrant bled. 475 
 
 And, equal to the best, the Theban pair. 
 
 Whose virtues, in heroic concord joined. 
 
56 THOMSON. 
 
 Their country raised to freedom, empire, fame. 
 
 He too, with whom Athenian honor sank. 
 
 And left a mass of sordid lees behind, 480 
 
 Phocion the Good ; in puljlic life severe. 
 
 To virtue still inexorably firm ; 
 
 But when, beneath his low illustrious roof. 
 
 Sweet peace and happy wisdom smoothed his brow, 
 
 Not friendship softer was, nor love more kind. 485 
 
 And he, the last of old Lycurgus' sons, 
 
 The generous victim to that vain attempt. 
 
 To save a rotten state, Agis, who saw 
 
 Even Sparta's self to servile avarice sunk. 
 
 The two Achaean heroes close the train : 490 
 
 Aratus, who awhile relumed the soul 
 
 Of fondly lingering liberty in Greece ; 
 
 And he her darling as her latest hope. 
 
 The gallant Philopoemen, who to arms 
 
 Turned the luxurious pomp he could not cure ; 495 
 
 Or toiling in his farm, a simple swain ; 
 
 Or, bold and skilful, thundering in the field. * * * 
 
 To thy loved haunt return, my happy muse : 
 For now, behold, the joyous winter-days. 
 Frosty, succeed ; and through the blue serene. 
 For sight too fine, the ethereal nitre flies — 
 Killing infectious damps, and the spent air 695 
 
 Storing afresh with elemental life. 
 Close crowds the shining atmosphere ; and binds 
 Our strengthened bodies in its cold embrace. 
 Constringent ; feeds, and animates our blood ; 
 Refines our spirits, through the new-strung nerves, 700 
 In swifter sallies darting to the brain, 
 Where sits the soul, intense, collected, cool, 
 Bright as the skies, and as the season keen. 
 All Nature feels the renovating force 
 
 Of Winter, only to the tlioughtless eye 705 
 
 In ruin seen. The frost-concocted glebe 
 Draws in abundant vegetable soul, 
 And gathers vigor for the coming year. 
 A stronger glow sits on the lively cheek 
 
WINTER. 57 
 
 Of ruddy fire : and luculent along 7 1 o 
 
 The purer rivers flow ; their sullen deeps, 
 Transparent, open to the shepherd's gaze, 
 And murmur hoarser at the fixing frost. 
 
 What art thou, frost? and whence are thy keen stores 
 Derived, thou secret all-invading power, 7 1 5 
 
 Whom even the illusive fluid cannot fly? 
 Is not thy potent energy, unseen, 
 Myriads of little salts, or hooked, or shaped 
 Like double wedges, and diifused immense 
 Through water, earth, and etlier? Hence at eve, 720 
 Steamed eager from the red horizon round. 
 With the fierce rage of Winter deep sufllised. 
 An icy gale, oft shifting, o'er the pool 
 Breathes a blue film, and in its mid career 
 Arrests the bickering stream. The loosened ice, 725 
 
 Let down the flood, and half dissolved by day. 
 Rustles no more ; but to the sedgy bank 
 Fast grows, or gathers round the pointed stone — 
 A crystal pavement, by the breath of heaven 
 Cemented firm ; till, seized from shore to shore, 730 
 
 The whole imprisoned river growls below. 
 Loud rings the frozen earth, and hard reflects 
 A double noise ; while at his evening watch. 
 The village dog deters the nightly thief; 
 The heifer lows; the distant waterfall 735 
 
 Swells in the breeze ; and, with the hasty tread 
 Of traveller, the hollow-sounding plain 
 Shakes from afar. The full ethereal round. 
 Infinite worlds disclosing to the view. 
 
 Shines out intensely keen ; and, all one cope 740 
 
 Of starry glitter, glows from pole to pole. 
 From pole to pole the rigid influence falls. 
 Through the still night, incessant, heavy, strong. 
 And seizes Nature fast. It freezes on ; 
 Till morn, late rising o'er the drooping world, 745 
 
 Lifts her pale eye unjoyous. Then ajjpears 
 The various labor of the silent night : 
 Prone from the dripping eave, and dumb cascade, 
 
, 58 THOMSON. 
 
 Whose idle torrents only seem to roar, 
 
 The pendent icicle; the frost-work fair, 750 
 
 Where transient hues, and fancied figures, rise ; 
 
 Wide-spouted o'er the hill, the frozen brook, 
 
 A livid tract, cold gleaming on the morn ; 
 
 The forest bent beneath the plumy wave ; 
 
 And by the frost refined the whiter snow, 755 
 
 Incrusted hard, and sounding to the tread 
 
 Of early shepherd, as he pensive seeks 
 
 His pining flock, or from the mountain top. 
 
 Pleased with the slippery surface, swift descends. 
 
 On blithesome frolics bent, the youtliful swains, 760 
 While every work of man is laid at rest. 
 Fond o'er the river crowd, in various sport 
 And revelry dissolved ; where mixing glad, 
 Happiest of all the train ! the raptured boy 
 Lashes the whirling top. Or, where the Rhine 765 
 
 Branched out in many a long canal extends, 
 From every province swarming, void of care, 
 Batavia rushes forth ; and as they sweep. 
 On sounding skates, a thousand different ways. 
 In circling poise, swift as the winds, along, 770 
 
 The then gay land is maddened all to joy. 
 Nor less the northern courts, wide o'er the snow 
 Pour a new pomp. Eager, on rapid sleds. 
 Their vigorous youth in bold contention wheel 
 The long-resounding course. Meantime, to raise 775 
 
 The manly strife, with highly blooming charms, 
 Flushed by tlic season, Scandinavia's dames. 
 Or Russia's buxom daughters, glow around. * * * 
 
 Muttering, tlie winds at eve, with blunted point, 
 Blow hollow-blustering from the south. Subdued, 
 The frost resolves into a trickling thaw. 990 
 
 Spotted, the mountains shine ; loose sleet descends. 
 And floods the country round. The rivers swell. 
 Of bonds impatient. Sudden from the hills, 
 O'er rocks and woods, in broad brown cataracts, 
 A thousand snow-fed torrents shoot at once ; 995 
 
 And, where tliey rusli, the wide-resounding plain 
 
WINTER. 59 
 
 Is left one slimy waste. Those sullen seas, 
 
 That wash the ungenial pole, will rest no more 
 
 Beneath the shackles of tlie mighty nortli ; 
 
 But, rousing all their waves, resistless lieave. looo 
 
 And, hark ! the lengthening roar continuous runs 
 
 Athwart tlie rifted deep : at once it bursts. 
 
 And piles a thousand mountains to the clouds. 
 
 Ill fares the bark with trembling wretches charged, 
 
 That, tossed amid the floating fragments, moors 1005 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an icy isle. 
 
 While night overwhelms the sea, and horror looks 
 
 More horrible. Can human force endure 
 
 The assembled mischiefs that besiege them round? 
 
 Heart-gnawing hunger, fainting weariness, loio 
 
 The roar of winds and waves, the crush of ice. 
 
 Now ceasing, now renewed with louder rage. 
 
 And in dire echoes bellowing round the main. 
 
 More to embroil the deep, Leviathan 
 
 And his unwieldly train, in dreadful sport, 1015 
 
 Tempest the loosened brine, while through the gloom, 
 
 Far from the bleak inhospitable shore. 
 
 Loading the winds, is heard the hungry liowl 
 
 Of famished monsters, there awaiting wrecks. 
 
 Yet Providence, that ever-waking eye, 1020 
 
 Looks down with pity on the feeble toil 
 
 Of mortals lost to hope,- and lights them safe 
 
 Through all this dreary labyrinth of fate. 
 
 ■"Tis done ! — dread Winter spreads his latest glooms. 
 And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year. 1025 
 
 How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! 
 How dumb the tuneful ! Horror wide extends 
 His desolate domain. Behold, fond man ! 
 See here thy pictured life ; pass some few years. 
 Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength, 1030 
 Thy sober Autumn fading into age. 
 And pale concluding Winter comes at last, 
 And shuts the scene. Ah ! whither now are fled 
 Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes 
 Of happiness? those longings after fame? 1035 
 
60 THOMSON. 
 
 Those restless cares? those busy bustHng days? 
 
 Those gay-spent, festive nights? those veering thoughts, 
 
 Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life? 
 
 All now are vanished ! Virtue sole survives, 
 
 Immortal, never-failing friend of man, 1040 
 
 His guide to happiness on high. — And see! 
 
 'Tis come, the glorious morn ! the second birth 
 
 Of heaven and earth ! awakening Nature hears 
 
 The new-creating word, and starts to life, 
 
 In every heightened form, from pain and death io45 
 
 For ever free. * * * 
 
JOHNSON. 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 
 
 Let observation, with extensive view, 
 Survey mankind, from China to Pent ; 
 Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, 
 And watch the busy scenes of crowded Hfe : 
 Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate, 5 
 
 O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate. 
 Where wavYing man, betray 'd by vent'rous pride 
 To tread the dreary paths without a guide. 
 As treach'rous phantoms in the mist delude. 
 Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good ; 10 
 
 How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice. 
 Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice ; 
 How nations sink, by darling schemes oppress'd. 
 When Vengeance listens to the fooPs request. 
 Fate wings with ev'ry wish th' afflictive dart, 15 
 
 Each gift of nature and each grace of art ; 
 With fatal heat impetuous courage glows. 
 With fatal sweetness elocution flows, 
 Impeachment stops the speaker's i^ow'rful breath. 
 And restless fire precipitates on death. 20 
 
 But, scarce observed, the knowing and the bold 
 Fall in the general massacre of gold ; 
 Wide-wasting pest ! that rages unconfin'd. 
 And crowds with crimes the records of mankind : 
 For gold his sword the hireling rufifian draws, 25 
 
 For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws : 
 Wealth heaped on wealth nor truth nor safety buys ; 
 The dangers gather as the treasures rise. 
 
 (01) 
 
62 JOHNSON. 
 
 Let history tell, where rival kings command. 
 And dubious title shakes the madded land, 30 
 
 When statutes glean the refuse of the sword, 
 How much more safe the vassal than the lord ; 
 Low sculks the hind beneath the rage of pow'r. 
 And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tow'r, 
 Untouched his cottage, and his slumbers sound, 35 
 
 Tho^ confiscation's vultures hover round. 
 
 The needy traveller, serene and gay. 
 Walks the wide heath, and sings his toil away. 
 Does envy seize thee? Crush th'' upbraiding joy, 
 Increase his riches, and his peace destroy : 40 
 
 New fears in dire vicissitude invade ; 
 The rustling brake alarms, and quivering shade ; 
 Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief, — 
 One shows the plunder, and one hides the thief. 
 
 Yet still one general cry the skies assails, 45 
 
 And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales ; 
 Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care, 
 Th' insidious rival and the gaping heir. 
 
 Once more, Democritus, arise on earth. 
 With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth, 50 
 
 See motley life in modern trappings dress'd, 
 And feed with varied fools th' eternal jest. 
 Thou who couldst laugh where want enchain"d caprice. 
 Toil crush'd conceit, and man was of a piece ; 
 Where wealth milov'd without a mourner dy'd ; 55 
 
 And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride ; 
 Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate. 
 Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state ; 
 Where change of fav'rites made no change of laws. 
 And senates heard before they judg'd a cause ; 60 
 
 How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish tribe, 
 Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe ! 
 Attentive truth and nature to descry. 
 And pierce each scene with philosophic eye. 
 To thee were solemn toys or empty show 65 
 
 Tlie robes of pleasure and the veils of woe : 
 All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain. 
 
THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 63 
 
 Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain. 
 
 Such was the scorn that fill'd tlie sage's mind, 
 Renewed at ev^ry glance on human kind. 70 
 
 How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare. 
 Search every state, and canvass ev'ry pray'r. 
 
 Unnumbered suppliants crowd Preferment's gate, 
 Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great ; 
 Delusive Fortune hears th' incessant call : 75 
 
 They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. 
 On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend ; 
 Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end ; 
 Love ends with hope ; the sinking statesman's door 
 Pours in the morning worshipper no more ; 80 
 
 For growing names the weekly scribbler lies. 
 To growing wealth the dedicator flies ; 
 From evVy room descends the painted face, 
 That hung the bright palladium of the place. 
 And smok'd in kitchens, or in auction sold, 85 
 
 To better features yields the frame of gold ; 
 For now no more we trace in ev'ry line 
 Heroick worth, benevolence divine : 
 The form distorted justifies the fall. 
 And detestation rids th' indignant wall. 90 
 
 But will not Britain hear the last appeal. 
 Sign her foes' doom, or guard her fav'rites' zeal ? 
 Thro' Freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings, 
 Degrading nobles and controlling kings ; 
 
 Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats, 95 
 
 And ask no questions but the price of votes ; 
 With weekly libels and septennial ale. 
 Their wish is full to riot and to rail. 
 
 In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand, 
 Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand: 100 
 
 To him the church, the realm, their pow'rs consign, 
 Thro' him the rays of regal bounty shine, 
 Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows, 
 His smile alone security bestows : 
 
 Still to new heights his restless wishes tow'r, 105 
 
 Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances pow'r ; 
 
64 JOHNSON. 
 
 Till conquest unresisted ceas'd to please, 
 
 And rights submitted left him none to seize. 
 
 At length his sovereign frowns ; — the train of state 
 
 Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. iio 
 
 Where-e'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye ; 
 
 His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly: 
 
 Now drops at once the pride of awful state. 
 
 The golden canopy, the glittering plate, 
 
 The regal palace, the luxurious l^oard, 115 
 
 The liveried army, and the menial lord. 
 
 With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd, 
 
 He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. 
 
 Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings. 
 
 And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 120 
 
 Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine, — 
 Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end, be thine? 
 Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, 
 The wisest Justice on the banks of Trent? 
 For why did Wolsey near the steeps of fate 125 
 
 On weak foundations raise th' enormous weight? 
 Why, but to sink beneath misfortune's blow. 
 With louder ruin, to the gulfs below? 
 
 What gave great Villiers to th' assassin's knife. 
 And fix'd disease on Harley's closing life? 130 
 
 What murder'd Wentworth and what exil'd Hyde, 
 By kings protected, and to kings ally'd? 
 What but their wish indulg'd in courts to shine, 
 And pow'r too great to keep or to resign? 
 
 When first the college rolls receive his name, 135 
 
 The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame ; 
 Resistless burns the fever of renown. 
 Caught from the strong contagion of the gown : 
 O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread. 
 And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head. 140 
 
 Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious youth, 
 And Virtue guard thee to the throne of Truth ! 
 Yet should thy soul indulge the gen'rous heat, 
 Till captive Science yields her last retreat ; 
 Should Reason guide thee with her brightest ray, 145 
 
THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 65 
 
 And pour on misty Doubt resistless day ; 
 
 Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, 
 
 Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ; 
 
 Should tempting Novelty thy cell refrain. 
 
 And Sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain; 150 
 
 Should Beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, 
 
 Nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart ; 
 
 Should no Disease thy torpid veins invade. 
 
 Nor Melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade ; 
 
 Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, 155 
 
 Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee : 
 
 Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes. 
 
 And pause awhile from learning, to be wise ; 
 
 There mark what ills the scholar's life assail — 
 
 Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. 160 
 
 See nations slowly wise, and meanly just. 
 
 To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
 
 If dreams yet flatter, once again attend. 
 
 Hear Lydiat's life and Galileo's end. 
 
 Nor deem, when Learning her last prize bestows, 165 
 The glitt'ring eminence exempt from foes : 
 See, when the vulgar 'scape, despis'd or aw'd. 
 Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud ! 
 From meaner minds tho' smaller fines content, — 
 The plunder'd palace or sequester'd rent, — 170 
 
 Mark'd out by dang'rous parts he meets the shock. 
 And fatal Learning leads him to the block : 
 Around his tomb let Art and Genius weep. 
 But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep. 
 
 The festal blazes, the triumphal show, 175 
 
 The ravish'd standard, and the captive foe, 
 The Senate's thanks, the gazette's pompous tale. 
 With force resistless o'er the brave prevail. 
 Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirl'd ; 
 For such the steady Romans shook the world; 180 
 
 For such in distant lands the Britons shine. 
 And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine : 
 This pow'r has praise, that virtue scarce can warm, 
 Till fame supplies the universal charm. 
 
66 yoH.vso.v. 
 
 Yet Reason frowns on Wars unequal game, 185 
 
 Where wasted nations raise a single name, 
 
 And mortgaged states their grandsires' wreaths regret, 
 
 From age to age in everlasting debt ; 
 
 Wreaths whicli at last the dear-bought right convey 
 
 To rust on medals, or on stones decay. 190 
 
 On what foundation stands the warrior's pride. 
 How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide : 
 A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 
 No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; 
 O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 195 
 
 Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ; 
 No joys to him pacific scepters yield, — 
 War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 
 Behold surrounding kings their powers combine. 
 And one capitulate, and one resign : 200 
 
 Peace holds his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ; 
 " Think nothing gainxl," he cries, " till naught remain. 
 "On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 
 "And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 
 The march begins in military state, 205 
 
 And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
 Stern Famine guards the solitary coast. 
 And Winter barricades tlie realms of Frost : 
 He comes ; nor want nor cold liis course delay ; — 
 Hide, blushing Glory, liidc Pultowa's day: 210 
 
 The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands. 
 And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 
 Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait. 
 While ladies interpose and slaves debate. 
 But did not Chance at length her error mend? 215 
 
 Did no subverted empire mark his end? 
 Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound? 
 Or hostile millions press him to the ground? 
 His fall was destin'd to a barren strand, 
 A petty fortress, and a dubious hand. 220 
 
 He left the name, at wliich the world grew pale. 
 To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 
 
 All times their scenes of pompous woes afford, 
 
THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 67 
 
 From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord. 
 
 In gay hostility and barb"rous pride, 225 
 
 With half mankind embattled at his side. 
 
 Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey. 
 
 And starves exhausted regions in his way. 
 
 Attendant Flatt'ry counts his myriads o'er, 
 
 Till counted myriads soothe his pride no more ; 230 
 
 Fresh praise is try"d till madness fires his mind, — 
 
 The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind ; 
 
 New pow'rs are claim'd, new pow'rs are still bestowed, 
 
 Till rude resistance lops the spreading god. 
 
 The daring Greeks deride the martial show, 235 
 
 And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe. 
 
 Th' insulted sea with humbler thoughts he' gains; 
 
 A single skift" to speed his flight remains ; 
 
 Th' encumbered oar scarce leaves the dreaded coast 
 
 Through purple billows and a floating host. 240 
 
 The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour. 
 Tries the dread summits of Cesarean pow'r, 
 With unexpected legions bursts away. 
 And sees defenceless realms receive his sway : 
 Short sway ! — fair Austria spreads her mournful charms ; 245 
 The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms ; 
 From hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze 
 Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise ; 
 The fierce Croatian and the wild Hussar, 
 With all the sons of ravage, crowd the war. 250 
 
 The baffled prince in honour's flatt'ring bloom 
 Of hast}' greatness finds the fatal doom, 
 His foes' derision and his sul)jects' blame. 
 And steals to death from anguisli and from shame. 
 
 "Enlarge my life with multitude of days!" 255 
 
 In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays; 
 Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know, 
 That life protracted is protracted woe. 
 Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, 
 
 And shuts up all the passages of joy : 260 
 
 In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, 
 The fruit autumnal and the vernal flow'i' ; 
 
68 yo/f.vso.v. 
 
 With listless eyes the dotard views the store : 
 
 He views, and wonders that tliey please no more. 
 
 Now pall the tasteless meats and joyless wines, 265 
 
 And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns. 
 
 Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing strain, 
 
 Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain : 
 
 No sounds, alas ! would touch th' impervious car, 
 
 Though dancing mountains witnessed Orpheus near; 270 
 
 Nor lute nor lyre his feelDle powers attend, 
 
 Nor sweeter musick of a virtuous friend ; 
 
 But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue, 
 
 Perversely grave or positively wrong. 
 
 The still returning tale and lingering jest 275 
 
 Perplex the fawning niece and pamperM guest, 
 
 While growing hopes scarce awe the gathering sneer, 
 
 And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear; 
 
 The watchful guests still hint the last offence. 
 
 The daughter's petulance, the son's expense, 280 
 
 Improve his heady rage with treacherous skill, 
 
 And mould his passions till they make his will. 
 
 Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade. 
 Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade; 
 But unextinguished AvVice still remains, 285 
 
 And dreaded losses aggravate his pains : 
 He turns, with anxious heart and crippled hands, 
 His bonds of debt and mortgages of lands ; 
 Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes, 
 Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies. 290 
 
 But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime 
 Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime ; 
 An age that melts with unperceiv'd decay, 
 And glides in modest innocence away ; 
 
 Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears, 295 
 
 Whose night congratulating Conscience cheers ; 
 The gen'ral fav'rite as the general friend : 
 Such age there is, and who shall wish its end? 
 
 Yet ev'n on this her load Misfortune flings, 
 To press the weary minutes' flagging wings ; 300 
 
 New sorrow rises as the day returns. 
 
THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 69 
 
 A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns. 
 
 Now kindred Merit iills the sable bier, 
 
 Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear. 
 
 Year chases year, decay pursues decay, 305 
 
 Still drops some joy from withering life away ; 
 
 New forms arise, and diff'rent views engage. 
 
 Superfluous lags the vet'ran on the stage. 
 
 Till pitying Nature signs the last release. 
 
 And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. 310 
 
 But few there are whom hours like these await. 
 Who set unclouded in the gulfs of Fate. 
 From Lydia's monarch should the search descend. 
 By Solon cautioned to regard his end. 
 
 In life's last scene what prodigies surprise — 315 
 
 Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise ! 
 From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow. 
 And Swift expires a driv'ler and a show. 
 
 The teeming mother, anxious for her race. 
 Begs for each birth the fortune of a face: 320 
 
 Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring ; 
 And Sedley curs'd the form that pleas'd a king. 
 Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes, 
 Whom Pleasure keeps too busy to be wise ; 
 Wliom joys with soft varieties invite, — 325 
 
 By day the frolick, and the dance by night ; 
 Who frown with vanity, 'who smile with art. 
 And ask the latest fashion of the heart. 
 What care, what rules, your heedless charms shall save. 
 Each nymph your rival, and each youth your slave.'' 330 
 Against your fame with fondness hate combines. 
 The rival batters, and the lover mines. 
 With distant voice neglected Virtue calls ; 
 Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance falls : 
 Tir'd with contempt, she quits the slipp'ry reign, 335 
 
 And Pride and Prudence take her seat in vain. 
 In crowd at once, where none the pass defend. 
 The harmless freedom and the private friend. 
 The guardians yield, by force superior ply'd : 
 To Interest, Prudence ; and to Flatt'ry, Pride. 340 
 
70 JOHNSON. 
 
 Here Beauty falls betrayM, despis'd, distressed, 
 And hissing Infamy proclaims the rest. 
 
 Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find? 
 Must dull Suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? 
 Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 345 
 
 Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate? 
 Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise. 
 No cries invoke the mercies of the skies? — 
 Enquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain. 
 
 Which heaven may hear ; nor deem religion vain. 350 
 
 Still raise for good the supplicating voice. 
 But leave to heaven the measure and the choice ; 
 Safe in his pow'r, whose eyes discern afar 
 The secret ambush of a specious prayY. 
 
 Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, 355 
 
 Secure, whatever he gives, he gives the best. 
 Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires. 
 And strong devotion to the skies aspires, 
 Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, 
 Obedient passions, and a will resigned ; 360 
 
 For love, which scarce collective man can fill ; 
 For patience, sov'reign o'er transmuted ill ; 
 For faith, that, panting for a happier seat. 
 Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat : 
 These goods for man the laws of heav'n ordain ; 365 
 
 These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r to gain ; 
 With these celestial Wisdom -calms the mind. 
 And makes the happiness she does not find. 
 
GRAY. 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
 
 The plowman homeward plods his weary way, 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 
 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 
 
 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, 
 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 10 
 
 Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bowV, 
 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those ragged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 
 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15 
 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 
 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20 
 
 (Tl) 
 
72 GRA V. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
 
 How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 30 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of powV, 
 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 
 Await alike th' inevitable hour. 35 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, 
 If Memry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
 
 Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault 
 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40 
 
 Can storied urn, or animated bust. 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
 
 Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 
 
 Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed. 
 Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre. 
 
 But Knowledge to their eyes, her ample page 
 
 Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 50 
 
 Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage. 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
ELEGY. 73 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 
 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast. 
 
 The little Tyrant of his fields withstood. 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 
 
 Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 60 
 
 Th' applause of listening senates to command, 
 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 
 And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes. 
 
 Their lot forbad : nor circumscrib'd alone 65 
 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd ; 
 
 Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 70 
 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
 
 Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 
 Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 75 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect 
 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 
 With uncouth rimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd. 
 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlctter'd Muse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply : 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
74 GRA V. 
 
 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 85 
 
 This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 
 Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 
 Some pious drops tlie closing eye requires ; 90 
 
 Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
 Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead 
 Dost in these lines their artless tales relate ; 
 
 If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 95 
 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 
 ' ' Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100 
 
 "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 
 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
 And pour upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105 
 
 Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 
 
 Now drooping, w^oeful wan, like one forlorn. 
 
 Or craz"d with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 
 
 "One morn 1 miss'd him on the customed hill. 
 
 Along the heath and near his fav'ritc tree ; no 
 
 Another came ; nor yet beside the rill. 
 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was lie ; 
 
 "The next, with dirges due in sad array 
 
 Slow thro' the church-way path we saw liim borne. — 
 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) tlie lay 115 
 
 Grav\l on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 
 
THE BARD. 75 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 
 A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown : 
 
 Fair Science frown'd not on liis humble birth, 
 
 And Melancholy niark'd him for her own. 120 
 
 Large was his bounty and his soul sincere, 
 
 Heav'n did a recompense as largely send : 
 He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear. 
 
 He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 THE BARD. 
 
 "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! 
 
 Confusion on thy banners wait ; 
 Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing. 
 
 They mock the air with idle state. 
 Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail. 
 Nor e'en thy virtues. Tyrant, shall avail 
 
 To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 
 
 From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears ! " 
 Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride 
 
 Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, I 
 
 As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 
 
 He wound with toilsome march his long array. 
 Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance : 
 '•To arms!'' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. 
 
76 GRA y- 
 
 On a rock, whose haughty brow 15 
 
 Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 
 
 Rob'd in tlie sable garb of woe. 
 With haggard eyes the Poet stood 
 (Loose liis beard, and Iioary hair 
 
 Stream VI like a meteor, to the troubled air), 20 
 
 And with a master's hand and Prophet's fire 
 Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 
 
 " Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, 
 Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 
 O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms tliey wave, 25 
 
 Revenge on tlice in lioarser murmurs l)realhe ; 
 Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
 To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 
 
 " Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 
 
 That hushed the stormy main : 30 
 
 Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : 
 
 Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
 
 Modred, whose magic song 
 Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head. 
 
 On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 35 
 
 Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale : 
 Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ; 
 
 The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. 
 Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. 
 
 Dear, as tlie light that visits these sad eyes, 40 
 
 Dear, as tlie ruddy drops tliat warm my heart. 
 
 Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — 
 No more I weep. They do not sleep ; 
 
 On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, 
 I see them sit ; they linger yet, 45 
 
 Avengers of their native land : 
 With me in dreadful harmony they join. 
 And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. 
 
THE BARD. 77 
 
 " Weave the warp and weave the woof, 
 The winding-sheet of Edward's race : 50 
 
 Give ample room, and verge enougli 
 The characters of hell to trace. 
 Mark the year, and mark the night. 
 When Severn shall re-echo with affright 
 
 The shrieks of death thro' Ijerkley's roofs that ring, 55 
 
 Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 
 
 She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs 
 That tearst the bowels of thy mangled mate. 
 
 From thee be born, who o'er tliy country hangs 
 The scourge of heaven. What terrors round liim wait ! 60 
 Amazement in iiis van, with Flight combined. 
 And Sorrow's faded lorm, and Solitude behind. 
 
 "Mighty Victor, mighty Lord! 
 Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 
 
 No pitying lieart, no eye, afford 65 
 
 A tear to grace his obsequies. 
 
 Is the Sa]:)le Warrior fled? 
 Thy son is gone. He rests among tlic dead. 
 The swarm that in thy noontide Ijeam were born? 
 Gone to .salute the rising morn. 70 
 
 Fair laughs the Morn, and soft tlie Zephyr lilows, 
 
 While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
 In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; 
 
 Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; 
 Regardless of tlie sweeping Whirlwind's sway, 75 
 
 That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey. 
 
 II. 3. 
 
 " Fill liigli tlie sparkling Ik)w1, 
 The rich repast prepare. 
 
 Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : 
 Close by the regal chair 80 
 
78 GRA Y. 
 
 Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
 
 A baleful smile upon their batifled guest. 
 Heard ye the din of battle bray, 
 
 Lance to lance, and horse to horse? 
 
 Long years of havock urge their destined course, 85 
 
 And thro" tlie kindred squadrons mow their way. 
 
 Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame. 
 With man)' a foul and midnight murder fed, 
 
 Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, 
 And spare the meek Usurper's holy head ! 90 
 
 Above, below, the rose of snow, 
 
 Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread : 
 The bristled Boar in infant-gore 
 
 Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
 Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom, 95 
 
 Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 
 
 •' Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 
 (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) 
 
 Half of thy heart we consecrate. 
 (The web is wove. The work is done.) ico 
 
 Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn 
 Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : 
 In yon bright track, that fires the western skies. 
 They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
 But oh I what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 105 
 
 Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll.'' 
 Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! 
 
 Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 
 No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
 All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail! no 
 
THE BARD. 79 
 
 ' ' Girt with many a baron bold 
 Suljlime their starry fronts tliey rear ; 
 
 And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
 In bearded majesty appear. 
 
 In the midst a form divine! 115 
 
 Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line ; 
 Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, 
 Attempertl sweet to virgin-grace. 
 What strings symphonious tremble in the air. 
 
 What strains of vocal transport round her play I 120 
 
 Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; 
 
 They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
 Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings. 
 Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings. 
 
 III. 3. 
 
 "The verse adorn again 125 
 
 Fierce War and faithful Love 
 And Truth severe — by fairy Fiction drest. 
 
 In buskin"d measures move 
 Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain 
 With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 130 
 
 A voice, as of the Cherub-Choir, 
 Gales from blooming Eden bear; 
 And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 
 
 That lost in long futurity expire. 
 Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, 135 
 
 Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? 
 To-morrow he repairs the golden flood. 
 
 And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
 Enough for me : with joy I see 
 
 The different doom our fates assign : 1 40 
 
 Be thine Despair, and sceptVed Care ; 
 
 To triumph and to die are mine." 
 He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height 
 Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night. 
 
GOLDSMITH. 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain ; 
 Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain. 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed : 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5 
 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
 How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 
 How often have I paused on every charm, 
 The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 10 
 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
 The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill. 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
 How often have I blest the coming day, 15 
 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 And all tlie village train, from labour free. 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree. 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 The young contending as the old surveyed ; 20 
 
 And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. 
 And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown 25 
 
 By holding out to tire each other down ; 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face. 
 While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
 
 (80) 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 81 
 
 The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love. 
 The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 30 
 
 These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these. 
 With sweet succession, taught even toil to please : 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed : 
 These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 
 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35 
 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. 
 And desolation saddens all thy green : 
 One only master grasps the whole domain. 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 40 
 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects tlie day, 
 liUt, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 45 
 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
 And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 50 
 
 111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 55 
 
 When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
 When every rood of ground maintained its man ; 
 For him liglit laljour spread her wholesome store. 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 60 
 
 His best companions, innocence and health ; 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the laiKl and dispossess the swain ; 
 Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 65 
 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
 And every want to opulence allied, 
 
82 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 
 These gentle liours that plenty bade to bloom, 
 
 Those calm desires that asked but little room, 70 
 
 Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene. 
 
 Lived in each look, and brightened all the green; 
 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, 75 
 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds 
 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds. 
 And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 80 
 Remembrance wakes with all ])cr busy train. 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 
 
 In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
 In all my griefs — and (]<)i) has given my share — 
 1 still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 85 
 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close. 
 And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 90 
 
 Around my lire an evening grouji to draw. 
 And tell of all I felt, and all 1 saw; 
 And, as an hare whom hounds and horns [lursue 
 Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Q5 
 
 Here to return — and die at home at last. 
 
 U blest retirement, friend to life's decline. 
 Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 
 How happv he who crowns in shades like these 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease; 100 
 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work aud weep, 
 ]'2.\'i)lorc the mine, or temjit the dangerous deep ; 
 No surly jiorter stands in guilty state, 105 
 
 To spurn imploring famine frt)m the gate; 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 83 
 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
 
 Angels around befriending Virtue's friend ; 
 
 Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, 
 
 While resignation gently slopes the way; iio 
 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last. 
 
 His heaven commences ere the world be past ! 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
 There, as 1 past with careless steps and slow, 115 
 
 The mingling notes came softened from below ; 
 The swain resjjonsive as the milk-maid sung. 
 The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
 The playful children just let loose from school, 120 
 
 The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; — 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
 And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 125 
 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
 No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, 
 For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 
 All but yon widowed, solitary thing. 
 
 That feebly bends besides the plashy spring : i 30 
 
 She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
 She only left of all the harmless train, 135 
 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled. 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 140 
 
 A man he was to all the country dear. 
 And passing rich witli forty pounds a year; 
 Remote from towns he ran liis godly race. 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place ; 
 Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, 145 
 
84 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
 
 P^ar other aims his heart had learned to prize. 
 
 More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 
 His house was known to all tlie vagrant train ; 
 
 He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain: 150 
 
 The long remembered beggar was his guest, 
 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
 
 The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 
 Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 155 
 
 Sat by his fire, and talked the night away. 
 
 Wept o'er his wounds or, tales of sorrow done. 
 
 Shouldered his crutch and shewed Iiow fields were won. 
 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 160 
 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side ; 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, 165 
 
 He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 1 70 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 175 
 
 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
 And fools, who came to scoff", remained to pray. iSo 
 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 Even children followed with endearing wile. 
 And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 85 
 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest ; 185 
 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest : 
 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
 
 As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 190 
 
 Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
 With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 
 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skilPd to rule, 195 
 
 The village master taught his little school. 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew : 
 Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 200 
 
 Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper circling round 
 Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 
 Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 205 
 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 
 The village all declared how much he knew : 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 
 And even the story ran that he could gauge: 210 
 
 In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 
 For, even tho' vanquished, he could argue still ; 
 While words of learned length and thundering sound 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 215 
 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 
 But past is all his fame. The very spot 
 Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
 Where oace the sign-post caught the passing eye, 220 
 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 
 Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired. 
 Where village statesmen talked with looks profound. 
 
86 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225 
 
 The parlour splendours of that festive place : 
 
 The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
 
 The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ; 
 
 The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 230 
 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
 
 The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 
 
 With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay ; 
 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew, 235 
 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 
 
 Vain transitory splendours ! could not all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 240 
 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. 
 No more the wood-man's ballad shall prevail ; , 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 245 
 
 Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed. 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250 
 
 Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art ; 
 Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, 255 
 
 The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
 Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
 But the long pomp, tlie midnight masquerade. 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed — - 260 
 
 In these, ere triflers half their wisli obtain. 
 The toiling plea.sure sickens into pain ; 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
 The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 
 
 Ye friends to triitli, ye statesmen who survey 265 
 
 The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
 'Tis yom's to judge, how wide the limits stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 270 
 
 Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, 
 And rich men flock from all the world around. 
 Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
 That leaves our useful products still the same. 
 Not so the lo.^s. The man of wealth and pride 275 
 
 Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds. 
 Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
 The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
 Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; 280 
 ■His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green : 
 Around the world each needful product flies, 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies ; 
 
 While thus the land, adorned for pleasure all, 285 
 
 In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female unadorned and plain. 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
 Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies. 
 Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 290 
 
 But when those charms are past, for charms are frail. 
 When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
 
 Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed : 295 
 
 In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed. 
 But verging to decline, its splendours rise ; 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprize : 
 While, scourged by famine from the smiling land. 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band, 300 
 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
 
8S GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The country blooms — -a garden and a grave. 
 
 Where then, ah ! where, sliall poverty reside, 
 To scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits strayed 305 
 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
 
 If to the city sped — what waits liim there? 
 To see profusion that lie must not sliare ; ' 310 
 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
 To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
 To see tliosc jovs tlie sons of pleasure know 
 Extorted from liis fellow-creature's woe. 
 
 Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 315 
 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade : 
 Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign 
 Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train: 320 
 
 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
 Tlie rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
 Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
 
 Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn thine eyes 325 
 
 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 
 She once, perhaps, in village plemy blest, 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 330 
 
 Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled. 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. 
 And, pincli'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower. 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour. 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town. 335 
 
 She left her wheel and robes of countr\- biown. 
 
 Do thine, sweet Auburn, — thine, tlic loveliest train. — 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
 Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
 At ])roud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 340 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 89 
 
 Ah, no I To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
 Wliere half the convex world intrudes between, 
 Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. 
 Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
 Far different there from all that charm'd before 345 
 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
 Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 350 
 
 Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned. 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 355 
 
 And savage men more murderous still than they ; 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado files, 
 Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
 Far difterent these from exery former scene. 
 The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 360 
 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
 That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 
 
 ( Jood Heaven ! what sorrows gloom"d that ]jarting day. 
 That called them from their native walks away : 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 365 
 
 Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last. 
 And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the western main. 
 And shuddering still to face the distant deep. 
 Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. -i,lo 
 
 The good old sire the first prepared to go 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for others" woe ; 
 But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
 He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 375 
 
 The fond companion of his helpless years, 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
 And left a lover's for a fathers arms. 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
 
90 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 y\nd blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 380 
 
 And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
 And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear, 
 Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 385 
 
 How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
 Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy ! 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
 Boast of a florid vigour not their own. 390 
 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
 Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
 
 Even now the devastation is begun, 395 
 
 And half the business of destruction done ; 
 Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 
 That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 400 
 
 Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
 Contented toil, and hospitable care. 
 And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 
 And piety with wishes placed above, - 405 
 
 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
 And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
 Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 
 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; 410 
 
 Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe. 
 That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
 Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 415 
 
 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
 Farewell, and O ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
 On Torno's clift's, or Pambamarca's side, 
 
TriE DESERTED VILLAGE. 91 
 
 Whether where equinoctial fervours glow. 
 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 42c 
 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
 
 Redress the rigours of the inclement clime ; 
 
 Aid slighted truth with thv persuasive strain ; 
 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
 
 Teach him, that states of native strength possest, 425 
 
 Tho' very poor, may still be very blest ; 
 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. 
 
 As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away ; 
 
 While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430 
 
COWPER. 
 
 THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 
 
 'Tis morning ; and the sun with niddy orb 
 
 Ascending fires tlie horizon : while the clouds 
 
 That crowd away before the driving wind, 
 
 More ardent as the disk emerges more. 
 
 Resemble most some city in a blaze, 5 
 
 Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray 
 
 Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, 
 
 And tinging all with his own rosy hue. 
 
 From every herb and every spiry blade 
 
 Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. ro 
 
 Mine, spindling into longitude immense. 
 
 In spite of gravity, and sage remark 
 
 That I myself am but a fleeting shade, 
 
 Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance 
 
 I view the muscular proportioned limb 15 
 
 Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, 
 
 As they designed to mock me, at my side 
 
 Take step for step ; and as I near approach 
 
 The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall, 
 
 Preposterous sight ! the legs without the man 20 
 
 The verdure of the plain lies buried deep 
 
 Beneath the dazzling deluge ; and the bents, 
 
 And coarser grass upspearing o'er the rest, 
 
 Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine 
 
 Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, 25 
 
 And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. 
 
 The cattle mourn in corners where the fence 
 
 (92) 
 
THE WINTER MORNING WALK. <)3 
 
 Screens them, and seem half-petrified to sleep 
 
 In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait 
 
 Their wonted fodder, not hke hungering man 30 
 
 Fretful if unsupplied, but silent, meek. 
 
 And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. 
 
 He from the stack carves out the accustomed load. 
 
 Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft. 
 
 His broad keen knife into the solid mass; 35 
 
 Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, 
 
 With such undeviating and even force 
 
 He severs it away : no needless care 
 
 Lest storms sliould overset the leaning pile 
 
 Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. 40 
 
 Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned 
 
 The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe 
 
 And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, 
 
 P^rom morn to eve his solitary task. 
 
 Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears 45 
 
 And tail cropped short, half lurcher, and half cur. 
 
 His dog attends him. Close behind his heel 
 
 Now creeps he slow ; and now with many a frisk 
 
 Wide scampering, snatches up the drifted snow 
 
 With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; 50 
 
 Then shakes his powder'd coat, and barks for joy. 
 
 Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl 
 
 Moves right toward the mark ; nor stops for aught, 
 
 But now and then with i^ressure of his thumb 
 
 To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube 55 
 
 That fumes beneath his nose : the trailing cloud 
 
 Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. 
 
 Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pale. 
 
 Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam 
 
 Of smiling day, they gossip'd side by side, 60 
 
 Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call 
 
 The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing. 
 
 And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, 
 
 Con.scious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. 
 
 The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves 65 
 
 To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye 
 
94 COIVPER. 
 
 The scattered grain, and thievishly resolved 
 
 To escape the impending famine, often scared 
 
 As oft return, a pert voracious kind. 
 
 Clean riddance quickly made, one only care 70 
 
 Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, 
 
 Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned 
 
 To sad necessity, the cock foregoes 
 
 His wonted strut, and wading at their head 
 
 With well-consider'd steps, seems to resent 75 
 
 His altered gait and stateliness retrenched. 
 
 How find the myriads, that in summer cheer 
 
 The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, 
 
 Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? 
 
 Earth yields them naught : the imprisoned worm is safe 80 
 
 Beneath the frozen clod ; all seeds of herbs 
 
 Lie covered close, and berry-bearing thorns 
 
 That feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose) 
 
 Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. 
 
 The long protracted rigor of the year 85 
 
 Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes 
 
 Ten thousand seek an unmolested end. 
 
 As instinct prompts, self-buried ere they die. 
 
 The very rooks and daws forsake the fields. 
 
 Where neither grub nor root nor earth-nut now 90 
 
 Repays their labor more ; and perch'd aloft 
 
 By the way-side, or stalking in the path. 
 
 Lean pensioners upon the traveller's track. 
 
 Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them. 
 
 Of voided pulse or half-digested grain. 95 
 
 The streams are lost amid the splendid blank, 
 
 O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood. 
 
 Indurated and fix'd, the snowy weight 
 
 Lies undissolved ; while silently beneath, 
 
 And unperceived, the current steals away. 100 
 
 Not so, where scornful of a check it leaps 
 
 The mill-dam, dashes on the restless wlieel, 
 
 And wantons in the pebbly gulf below : 
 
 No frost can bind it there ; its utmost force 
 
 Can but arrest the light and smoky mist 105 
 
7'HE WINTER MORNING WAIK. 95 
 
 That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide. 
 
 And see where it has hung the embroider'd banks 
 
 With forms so various, that no powers of art. 
 
 The pencil or the pen, may trace the scene ! 
 
 Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high iio 
 
 (Fantastic misarrangement !) on the roof 
 
 Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees 
 
 And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops 
 
 That trickle down the branches, fast congealYI, 
 
 Shoot into pillars of pellucid length, 1 1 5 
 
 And prop the pile they but adorn'd before. 
 
 Here grotto within grotto safe defies 
 
 The sunbeam : there emboss'd and fretted wild, 
 
 The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes 
 
 Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain 120 
 
 The likeness of some object seen before. 
 
 Thus nature works as if to mock at art. 
 
 And in defiance of her rival powers ; 
 
 By these fortuitous and random strokes 
 
 Performing such inimitable feats, 125 
 
 As she with all her rules can never reach. 
 
 Less worthy of applause, though more admired. 
 
 Because a novelty, the work of man. 
 
 Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ ! 
 
 Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, 130 
 
 The wonder of the north. No forest fell 
 
 When thou wouldst build ; no quarry sent its stores 
 
 To enrich thy walls ; but thou didst hew the floods, 
 
 And make thy marble of the glassy wave. 
 
 In such a palace Aristteus found 135 
 
 Cyrene, when he bore the plaintiff" tale 
 
 Of his lost bees to her maternal ear : 
 
 In such a palace poetry might place 
 
 The armory of winter ; where his troops. 
 
 The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet, 140 
 
 Skin-piercing volley, blossom-brui-sing hail. 
 
 And snow that often blinds the traveller's course. 
 
 And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. 
 
 Silently as a dream the fiil^ric rose ; 
 
96 COW PER. 
 
 No sound of hammer or of saw was there. 145 
 
 Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts 
 
 Were soon conjoined, nor other cement ask'd 
 
 Than water interfused to make them one. 
 
 Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues. 
 
 Illumined every side; a watery light 150 
 
 (jleam'd through the clear transparency, that seeni'd 
 
 Another moon new risen, or meteor fallen 
 
 From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene. 
 
 So stood the brittle prodigy \ though smooth 
 
 And slippery the materials, yet frostbound 155 
 
 Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within. 
 
 That royal residence might well befit. 
 
 For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths 
 
 Of flowers, that fear'd no enemy but warmth, 
 
 Blush'd on the panels. Mirror needed none 160 
 
 Where all was vitreous ; but in order due 
 
 Convivial table and commodious seat 
 
 (What seem'd at least commodious seat) were there, 
 
 Sofa and couch and high-built throne august. 
 
 The same lubricity was found in all, 165 
 
 And all was moist to the warm touch ; a scene 
 
 Of evanescent glory, once a stream. 
 
 And soon to slide into a stream again. 
 
 [ The remaining seven hundred and foity lines of this poem consist of little but 
 commonplace reflections on political institutions and on the moral government of 
 the ■world.\ 
 
BURNS. 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEX, ESQ., OE AYR. 
 
 Lit not Ambition mock tht-ir useful toil. 
 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
 Nor Grandeur hear, -with a disdainful smile, 
 
 The short and simple annals of the Poor. 
 
 Gkav. 
 
 My lov'd, my honoured, much respected friend ! 
 
 No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
 With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end ; 
 
 My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : 
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, S 
 
 The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
 The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
 
 What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
 Ah ! tho" his worth unknown, far happier there, 1 ween. 
 
 November cliill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; lo 
 
 The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
 
 The blackening trains o' craws to their repose : 
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 
 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end, 15 
 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
 
 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 
 
 (97) 
 
98 BURNS. 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an ag^d tree ; 20 
 
 Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro' 
 
 To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee. 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily. 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile. 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 25 
 
 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile. 
 An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 
 
 Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 
 
 At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 30 
 
 A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, 
 
 In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e. 
 Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown. 
 
 Or d^posite her sair-won penny-fee, 35 
 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet. 
 
 An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
 The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 
 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 40 
 
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 
 
 Anticipation forward points the view. 
 The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers. 
 
 Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 45 
 
 Their master's an' their mistress's command. 
 
 The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
 An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand. 
 
 An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
 "An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 50 
 
 An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 
 
 Implore His counsel and assisting might: 
 They never sought in vain lliat souglit the Lord aright!'' 
 
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 99 
 
 But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; 55 
 
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
 Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 
 
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
 
 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 60 
 
 Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 
 
 While Jenny hafllins is afraid to speak ; 
 Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 
 
 A strappan youth ; he takes the mother's eye ; 65 
 
 BIythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
 
 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 
 
 But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
 The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 70 
 
 What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
 Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 
 
 O liappy love ! where love like this is found ! 
 
 O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
 I've pacdd much this weary, mortal round, 75 
 
 And sage experience bids me this declare : — 
 " If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
 
 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 
 
 In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 80 
 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale." 
 
 Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 
 
 A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! — 
 That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 
 
 Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 85 
 
 Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 
 
 Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? 
 Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 
 
 Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 
 Then paints the nain'd maid, and their distraction wild? 90 
 
100 Bur.ys. 
 
 Rut now the supper crowns their simple board. 
 
 The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food ; 
 The soupe their only hawkie does afford. 
 
 That 'vont the hallan snuglj' chows her cood ; 
 The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 9^ 
 
 To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell. 
 An" aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid : 
 
 The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. 
 How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i" the bell. 
 
 The cheerfu" supper done, wi" serious face, 1 00 
 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
 The sire turns o'er, wi* patriarchal grace. 
 
 The hig ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 
 
 His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; 103 
 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 
 
 He wales a portion with judicious care, 
 .Vnd "Let us worship God!"' he says, with solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: iio 
 
 Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 
 
 Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name : 
 Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame. 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; 115 
 
 The tickl'd ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creator's |)raise. 
 
 Tile priest-like father reads the sacred page. 
 
 How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
 Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 120 
 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny : 
 Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie 
 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
 Or Job's pathetic j)laint. and wailing cry; 
 
 Or rapt Isaiali"s wild, seraphic fire ; 125 
 
 Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 101 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. 
 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was slied : 
 How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 
 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay His Head; 130 
 
 How His first followers and servants sped : 
 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
 And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc"d by Heaven's com- 
 mand. 135 
 
 Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
 
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
 Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," 
 
 That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays. 140 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise. 
 
 In such society, yet still more dear: 
 While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 
 
 Conipar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 145 
 
 In all the pomp of method, and of art. 
 When men display to congregations wide 
 
 Devotion's evVy grace, ex'cept the heart ! 
 The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert. 
 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 150 
 
 But haply, in some cottage far apart. 
 
 May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul ; 
 And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. 
 
 Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 
 
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 155 
 
 The parent-pair their secret homage pay. 
 
 And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, 
 That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 
 
 And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
 Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 160 
 
 For them and for their little ones provide ; 
 But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 
 
102 BURNS. 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
 
 That makes her lov'd at liome, rever'd abroad : 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 165 
 
 ' ' An honest man's the noblest work of God : '"' 
 And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind : 
 What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load. 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 1 70 
 
 Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 
 
 O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 175 
 And, Oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
 
 From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ; 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
 And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 180 
 
 O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
 
 That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart ; 
 Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
 
 Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
 (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, 185 
 
 His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward ! ) 
 O never, never, Scotia's realm desert, 
 
 But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, 
 In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 
 
TAM O' SHANTER. 103 
 
 TAM O' SHANTER. 
 
 Of Broivnyis and of Bogilis full is this Btike. 
 
 Gawin Douglas. 
 
 When chapman billies leave the street, 
 
 And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
 
 As market-days are wearing late. 
 
 An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
 
 While we sit bousing at the nappy, 5 
 
 An' getting fou and unco happy, 
 
 We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
 
 The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles. 
 
 That lie between us and our hame, 
 
 Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 10 
 
 Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
 
 Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
 
 This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
 
 As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
 
 (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 15 
 
 For honest men and bonny lasses.) 
 
 O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise, 
 
 As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
 
 She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 
 
 A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 20 
 
 That frae November till October, 
 
 Ae market-day thou was nae sober ; 
 
 That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 
 
 Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
 
 That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 25 
 
 The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
 
 That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
 
 Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
 
 She prophesy'd that, late or soon, 
 
 Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ; 30 
 
 Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
 
 By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 
 
104 BURiVS. 
 
 Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet. 
 To think how mony counsels sweet, 
 How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, 35 
 
 The husband frae the wife despises ! 
 
 But to our tale : Ae market night. 
 Tarn had got planted unco right ; 
 Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
 
 Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 40 
 
 And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
 His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 
 Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
 They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
 The niglit drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 45 
 
 And ay the ale was growing better : 
 The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
 Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious : 
 The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
 The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 50 
 
 The storm without might rair and rustle, 
 Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 
 
 Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
 E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy : 
 As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 55 
 
 The minutes wing'd tiieir way wi' pleasure ; 
 Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
 O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 
 
 But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
 You seize the fiow'r, its bloom is shed ; 60 
 
 Or like the snow-tails in tlie river, 
 A moment white — then melts for ever ; 
 Or like the borealis race, 
 That flit ere you can point their place ; 
 Or like the rainbow's lovely form 65 
 
 Evanishing amid the storm. — 
 Nae man can tether time or tide : 
 The liour approaches Tam luaun ride ; 
 That hour, o' night's l)lack arch the key-stane. 
 That dreary hour he mounts his beast in : 70 
 
 And sic a ni<iht he taks tlie road in. 
 
l^AAI O' SHANTER. 105 
 
 As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
 
 The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
 The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
 The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 75 
 
 Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd : 
 That night, a child might understand, 
 The Deil had business on his hand. 
 
 Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
 A better never lifted leg, 80 
 
 Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire. 
 Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
 Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
 Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
 Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 85 
 
 Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
 Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
 Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 
 By this time he was cross the ford, 
 
 Whare in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd ; 90 
 
 And past the birks and meikle stane, 
 Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
 And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
 Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
 And near the thorn, aboon the well, 95 
 
 Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. — 
 Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
 The doubling storm roars thro" the woods ; 
 The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
 Near and more near the thunders roll : 100 
 
 When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
 Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
 Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; 
 And loud resounded mirth and dancing. — 
 InsiDiring bold John Barleycorn ! 105 
 
 What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
 Wi' tippeny, we fear nae evil ; 
 Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil ! — 
 The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle. 
 Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. iio 
 
lOG BURNS. 
 
 But Maggie stood right sair astonished, 
 
 Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
 
 She ventured forward on the light ; 
 
 And, vow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! 
 
 Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 115 
 
 Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 
 
 But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
 
 Put life and mettle in their heels. 
 
 A winnock-bunker in the east, 
 
 There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 120 
 
 A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large. 
 
 To gie them music was his charge : 
 
 He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl. 
 
 Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 
 
 Coffins stood round like open presses, 125 
 
 That shaw\l the dead in their last dresses ; 
 
 And by some devilish cantrip slight 
 
 Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
 
 By which heroic Tam was able 
 
 To note upon the haly table, 130 
 
 A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
 
 Twa span-lang, wee, unchristenVI bairns ; 
 
 A thief, new-cutted frae the rape, 
 
 Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
 
 Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted; 135 
 
 Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
 
 A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
 
 A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 
 
 Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
 
 The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 1 40 
 
 Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu\ 
 
 Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu". 
 
 As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious. 
 The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
 The piper loud and louder blew; 145 
 
 Tlie dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
 They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit. 
 Till ilka carlin swat and reekit ; — 
 
 * * * witherVl beldams, auld and (holl. 
 
TAM O' SHANTER. 107 
 
 Rigwooddie hags wad spean a foal, i6o 
 
 Lowping and flinging on a crummock, 
 I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 
 
 But Tam kend what was what fu' brawHe, 
 There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
 That night enhsted in the core, 165 
 
 (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ; 
 For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
 And perish'd mony a bonny boat. 
 And shook baith meikle corn and bear. 
 And kept the country-side in fear,) 170 
 
 Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn. 
 That while a lassie she had worn. 
 In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 
 It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
 Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie, 175 
 
 That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
 Wi' twa jDund Scots ('twas a' her riches). 
 Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! 
 
 But here my muse lier wing maun cour ; 
 Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 1 80 
 
 To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
 (A souple jade she was, and Strang,) 
 And how Tam stood, like ane bewitched. 
 And thought his very een enriched ; 
 Even Satan glowr'd, and fidgM fu' fain, 185 
 
 And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
 Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
 Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
 And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark ! " 
 And in an instant all was dark : 1 90 
 
 And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. 
 When out the hellish legion sallied. 
 
 As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 
 When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
 As open pussie's mortal foes, 200 
 
 When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
 As eager runs the market-crowd. 
 When, "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 
 
108 BURNS. 
 
 So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
 
 Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. 205 
 
 Ah, Tarn ! ah. Tarn ! thou'll get thy fairin ! 
 In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin I 
 In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin I 
 Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
 
 Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 210 
 
 And win the key-stane o' the brig : 
 There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
 A running stream they darena cross. 
 But ere the key-stane she could make, 
 The fient a tail she had to shake ! 215 
 
 For Nannie, far before the rest, 
 Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
 And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
 But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
 Ae spring brought off her master hale 220 
 
 But left behind her ain grey tail : 
 The carlin claught her by the rump, 
 And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 
 
 Now, wha this tale o' tnith shall read. 
 Ilk man and mother's son, take heed, 225 
 
 Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
 Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
 Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
 Remember Tam o" Shanter's mare. 
 
TO A MOUSE. 109 
 
 TO A MOUSE, 
 
 ox Tl'RNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOl'GH, 
 NOVEMKER, 1 785. 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tiin'rous beastie, 
 (), what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
 Thon need na start awa sae hasty, 
 
 Wi' bickering brattle ! 
 I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 5 
 
 Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 
 
 \'x\\ truly sorry man's dominion 
 Has broken Nature's social union. 
 An' justifies that ill opinion. 
 
 Which makes thee startle 10 
 
 At me, thy poor, earth-born companion. 
 
 An' fellow-mortal ! 
 
 1 doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve ; 
 
 What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
 
 A daimen-icker in a thrave i 5 
 
 "S a sma" request : 
 I'll get a blessing wi' the lave. 
 
 And never miss't I 
 
 Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
 
 Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 20 
 
 An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 
 
 O' foggage green ! 
 An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 
 
 Baith snell an' keen ! 
 
 Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 25 
 
 An' weary winter comin' fast. 
 An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 
 
 Thou thought to dwell. 
 Till crash ! the cruel coulter past, 
 
 Out lliro" thy cell. 30 
 
110 BURNS. 
 
 That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
 Now thou's turn'd out, for a" thy trouble, 
 
 But house or hald, 
 To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 35 
 
 An' cranreuch cauld ! 
 
 But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
 In proving foresight may be vain : 
 The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 
 
 Gang aft a-gley, 4° 
 
 An' lea"e us nouglit but grief an' pain, 
 
 For promis'd joy. 
 
 Still thou art Ijlest, compar'd wi' me ! 
 
 The present only touclieth thee : 
 
 But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e 45 
 
 On prospects drear ! 
 An' forward, tho' I canna see, 
 
 I guess an' fear ! 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 
 
 ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1 786. 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipp6d flow'r, 
 Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem. 
 To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 5 
 
 Thou bonny gem. 
 
 Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
 The bonny Lark, companion meet, 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 
 
 Wi' spreckled breast, lo 
 
 When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 
 The purpling east. 
 
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. \l\ 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
 
 Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 15 
 
 Amid the storm, 
 Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 
 
 Tliy tender form. 
 
 The flavmting flowers our gardens yield, 
 
 High sheltering woods and wa\s maun shield, 20 
 
 But thou, beneath the random bield 
 
 O' clod or stane. 
 Adorns the histie stibble-field. 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 25 
 
 Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
 Tliou lifts thy unassuming head 
 
 I n humble guise ; 
 But now tlie share uptears thy Ijed, 
 
 And low thou lies ! 30 
 
 Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
 Sweet flowTet of the rural shade ! 
 By love's simplicity betray'd. 
 
 And guileless trust. 
 Till she, like thee, all soiPd, is laid 35 
 
 Low i' the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
 
 On life\s rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 
 
 Unskilful he to note the card 
 
 Of prudent lore, 40 
 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 
 
 And whelm him o'er ! 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n. 
 
 Who long with wants and woes has striven. 
 
 By human pride or cunning driven 45 
 
 To misery's brink, 
 Till wrencli'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven, 
 
 He, ruin'd, sink ! 
 
112 BURiVS. 
 
 Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy^s fate, 
 
 That fate is thine — no distant date ; 50 
 
 Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 
 
 Full on thy bloom, 
 Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight. 
 
 Shall be thy doom ! 
 
 BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 ROBERT BRUCF/S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 
 Tune — " Hey tuttie tat tie." 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
 Welcome to your gory bed, 
 Or to victorie. 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the liour ; 5 
 
 See the front o' battle lower ; 
 See approach proud Edward's power — 
 Chains and slaverie ! 
 
 Wha will be a traitor knave? 
 
 Wha can fill a coward's grave? 10 
 
 Wha sae base as be a slave? 
 Let him turn and flee ! 
 
 Wha for Scotland's King and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
 Free-man stand, or free-man fa'? 15 
 
 Let him- on \vi' me ! 
 
 Bv oppression's woes and pains! 
 By your sons in servile chains ! 
 We will drain our dearest veins. 
 
 But they shall be free! 20 
 
 Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
 Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
 Liberty 's in every blow ! 
 Let us do, or die ! 
 
FOR A' THAT AND ./' THAT. 113 
 
 A RED, RED ROSE. 
 
 Tune — " Wis/iaiv's favoii n'/e." 
 
 O, MY luve is like a red, red rose, 
 
 Thafs newly sprung in June : 
 O, my luve is like the melodie 
 
 That's sweetly played in tune. 
 
 As fair thou art, my bonny lass, 5 
 
 So deep in luve am I : 
 And I will luve thee still, mv dear. 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry. 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
 
 And the rocks melt wi' the sun: 10 
 
 I will luve thee still, my dear. 
 
 While the sands o' life shall run. 
 
 And fare thee weel, my only luve, 
 
 And fare thee weel awhile ! 
 Ami I will come again, my luve, 1 5 
 
 Tho" it were ten thousand mile. 
 
 FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 
 
 Ls there, for honest poverty. 
 
 That hangs his head, and a' that ? ■ 
 The coward-slave, we pass him by. 
 We dare be poor for a' that ! 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 
 The rank is but the guinea stamp ; 
 The man's the gowd for a' that. 
 
114 BURNS. 
 
 What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 
 
 Wear hodden-grey, and a' that ; i o 
 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
 A man's a man for a' that. 
 P'or a' that, and a' that, 
 
 Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
 The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 1 5 
 
 Is King o' men for a' that. 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, and stares, and a' that : 
 Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
 
 He's but a coof for a' that : 20 
 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 His riband, star, and a' that. 
 The man of independent mind. 
 He looks and laughs at a' that. 
 
 A prince can mak a belted knight, 25 
 
 A marquis, duke, and a' that; 
 But an honest man's aboon his might, 
 (luid faith he mauna fa' that I 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 Their dignities, and a' that, 30 
 
 Their pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 
 Are higher rank than a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may. 
 
 As come it will for a' that ; 
 That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 35 
 
 May bear the gree, and a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 It's coming yet, for a' that. 
 That man to man, the warld o'er, 
 Shall brothers be for a' that. 
 
COLERIDGE. 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 PART L 
 
 It is an ancient Mariner, 
 
 And he stoppetli one of three. 
 
 " By thy long grey beard and glittering eye. 
 
 Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? 
 
 "The bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 5 
 
 And I am next of l<;in ; 
 
 The guests are met, the feast is set : 
 
 May'st hear the merry din." 
 
 He liolds him with his skinny hand, 
 " There was a ship," quoth he. 10 
 
 "Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!" 
 Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 
 
 He holds him with liis glittering eye — 
 
 The Wedding-Guest stood still. 
 
 And listens like a three years' child: 15 
 
 The Mariner hath his will. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
 
 He cannot chuse but hear ; 
 
 And thus spake on that ancient man. 
 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 20 
 
 (115) 
 
no COLERIDGE. 
 
 " The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, 
 
 Merrily did we drop 
 
 Below the kirk, below the hill, 
 
 Below the lighthouse top. 
 
 "The Sun came up upon the left, 25 
 
 Out of the sea came he ! 
 
 And he shone bright, and on the right 
 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 " Higher and higher every day, 
 
 Till over the mast at noon " 30 
 
 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast. 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 The bride hath paced into the hall. 
 
 Red as a rose is she : 
 
 Nodding their heads before her goes 35 
 
 The merry minstrelsy. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
 
 Yet he cannot chuse but hear ; 
 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 40 
 
 " And now the storm-blast came, and he 
 Was tyrannous and strong : 
 He struck with his overtaking wings. 
 And chased us south along. 
 
 "With sloping masts and dipping prow, 45 
 
 As who pursued with yell and blow 
 
 Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
 
 And forward bends his head. 
 
 The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast. 
 
 And southward aye we fled. 50 
 
 "And now there came both mist and snow. 
 
 And it grew wondrous cold : 
 
 And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
 
 As green as emerald. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 117 
 
 •' And through the drifts the snowy clifts 55 
 
 Did send a dismal sheen : 
 
 Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
 
 The ice was all between. 
 
 " The ice was here, the ice was there. 
 The ice was all around : 60 
 
 It cracked and growled, and roared and howled. 
 Like noises in a swound I 
 
 "At length did cross an Albatross. 
 
 Thorough the fog it came ; 
 
 As if it had been a Christian soul, 65 
 
 We hailed it in (rod's name. 
 
 " It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
 
 And round and round it flew. 
 
 The ice did split with a thunder-fit 
 
 The helmsman steered us through. 70 
 
 "And a good south wind sprung up behind; 
 
 The Albatross did follow. 
 
 And every day, for food or play. 
 
 Came to the mariners' hollo ! 
 
 "In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. 75 
 
 It perched for \espers nine : 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white. 
 Glimmered the white moon-shine.'' 
 
 "God save thee, ancient Mariner I 
 
 From the fiends that plague thee thus I — 80 
 
 Why look'st thou so?" — "With my cross-bow 
 
 I shot the Albatross." 
 
 PART II. 
 
 "The Sun now rose upon the right: 
 
 Out of the sea came he. 
 
 Still hid in mist, and on the left 85 
 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
118 COLERIDGE. 
 
 " And the good south wind still blew behind. 
 
 But no sweet bird did follow, 
 
 Nor any day for food or play 
 
 Came to the mariners'* hollo ! go 
 
 " And 1 had done a hellish thing, 
 
 And it would work 'em woe : 
 
 For all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 
 ' Ah wretch ! ' said they, ' the bird to slay, 95 
 
 That made the breeze to blow ! ' 
 
 " Nor dim nor red, like God's own head 
 
 The glorious Sun uprist : 
 
 Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That brought the fog and mist. loo 
 
 ' 'Twas right,' said they, ' such birds to slay. 
 
 That bring the fog and mist.' 
 
 " The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. 
 
 The furrow followed free ; 
 
 We ware the first that ever burst 105 
 
 Into that silent sea. 
 
 " Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
 
 'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
 
 And we did speak only to break 
 
 The silence of the sea ! no 
 
 "All in a hot and copper sky. 
 The bloody Sun, at noon. 
 Right up above the mast did stand. 
 No bigger than the Moon. 
 
 "Day after day, day after day, 115 
 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 119 
 
 "Water, water, everywhere, 
 
 And all the boards did shrink; 120 
 
 Water, water, everywhere, 
 
 Nor any drop to drink. 
 
 "The very deep did rot: O Christ! 
 
 That ever this should be I 
 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 125 
 
 Upon the slimy sea. 
 
 " About, about, in reel and rout 
 
 The death-fires danced at night ; 
 
 The water, like a witch's oils. 
 
 Burnt green, and blue, and white. 130 
 
 " And some in dreams assured were 
 Of the spirit that plagued us so ; 
 Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 "And every tongue, through utter drought, 135 
 
 Was withered at the root ; 
 
 We could not speak, no more than if 
 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 ' ' Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 
 
 Had I from old and young I 140 
 
 Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
 
 About my neck was hung." 
 
 PART III. 
 
 " There passed a weary time. Each throat 
 
 Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
 
 A weary time ! a weary time! 145 
 
 How glazed each weary eye. 
 
 When, looking westward, I beheld 
 
 A something in the sky. 
 
120 COLERIDGE. 
 
 " At first it seemed a little speck, 
 
 And then it seemed a mist; 150 
 
 It moved and moved, and took at last 
 
 A certain shape, I wist. 
 
 "A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 
 
 And still it neared and neared : 
 
 As if it dodged a water-sprite, 155 
 
 It plunged and tacked and veered. 
 
 " With throats unslacked, with black lips baked, 
 
 We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
 
 Through utter drought all dumb wc stood ! 
 
 I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 160 
 
 And cried, A sail I a sail ! 
 
 " Witli throats unslacked, with l^lack lips baked. 
 
 Agape they heard me call : 
 
 Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. 
 
 And all at once their Ijreath drew in, 165 
 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 "See! see! (I cined) she tacks no more! 
 
 Hither to work us weal ; 
 
 Without a l:)reeze, without a tide. 
 
 She steadies with upright keel ! 1 70 
 
 "The western wave was all a-flame. 
 
 The day was well-nigh done ! 
 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 
 Rested tlie broad bright Sun ; 
 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 175 
 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 " And straight tlie Sun was flecked with bars, 
 
 (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) 
 
 As if through a dungeon grate he peered 
 
 With broad and burning face. 180 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 121 
 
 "Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
 How fast she nears and nears ! 
 Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
 Like restless gossameres? 
 
 "Are those her ribs through wliich the Sun 1S5 
 
 Did peer, as through a grate? 
 And is that Woman all her crew? 
 Is that a Death? and are there two? 
 Is Death that woman's mate? 
 
 " Her lips were red, her looks were free, 190 
 
 Her locks were yellow as gold : 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy. 
 The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 "The naked hulk alongside came, 195 
 
 And the twain were casting dice ; 
 
 ' The game is done I \'\^ won, I've won I ' 
 
 Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 "The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out; 
 
 At one stride comes the dark ; 200 
 
 W^ith far-heard whisper o'er the sea 
 
 Off shot the spectre-bark. 
 
 "We listened and looked sideways up! 
 
 Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 
 
 iMy life-blood seemed to sip ! 205 
 
 The stars were dim, and thick the night. 
 
 The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; 
 
 From the sails the dew did drip — 
 
 Till clomb above the eastern bar 
 
 The horndd Moon, with one bright star 210 
 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
 " One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
 
 Too quick for groan or sigh, 
 
 Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. 
 
 And cursed me with his eye. 215 
 
122 COLERIDGE. 
 
 " Four times fifty living men, 
 (And I heard nor sigh nor groan,) 
 With heavy thump, a Ufeless lump, 
 They dropped down one by one. 
 
 " The souls did from their bodies fly,— 220 
 
 They fled to bliss or woe ! 
 
 And every soul, it passed me by, 
 
 Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 "T FEAR thee, ancient Mariner! 
 
 I fear thy skinny hand ! 225 
 
 And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 
 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand. 
 
 " I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
 
 And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
 
 "Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! 230 
 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 "Alone, alone, all, all alone. 
 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 
 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 
 My soul in agony. 235 
 
 "The many men, so beautiful! 
 And they all dead did lie : 
 And a thousand thousand slimy things 
 Lived on; and so did I. 
 
 " 1 looked upon the rotting sea, 240 
 
 And drew my eyes away ; 
 
 I looked upon the rotting deck. 
 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 "I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; 
 
 But or ever a prayer had gusht, 245 
 
 A wicked whisper came, and made 
 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 1'23 
 
 " I closed my lids, and kept them close. 
 
 And the balls like pulses beat ; 
 
 For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, 250 
 
 Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
 
 And the dead were at my feet. 
 
 " The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
 
 Nor rot nor reek did they : 
 
 The look with which they looked on me 255 
 
 Had never passed away. 
 
 " An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
 
 A spirit from on high ; 
 
 But oh ! more horrible than that 
 
 Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 260 
 
 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 
 
 And yet I could not die. 
 
 «' The moving Moon went up the sky. 
 
 And nowhere did abide : 
 
 Softly she was going up, 265 
 
 And a star or two beside — 
 
 " Her beams bemocked the sultry main. 
 
 Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay. 
 
 The charmed water burnt alway 270 
 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 " Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
 
 I watched the water-snakes : 
 
 They moved in tracks of shining white, 
 
 And when they reared, the eltish light 275 
 
 Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 ' ' Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watched their rich attire : 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 
 
 They coiled and swam ; and ever\- track 280 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
124 COLERIDGE. 
 
 " O happy living things! no tongue 
 
 Their beauty might declare : 
 
 A spring of love gushed from m\- heart, 
 
 And 1 blessed them unaware : 28 3 
 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
 
 And I blessed them unaware. 
 
 "The selfsame moment 1 could pray; 
 
 And from my neck so free 
 
 The Albatross fell off, and sank 290 
 
 Like lead into the sea/' 
 
 PART V. 
 
 "Oh Sleep! it is a gentle thing, 
 
 Beloved from pole to pole ! 
 
 To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
 
 She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 295 
 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 " The silly buckets on the deck. 
 
 That had so long remained, 
 
 I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 
 
 And when 1 awoke, it rained. 300 
 
 " My lips were wet, my thrt)at was cold, 
 My garments all were dank ; 
 Sure 1 had drunken in my dreams, 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 "1 moved, and could not feel my limbs: 305 
 
 I was so light — almost 
 
 I thought that I had died in sleep. 
 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 "And soon I heard a roaring wind; 
 
 It did not come anear ; 310 
 
 But with its sound it shook the sails, 
 
 Tliat were so thin and sere. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 125 
 
 ■ • The upper air burst into life ! 
 
 And a hundred fire-flags sheen. 
 
 To and fro they were hurried about ! 315 
 
 And to and fro, and in and out. 
 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 
 " And the coming wind did roar more loud. 
 
 And the sails did sigh Hl<e sedge ; 
 
 And the rain poured down from one black cloud, 320 
 
 The Moon was at its edge. 
 
 '• The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
 
 The Moon was at its side : — 
 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 
 The lightning fell with never a jag, 325 
 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 " The loud wind never reached the ship, 
 
 Yet now the ship moved on ! 
 
 Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
 
 The dead men gave a groan. 330 
 
 " They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
 
 Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
 
 It had been strange, even in a dream. 
 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 "The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 335 
 
 Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
 
 The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 
 
 Where they were wont to do ; 
 
 They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 
 
 We were a ghastly crew. 340 
 
 " The body of my brother's son 
 Stood by me, knee to knee : 
 The body and I pulled at one rope, 
 But he said nought to me." 
 
126 COLERIDGE. 
 
 "I fear thee, ancient Mariner!" 345 
 
 ••Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 
 "Twas not those souls that fled in pain. 
 Which to their corses came again. 
 But a troop of spirits blest : 
 
 "For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 350 
 And clustered round the mast ; 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths. 
 And from their bodies passed. 
 
 " Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 
 
 Then darted to the Sun; 355 
 
 Slowly the sounds came back again. 
 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 " Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 
 I heard the sky-lark sing ; 
 
 Sometimes all little birds that are, 360 
 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
 
 With their sweet jargoning ! 
 
 "And now 'twas like all instiiiments. 
 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 
 And now it is an angePs song, 365 
 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
 "It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 370 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 Singeth a (juiet tune. 
 
 "Till noon we quietly .sailed on, 
 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 375 
 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 127 
 
 " Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
 
 From the land of mist and snow, 
 
 The spirit slid : and it was he 
 
 That made the ship to go. 380 
 
 The sails at noon left off their tune, 
 
 And the ship stood still also. 
 
 "The Sun. right up above the mast. 
 
 Had fixed her to the ocean : 
 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir, 385 
 
 With a short uneasy motion — 
 
 Backwards and forwards half her length. 
 
 With a short uneasy motion. 
 
 "Then, like a pawing horse let go. 
 
 She made a sudden bound : 390 
 
 It flung the blood into my head. 
 
 And 1 fell down in a s wound. 
 
 " How long in that same fit I lay, 
 
 I have not to declare ; ' 
 
 But ere my living life returned, 395 
 
 I heard, and in my soul discerned 
 
 Two voices in the air. 
 
 " ' Is it he?" quoth one, ' Is this the man? 
 By Him who died on cross. 
 
 With his cruel bow he laid full low 400 
 
 The harmless Albatross. 
 
 "'The spirit who bideth by himself 
 
 In the land of mist and snow. 
 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 
 Who sliot him with his bow.' 405 
 
 " The other was a softer voice, 
 
 As soft as honev-dew ; 
 
 Quoth he. ' The man hath penance done. 
 
 And penance more will do.' " 
 
1-28 COLERIDGE. 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 "•Rut tell me, tell nie ! .speak again, 410 
 
 Thy .soft respon.se renewing — 
 
 What makes that ship drive on so fast? 
 
 What is the ocean doing?' * 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 " ' Still as a slave before his lord, 
 
 The ocean hath no blast; 415 
 
 His great bright eye most silently 
 
 Up to the Moon is cast — 
 
 " ' If he may know which way to go; 
 
 For she guides him smooth or grim. 
 
 See, brother, see ! how graciously 420 
 
 She looketh down on him.' 
 
 FIR.ST VOICE. 
 
 " ' But why drives on that ship so fast. 
 Without or wave or wind ? ' 
 
 .SECOND VOICE. 
 
 " 'The air is cut away betore. 
 
 And closes from behind. 425 
 
 " 'Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! 
 Or we shall be belated : 
 For slow and slow that ship will go, 
 When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 
 
 " I woke, and we were sailing on 430 
 
 As in a gentle weather : 
 
 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ; 
 
 The dead men stood together. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 129 
 
 ■•AH stood together on the deck, 
 
 Yox a charnel-dungeon fitter: 435 
 
 All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
 
 That in the Moon did glitter. 
 
 " The pang, the curse, with wliich they died, 
 
 Had never passed away : 
 
 1 could not draw my eyes from tlieirs, 440 
 
 Nor turn tlieni up to pra\'. 
 
 " And now this spell was snapt : once more 
 
 I viewed the ocean green. 
 
 And looked far forth, yet little saw 
 
 Of what had else been seen — 445 
 
 " Like one that on a lonesome road 
 
 Doth walk in fear and dread. 
 
 And having once turned round walks on, 
 
 And turns no more his head ; 
 
 Because he knows, a frightful fiend 450 
 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 " But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
 
 Nor sound nor motion made : 
 
 Its path was not upon the sea. 
 
 In ripple or in shade. 455 
 
 " It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek, 
 Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
 It mingled strangely with my fears, 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 " Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 460 
 
 Yet she sailt^d softly too : 
 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 "Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
 
 The light-house top I see? 465 
 
 Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 
 
 Is this mine own countree? 
 
130 COLERIDGE. 
 
 " We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, 
 And I with sobs did pray — 
 
 let me be awake, my God ! 470 
 Or let me sleep alway. 
 
 " The harbour-Imy was clear as glass, 
 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
 
 And the shadow of the Moon. 475 
 
 " The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
 That stands above the rock : 
 The moonlight steeped in silentness 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 "And the bay was white with silent light. 480 
 
 Till, rising fi^om the same. 
 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 
 In crimson colours came. 
 
 "A little distance Irom the prow 
 
 Those crimson shadows were : 485 
 
 1 turned my eyes upon the deck — 
 Oh, Christ ! what saw 1 there ! 
 
 " Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
 
 And by the holy rood I 
 
 A man all light, a serapli-man, 490 
 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 " This seraph-band, each waved his hand. 
 
 It was a heavenly sight I 
 
 They stood as signals to the land, 
 
 Each one a lovely light ; 495 
 
 "This seraph-band, each waved liis hand, 
 No voice did they impart — 
 No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
 Like music on mv heart. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 131 
 
 " But soon I heard the dash of oars, 500 
 
 I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
 
 My head was turned perforce away, 
 
 And I saw a boat appear. 
 
 " The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
 
 I heard them coming fast : 505 
 
 Dear Lord in heaven ! it was a joy 
 
 The dead men could not blast. 
 
 "I saw a third — I heard his voice: 
 
 It is the Hermit good ! 
 
 He singeth loud his godly hymns 510 
 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 
 He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 
 
 The Albatross's blood." 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 " This Hermit good lives in that wood 
 
 Which slopes down to the sea. 5 i 5 
 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
 
 He loves to talk with marineres 
 
 That come from a far countree. 
 
 "He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 
 
 He hath a cushion plump: 520 
 
 It is the moss that wholly hides 
 
 The rotted old oak stump. 
 
 "The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk, 
 
 'Why, this is strange, I trow! 
 
 Where are those lights so many and fair, 525 
 
 That signal made but now ? ' 
 
 " 'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said — 
 
 ' And they answered not our cheer. 
 
 The planks looked warped ! and see those sails. 
 
 How thin they are and sere ! 530 
 
 I never saw aught like to them, 
 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
132 COLERIDGE. 
 
 ' ' ' Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
 
 My forest-brook along ; 
 
 When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 535 
 
 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
 
 That eats the siic-wolfs young.' 
 
 " 'Dear Lord I it hath a fiendish look — 
 
 (The Pilot made reply) 
 
 I am a-feared." — 'Push on, push on I ' 540 
 
 Said the Hermit clieerily. 
 
 " The boat came closer to the ship. 
 
 But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
 
 The Ijoat came close beneatli the sliip, 
 
 And straight a sound was heard. 545 
 
 " Under the water it rumjjled on, 
 Still louder and more dread : 
 It reached the ship, it split the bay: 
 The ship went down like lead. 
 
 " .Stunned by tliat loud and dreadful sound, 550 
 
 Whicli sky and ocean smote. 
 
 Like one that hath been seven days drowned 
 
 My body lay afloat ; 
 
 But, swift as dreams, myself I fomid 
 
 Within the Pilot's boat. 555 
 
 " Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
 The boat spim round and round ; 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 "I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 560 
 
 And fell down in a fit : 
 
 The holy Hermit rai.sed his eyes. 
 
 And prayed where he did sit. 
 
 "1 took the oars: the Pilot's boy. 
 
 Who now doth crazy go, 565 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 133 
 
 Laughed loud aud long, and all tlie while 
 His e}'es went to and fro. 
 'Ha! ha I ' quoth he, 'full plain I see. 
 The Devil knows how to row.'' 
 
 " And now. all in my own countree, 570 
 
 I stood on the firm land 1 
 
 The Hermit stepped forth from tlie boat. 
 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 "'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!' 
 
 The Hermit crossed his brow. 575 
 
 • Say quick," quoth he, ' I bid thee say — 
 
 W'liat manner of man art thou?' 
 
 " Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
 
 With a woeful agony. 
 
 Which forced me to begin my tale ; 580 
 
 And then it left me free. 
 
 " Since then, at an uncertain hour. 
 
 That agony returns : 
 
 And till my ghastly tale is told. 
 
 This heart within me burns. 585 
 
 "I pass, like night, from land to land; 
 
 I have strange power of speech ; 
 
 That moment that his face I see, 
 
 I know the man that must hear me : 
 
 To him mv tale I teach. 590 
 
 "What loud uproar bursts from that door I 
 
 The wedding-guests are there : 
 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 
 And bride-maids singing are : 
 
 And hark the little vesper bell, 595 
 
 Which biddeth me to prayer. 
 
134 COLERIDGE. 
 
 "O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been 
 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea : 
 
 So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 
 Scarce seemdd there to be. 600 
 
 "O sweeter than the marriage feast, 
 'Tis sweeter far to mc, 
 To walk together to the kirk 
 With a goodly company ! — 
 
 "To walk together to the kirk, 605 
 
 And all together pray, 
 
 While each to his great Father bends, 
 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
 
 And youths and maidens gay ! 
 
 "Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 610 
 
 To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! — 
 He prayeth well, who loveth well 
 Both man and bird and beast. 
 
 " He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 
 All things both great and small; 615 
 
 For the dear (lod who loveth us, 
 
 He made and loveth all.'" 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
 
 Whose beard with age is hoar. 
 
 Is gone ; and now the Wedding-Guest 620 
 
 Turned from the Bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went like one that hath been stunned. 
 
 And is of slmisc forlorn : 
 
 A sadder and a wiser man 
 
 He rose, the morrow morn. 625 
 
BYRON. 
 
 [MODERN GREECE.] 
 CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO 11. 
 
 And yet how lovely in thine age of woe. 
 Land of lost gods and godlike men— art thou 
 Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, 
 Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now ; 
 Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow. 
 Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
 Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
 So perish monuments of mortal birth. 
 So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 
 
 Save where some solitary column mourns lo 
 
 Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; 
 Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
 Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave ; 
 Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave. 
 Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 1 5 
 
 Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave. 
 While strangers only not regardless pass. 
 Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh "Alas!'" 
 
 LXXXVIl. 
 
 Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild : 
 
 Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 20 
 
 Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
 
 And still his honey'd wealth Hymettus yields ; 
 
 (135) 
 
136 BYRON. 
 
 There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
 The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
 Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 25 
 
 Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
 Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 
 
 Where'er we tread His haunted, holy ground ; 
 No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould. 
 But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 30 
 
 And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
 Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
 The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
 Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
 Defies the power wliicli crushVl thy temples gone: 35 
 
 Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 
 
 The sun, tlie soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
 Unchanged in all except its foreign lord, 
 Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
 The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 40 
 
 First bow'd beneath the bnuit of Hellas' sword. 
 As on the morn to distant Glory dear. 
 When Marathon became a magic word ; 
 Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
 The camp, the host, the figlit, the conqueror's career, 45 
 
 The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; 
 The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; 
 Mountains above. Earth's, Ocean's plain below ; 
 Death in the front. Destruction in tlie rear! 
 Such was the scene — what now remaineth here? 50 
 
 What sacred trophy marks tlie hallow'd ground. 
 Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 
 The rifled urn, tlie violated mound. 
 The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns around. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD. 137 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Yet to the remnants of thy splendor past 55 
 
 Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng; 
 Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast. 
 Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
 Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
 Fill with thy fame the youth of many a sliore : 60 
 
 Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
 Which sages venerate and bards adore, 
 As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 
 
 The parted bosom clings to wonted home. 
 If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth • 65 
 
 He that is lonely, hither let him roam. 
 And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
 Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth ; 
 But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, 
 And scarce regret the region of his birth, 70 
 
 When wandering slow by Delphi's .sacred side, 
 Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. 
 
 Let such approach this consecrated land, 
 And pass in peace along the magic waste : 
 But spare its relics — let no busy hand 75 
 
 Deface the scenes, already now defaced ! 
 Not for such purpose were these altars placed. 
 Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
 So may our country's name be undisgraced, 
 So mayst thou prosper where thy xoutli was rear'd, 80 
 
 By every honest joy of love and life endear'd .' 
 
138 BYRON. 
 
 [VENICE.] 
 CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO IV. 
 
 I STOOD in \'enice, on the Hridge of Sighs; 
 A palace and a prison on eacii hand : 
 I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 Around me, and a dying (ilory smiles 
 O'er the far times when many a suliject land 
 Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
 Where Venice sate in state, throned on her liundred isles ! 
 
 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, lo 
 
 Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
 At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
 A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
 And such she was ; — her daughters had their dowers 
 From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 1 5 
 
 Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
 In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
 Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 
 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier : 20 
 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
 And music meets not always now the ear : 
 Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. 
 States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die. 
 Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 25 
 
 The pleasant place of all festivity. 
 The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy I 
 
CHILD E HAROLD. 139 
 
 But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
 Her name in story, and her Ions; array 
 
 Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 30 
 
 Above the Dogeless city's vanished sway ; 
 Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
 With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
 And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn awa\' -— 
 The keystones of the arch ! though all were o"er, 35 
 
 F'or us repeopled were the solitary shore. 
 
 The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
 Essentiall)' immortal, they create 
 And multiply in us a brighter ray 
 
 And more beloved existence : that which Fate 40 
 
 Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
 Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied 
 First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
 Watering the heart whose early flowers have died. 
 And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 45 
 
 The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
 And, annual marriage now no more renew'd. 
 The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored. 
 Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
 
 St. Mark yet sees his lion, where he stood, 50 
 
 Stand, but in mockery of his withered power. 
 Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued. 
 And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
 When Venice was a queen with an unequalPd dower. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 55 
 
 An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
 Kingdoms are shnmk to provinces, and chains 
 Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
 
140 * BYRON. 
 
 From Power's high pinnacle, when they ha,ve felt 
 The sunshine for a while, and downward go 60 
 
 Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain''s belt ; 
 Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo I 
 Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 
 
 Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
 Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 65 
 
 But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? 
 Are they not bridled'. — Venice, lost and won. 
 Her thirteen hundred }ears of freedom done. 
 Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 
 Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 70 
 
 Even in Destruction's depth, her foreign foes. 
 From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 
 
 In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
 Her very byword sprung from victory. 
 
 The "Planter of the Lion,'" which through fire 75 
 
 Aiid blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
 Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
 And Europe's bulwark, 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
 Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye 
 Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight I 80 
 
 For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 
 
 Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
 Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 
 But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
 Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust : 85 
 
 Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
 Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls. 
 Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
 Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. 
 Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 90 
 
CHILD E HAROLD. 141 
 
 When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
 And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war. 
 Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 
 Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
 
 See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 95 
 
 Of the O'ermasterVl victor stops, the reins 
 Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
 Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains. 
 And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 100 
 
 Were all thy proud heroic deeds forgot. 
 Thy choral memory of the Bard divine. 
 Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
 Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
 Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 105 
 
 Albion ! to thee : the Ocean Queen should not 
 Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 
 Of Venice -think of thine, despite thy watery wall. 
 
 I loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
 Was as a fairy city of the heart, no 
 
 Rising like water-columns from the sea. 
 Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart ; 
 And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakespeare's art. 
 Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so. 
 Although I found her thus, we did not part, 115 
 
 Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
 Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 
 
142 BYRON. 
 
 [CASCATA DEL MARMORE.] 
 CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO IV. 
 
 The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
 Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
 The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
 The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
 The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
 And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
 Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
 Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
 That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set. 
 
 And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again lo 
 
 Returns in an unceasing shower, which round. 
 With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
 Is an eternal April to the ground. 
 Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
 The gulf! and how the giant element 1 5 
 
 From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
 Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent. 
 With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 
 
 To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
 More like the fountain of an infant sea 20 
 
 Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
 Of a new world, than only thus to be 
 Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, 
 With many windings through the vale : — Look back ! 
 Lo ! where it comes like an eternity, 25 
 
 As if to sweep down all things in its track. 
 Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cataract, 
 
CHTLDE HAROLD. 143 
 
 Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
 From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
 An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 30 
 
 Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
 Its steady dyes, when all around is torn 
 By the distracted waters, bears serene 
 Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn : 
 Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 35 
 
 Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 
 
 [THE COLISEUM.] 
 CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO IV. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 I SEE before me the Gladiator lie : 
 He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
 And his droop"d head sinks gradually low — 
 And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 5 
 
 From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
 Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
 The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which haiPd the wretch 
 who won. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 10 
 
 Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 
 He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize. 
 But where his rude hut by the Danube lay. 
 There were his young barbarians all at play. 
 There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 15 
 
 Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — 
 All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire. 
 And unavenged? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! 
 
144 BYRON. 
 
 But here, where murder breatlied her l)loody steam; 
 And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 20 
 
 And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain-stream 
 Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
 Here where tlie Roman million's blame or praise 
 Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 
 My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 25 
 On the arena void — seats crush'd — walls bow'd — 
 And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. 
 
 A ruin — yet what ruin! from its mass 
 Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
 Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 30 
 
 And marvel where tlie spoil could iiave appeared. 
 Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared ^ 
 Alas ! developed, o[)ens the decay. 
 When the colossal fabric's form is near'd ; 
 It will not bear the l)riglitness of the day, 35 
 
 Wliich streams too mucli en all vears, man, liave reft awav. 
 
 But when the rising moon begins to climb 
 Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
 When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 
 And the low night-breeze waves along the air 40 
 
 The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear. 
 Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ; 
 When the light shines serene but doth not glare. 
 Then in this magic circle raise the dead: 
 Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread. 45 
 
MANFRED. 145 
 
 "While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; 
 When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 
 And when Rome falls — the World." From our own land 
 Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
 In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 50 
 
 Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
 On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
 Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill. 
 The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye 
 
 will. 
 
 [THE COLISEUM BY MOONLIGHT.] 
 
 MANFRED, ACT III., SCENE 4. 
 
 The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
 
 Of the snow-shiniiig mountains. — - Beautiful ! 
 
 I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
 
 Hath been to me a more familiar face 
 
 Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 5 
 
 Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
 
 I learn'd the language of another world. 
 
 1 do remember me, that in my youtli. 
 
 When I was wandering — upon such a night 
 
 I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 10 
 
 Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 
 
 The trees which grew along the broken arches 
 
 Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
 
 Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
 
 The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber: and, 15 
 
 More near, from out the Caesars' palace came 
 
 The owl's long crv, and, interruptedly. 
 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 
 Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 
 Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 20 
 
146 BYRON. 
 
 Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
 
 Within a bowshot. — Where the Caesars dwelt, 
 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
 
 A grove which springs through levelled battlements. 
 
 And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 25 
 
 Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 
 
 But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 
 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
 
 While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls. 
 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 30 
 
 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 
 All this, and cast a wide and tender light. 
 
 Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 
 
 Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up. 
 
 As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries; 35 
 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 
 
 And making that which was not, till the place 
 
 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
 
 With silent worship of the great of old ! — 
 
 The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 40 
 
 Our spirits from their urns. — 
 
 'Twas such a night ! 
 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; 
 But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
 Even at the moment when they should array 
 Themselves in pensive order. 
 
 [ST. PETER'S.] 
 CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO IV. 
 
 But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, 
 To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
 Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ! 
 I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
 Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
 
CHILD E HAROLD. \\\ 
 
 The hyaena and the jackal in their shade ; 
 I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
 Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 
 Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 
 
 But thou, o< temples old, or altars new, lo 
 
 Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
 Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
 Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
 Forsook His former city, what could be, 
 Of earthly structures, in His honour piled, 15 
 
 Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, 
 Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
 In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 
 
 Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
 And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind, 20 
 
 Expanded by the genius of the spot. 
 Has grown colossal, and can only find 
 A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
 Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
 
 Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 25 
 
 See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
 His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by His brow. 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 Thou movest — but increasing with the advance. 
 Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise. 
 Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 30 
 
 Vastness which grows — but grows to harmonize — 
 All musical in its immensities ; 
 
 Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flame 
 The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 
 In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame 35 
 Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must 
 claim . 
 
148 BYRON. 
 
 Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break, 
 To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 
 And as the ocean many bays will make. 
 That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 40 
 
 To more immediate objects, and control 
 Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
 Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
 In mighty graduations, part by part, 
 The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 45 
 
 Not by its fault — but thine : Our outward sense 
 Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
 That what we have of feeling most intense 
 Outstrips our faint expression; even so this 
 Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 50 
 
 Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
 Defies at first our Nature's littleness. 
 Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
 Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 
 
 Then pause, and be enlighten'd ; there is more 55 
 
 In such a survey than the sating gaze 
 Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
 The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
 Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
 What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan ; 60 
 The fountain of sublimity displays 
 Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
 Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD. Uil 
 
 [THE OCEAN.] 
 CHILDE HAI^OLL), CAJVTO LI'. 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 
 Thf;re is a pleasure in tlie patiiless woods, 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
 There is society where none intrudes. 
 By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
 I love not Man the less, but Nature more. 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 From all I may be, or have been before. 
 To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! lo 
 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain : 
 Man marks the earth witli ruin — his control 
 Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 15 
 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
 Without a grave, unknelPd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields 
 Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise 20 
 
 And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
 And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 25 
 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
 And dashest him aijain to earth: — there let him lav. 
 
150 BYRON. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake. 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 30 
 
 The Oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 35 
 
 Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
 Thy waters washed them power while they were free. 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 40 
 
 The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou. 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 45 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 
 Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm. 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime — 
 The image of Eternity — the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD. 151 
 
 And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy 55 
 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
 I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 60 
 
 For I was as it were a child of thee. 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 
 
 My task is done — my song hath ceased — my theme 
 Has died into an echo ; it is fit 65 
 
 The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
 The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
 My midnight lamp — and what is writ is writ — 
 Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
 That which I have been — and my visions flit 70 
 
 Less palpably before me — and the glow 
 Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 
 
 Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been — 
 A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — farewell ! 
 Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 75 
 
 Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
 A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
 A single recollection, not in vain 
 He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell ; 
 Farewell ! with ////// alone may rest the pain, 80 
 
 If such there were — with you, the moral of his strain. 
 
152 BYRON. 
 
 [THE ISLES OF GREECE.] 
 DON JUAN, CANTO HI. 
 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 
 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung. 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace. 
 
 Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet, 5 
 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse. 
 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 10 
 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 Than your sires' •' Islands of the Blest." 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon — 
 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 And musing there an hour alone, 15 
 
 I dream'd that Greece might still be free ; 
 P^or standing on the Persians' grave, 
 I could not deem myself a slave 
 
 A king sat on the rocky brow 
 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 20 
 
 And ships, liv thousands, lay below, 
 
 And men in nations; — all were his! 
 He counted them at break of day — 
 And when the sun set, where were they? 
 
 And where are they? and where art thou, 25 
 
 My country? On thy voiceless shore 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine. 
 Degenerate into hands like mine? . '30 
 
DON JUAN. 153 
 
 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
 
 Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
 For what is left the poet here? 35 
 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must ive but weep o'er days more blest? 
 
 Must zve but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead 40 
 
 Of the three hundred grant but three. 
 To make a new Thermopylae ! 
 
 What, silent still? and silent all? 
 
 Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 45 
 
 And answer, "Let one living head, 
 But one arise, — we come, we come!" 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 
 
 In vain — in vain; strike other chords; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 50 
 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 55 
 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 
 The nobler and the manlier one? 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave? 60 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We will not think of themes like these ; 
 It made Anacreon's song divine : 
 
 He served — but served Polycrates — 
 A tyrant ; but our masters then 65 
 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
154 BYRON. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
 
 Tliat tyrant was Miltiades ! 
 
 Oh ! that the present hour would lend 70 
 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 Exists the remnant of a line 75 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown. 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
 
 They have a king who buys and sells : 80 
 
 In native swords, and native ranks. 
 The only hope of courage dwells ; 
 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 
 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 85 
 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 But gazing on each glowing maid. 
 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 90 
 
 Place me on Sunium's marbled steep. 
 Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 
 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 95 
 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 155 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies : 
 And all thafs best of dark and bright 
 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
 Thus mellovv'd to that tender light 5 
 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less. 
 
 Had half impaired the nameless grace. 
 Which waves in every raven tress, 
 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face; 10 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express. 
 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 1 5 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent ! 
 
 SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE. 
 
 Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
 Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
 Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path : 
 Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 
 
 Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 5 
 
 Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe. 
 Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
 Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 
 
 Farewell to others, but never we part. 
 
 Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! lO 
 
 Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway. 
 
 Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day ! 
 
KEATS. 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 
 
 I. 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! 
 The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
 The hare limpM trembling through the frozen grass, 
 And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
 Numb were the Beadsman's fingers while he told 
 His rosary, and while his frosted breath. 
 Like pious incense from a censer old, 
 Seem'd taking flight for heaven without a death, 
 Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer lie saith. 
 
 His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
 Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. 
 And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 
 Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
 The sculptured dead, on each side seemed to freeze, 
 Emprison'd in l)lack, purgatorial rails : 
 Knights, ladies, praying in dumlj orat'ries. 
 He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
 To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 
 
 III. 
 Northward he turneth through a little door, 
 And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 
 Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; 
 But no — already had his death-bell rung ; 
 
 (156) 
 
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 157 
 
 Tilt joys of all his life were said and sung ; 
 
 His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
 
 Another wa}- he went, and soon among 25 
 
 \ Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
 And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. 
 
 That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
 And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, 
 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 30 
 
 The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide : 
 The level chambers, ready with their pride. 
 Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : 
 The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
 
 Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 35 
 
 With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their 
 breasts. 
 
 At length burst in the argent revelry. 
 With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
 Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
 
 The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay 40 
 
 Of old romance. These let us wish away. 
 And turn, soul-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
 Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
 On lo\e, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care. 
 As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 45 
 
 They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
 Young virgins might have visions of delight. 
 And soft adorings from their loves receive 
 Upon the honey'd middle of the night. 
 
 If ceremonies due they did aright : 50 
 
 As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
 And couch supine their beauties, lily white. 
 Nor look l:)ehind. nor sideways, but require 
 Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 
 
158 KEATS. 
 
 Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: 55 
 
 The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
 She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, 
 Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
 Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
 
 Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 60 
 
 And back retired ; not cooFd by high disdain. 
 But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere ; 
 She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 
 
 She danced along with vague regardless eyes, 
 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short : 65 
 
 The hallow'd hour was near at hand : she sighs 
 Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
 Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
 Hoodwink'd with faery fancy ; all amort, 70 
 
 Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. 
 And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 
 
 So, purposing each moment to retire. 
 She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors. 
 Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 75 
 
 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
 Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
 All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
 But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
 
 That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; 80 
 
 Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth sucli tilings 
 have been. 
 
 He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisj^er tell 
 All eves be nuiftled, or a liundred swords 
 
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 159 
 
 Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel : 
 For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes 85 
 
 Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
 Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
 Against his lineage : not one breast affords 
 Him an\- mercy, in that mansion foul, 
 Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul 90 
 
 XI. 
 
 Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came 
 ShufHing along with ivory-headed wand. 
 To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
 Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
 
 The sound of merriment and chonis bland : 95 
 
 He startled her ; but soon she knew his face, 
 And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. 
 Saying, ' ' Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place ; 
 They are all here to-night, the whole liloodthirsty race ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand : 100 
 
 He had a fever late, and in the fit 
 He cursed thee and thine, both house and land : 
 Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
 More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me! flit! 
 Flit like a ghost away," — "Ah, Gossip dear, 105 
 
 We're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit. 
 And tell me how" — "Good Saints.' not here, not here; 
 Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He follow'd through a lowly arched way. 
 
 Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; iio 
 
 And as she mutter'd " Well-a — well-a-day ! " 
 He found him in a little moonlight room. 
 Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
 "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
 "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 115 
 
 Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
 When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 
 
160 KEATS. 
 
 "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
 Yet men will murder upon holy days : 
 
 Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 120 
 
 And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
 To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
 To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
 God's help ! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
 This very night : good angels her deceive ! 125 
 
 But let me lauijh awhile, I've mickle time to <;rieve." 
 
 Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 
 While Porphyro upon her face doth look. 
 Like puzzled urchin on an ag6d crone • 
 
 Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book, 130 
 
 As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
 But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
 His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 
 Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold. 
 And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 135 
 
 Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
 Plushing liis brow, and in his pained heart 
 Made purple riot : then dotli he propose 
 A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 
 "A cruel man and impious thou art: 140 
 
 Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream 
 Alone with her good angels, far apart 
 From wicked men like thee. Go, go! 1 deem 
 'Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." 
 
 " I will not harm her, by all saints 1 swear," 145 
 
 ()iu)th Porphyro: •' O may I \\€i.'X find grace , 
 
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 161 
 
 When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
 If one of her soft ringlets 1 displace, 
 Or look with iiiffian passion in her face : 
 
 Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 150 
 
 Or I will, even in a moment's space. 
 Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, 
 And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and 
 bears." 
 
 "Ah! why wilt thou aflfright a feeble soul? 
 A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing, 155 
 
 Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; 
 Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. 
 Were never miss'd." Thus plaining, doth she bring 
 A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
 
 So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing, 160 
 
 That Angela gives promise she will do 
 Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 
 
 Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
 Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
 Him in a closet, of such privacy 165 
 
 That he might see her beauty unespied. 
 And win perhaps that night a peerless bride. 
 While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet. 
 And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
 Never on such a night have lovers met, 170 
 
 Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 
 
 "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: 
 
 "All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
 
 Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour frame 
 
 Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare 175 
 
 For 1 am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
 
162 KEATS. 
 
 On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
 Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in prayer 
 The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed. 
 Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." i8o 
 
 So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 
 The lover's endless minutes slowly passM ; 
 The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear 
 To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
 From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. 
 Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
 The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste ; 
 Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
 His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 
 
 Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, 190 
 
 Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
 When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmt^d maid. 
 Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware : 
 With silver taper's light, and pious care, 
 
 She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 195 
 
 To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
 '^oung Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
 She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. 
 
 Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
 
 Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : 200 
 
 She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
 To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
 No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide ! 
 Ikit to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 205 
 
 As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. 
 
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 163 
 
 A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, 
 All garlanded with carven imageries 
 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 210 
 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
 As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings ; 
 And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, « 
 And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 215 
 
 A shielded scutcheon blushYl with blood of queens and kings. 
 
 Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 
 And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 220 
 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
 And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
 She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 
 Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew faint : 
 She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 225 
 
 Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. 
 Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
 Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
 
 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 230 
 
 Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 
 Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
 In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
 But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 
 
 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 235 
 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, 
 Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
 Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued awav ; 
 
164 KEATS. 
 
 Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
 Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; 240 
 
 Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; 
 Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
 As thouijh a rose should shut, and be a bud attain. 
 
 Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
 
 Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 245 
 
 And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
 To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
 Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. 
 And breathed himself: then from the closet crept. 
 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness 250 
 
 And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept. 
 And "tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! — how fast she 
 slept. 
 
 X.XIX. 
 
 Then by the bedside, where the faded moon 
 Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
 
 A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 255 
 
 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
 O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
 The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
 The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. 
 
 Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 260 
 
 The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 
 
 And still she slept an azure-lidded sleej). 
 In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd. 
 While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 265 
 
 With jellies soother than the creamy, curd. 
 And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon ; 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
 From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, 
 From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 270 
 
THE EVE OF ST. AGlVES. X(J5 
 
 These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
 On golden dishes and in baslcets bright 
 Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
 In the retired quiet of the night, 
 
 Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 375 
 
 " And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
 Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
 Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
 Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my .soul doth ache."' 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 2S0 
 
 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
 By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight charm 
 Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam : 
 Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 285 
 
 It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
 From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
 So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
 Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 290 
 
 He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute. 
 In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy:" 
 Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
 Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan : 
 He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 295 
 
 Her blue affray^d eyes wide open shone : 
 Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Her eyes were open, but she still beheld. 
 
 Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
 
 There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd 300 
 
 The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. 
 
166 KEATS. 
 
 At which fair Madeline began to weep, 
 And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
 While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
 Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 305 
 
 Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. 
 
 "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now 
 Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear. 
 Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ; 
 
 And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : 310 
 
 How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear I 
 Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
 Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! 
 Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
 For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go."" 315 
 
 Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
 At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
 Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 
 Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose : 
 Into her dream he melted, as the rose 320 
 
 Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
 Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind blows 
 Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
 Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon hatli set. 
 
 'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet : 325 
 
 " This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! '' 
 'Tis dark : the ic6d gusts still rave and beat : 
 "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! 
 Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. ^ 
 Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? 330 
 
 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
 Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — 
 A dove forlorn and lost with sick unprun^d wing." 
 
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 16; 
 
 ' ' My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 
 Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 335 
 
 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? 
 Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
 After so many hours of toil and quest, 
 A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
 
 Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 340 
 
 Saving of thy sweet self; if thou thinlv'st well 
 To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude iniidel." 
 
 " Hark ! \h an elfin storm from faery land, 
 Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
 
 Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; — 345 
 
 The bloated wassailers will never heed ; — 
 Let us away, my love, with happy speed; 
 There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see — 
 Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : 
 Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, 350 
 
 For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." 
 
 She hurried at his words, beset with fears. 
 For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
 At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — 
 Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found; 355 
 
 In all the house was heard no human sound. 
 A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door ; 
 The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
 Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
 And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 360 
 
 They glide, like phantoms, into tlie wide hall ; 
 Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
 Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
 With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
 
168 KEATS. 
 
 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 365 
 
 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
 By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : 
 The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; 
 The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 
 
 And they are gone : aye, ages long ago 370 
 
 These lovers fled away into the storm. 
 That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, 
 And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
 Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm. 
 Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 375 
 
 Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform ; 
 The Beadsman, after thousand aves told. 
 For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
 
 My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 
 
 But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
 In some melodious plot 
 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless 
 
 Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
 
 O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 
 Coord a long age in the deep-delved earth. 
 
 Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 
 
 Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! 
 
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 169 
 
 for a beaker full of the warm South, 15 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. 
 And purple-stained mouth ; 
 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
 
 And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 20 
 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 
 What thou among the leaves hast never known. 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 
 Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
 Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 25 
 
 Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; 
 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
 And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
 Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30 
 
 Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee. 
 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
 Already with thee ! tender is the night, 35 
 
 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne^ 
 
 Clustered around by all her starry Fays ; 
 
 But here there is no light, 
 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
 
 Tnrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy wa_\-s. 40 
 
 1 cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 
 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs. 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
 
 Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 45 
 
 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
 Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
 And mid-May's eldest child. 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 50 
 
170 KEATS. 
 
 Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 
 
 I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
 Caird him soft names in many a mus^d rime, 
 
 To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55 
 
 To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
 In such an ecstasy ! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 
 
 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird I 
 
 No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
 The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
 Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 65 
 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home. 
 She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
 The same that oft-times hath 
 Charm"d magic casements, opening on the foam 
 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70 
 
 Forlorn 1 tlie very word is like a l)ell 
 
 To toll me back froni thee to my sole sell ! 
 Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 75 
 
 Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
 Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
 In the next valley-glades: 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 
 
 Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? 80 
 
ON CHAPMAN'S HOMER. Yl\ 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 
 
 Much have I travell'd in the reahns of gold, 
 And many goodl}^ states and kingdoms seen : 
 Round many western islands have I been 
 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 5 
 
 That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
 
 Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
 
 When a new planet swims into his ken ; i o 
 
 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
 He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
 
 Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 
 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 14 
 
SHELLEY. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 
 
 Many a green isle needs must be 
 
 In the deep wide sea of misery, 
 
 Or the mariner, worn and wan. 
 
 Never thus could vo3'age on — 
 
 Day and night, and night and day, 5 
 
 Drifting on his dreary way. 
 
 With the solid darkness black 
 
 Closing round his vessel's track ; 
 
 Whilst above, the sunless sky. 
 
 Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 10 
 
 And behind, the tempest fleet 
 
 Hurries on with lightning feet. 
 
 Riving sail, and cord, and plank. 
 
 Till the ship has almost drank 
 
 Death from the o'er-brimming deep ; 1 5 
 
 And sinks down, clown, like that sleep 
 
 When the dreamer seems to be 
 
 Weltering through eternity ; 
 
 And the dim low line before 
 
 Of a dark and distant shore 20 
 
 Still recedes, as ever still 
 
 Longing with divided will, 
 
 But no power to seek or shun. 
 
 He is ever drifted on 
 
 O'er the unreposing wave 25 
 
 To the haven of the grave. 
 
 What, if there no friends will greet ? 
 
 (172) 
 
AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 173 
 
 What, if there no heart ^vill meet 
 
 His with love's impatient beat ? 
 
 Wander wheresoe'er he may, 30 
 
 Can he dream before that day 
 
 To find refuge from distress 
 
 In friendship's smile, in love's caress ? 
 
 Then 'twill wreak him little woe 
 
 Whether such there be or no. 35 
 
 Senseless is the breast, and cold, 
 
 Which relenting love would fold ; 
 
 Bloodless are the veins and chill 
 
 Which the pulse of pain did fill ; 
 
 Every little living nerve 40 
 
 That from bitter words did swerve 
 
 Round the tortured lips and brow. 
 
 Are like sapless leaflets now 
 
 Frozen upon December's bough. 
 
 On the beach of a northern sea 45 
 
 Which tempests shake eternally. 
 
 As once the wretch there lay to sleep. 
 
 Lies a solitary heap. 
 
 One white skull and seven dry bones, 
 
 On the margin of the stones, 50 
 
 Where a few gray rushes stand, 
 
 Boundaries of the sea and land : 
 
 Nor is heard one voice of wail 
 
 But the sea-mews', as they sail 
 
 O'er the billows of the gale ; 5 5 
 
 Or the whirlwind up and down 
 
 Howling, like a slaughtered town. 
 
 When a king in glory rides 
 
 Through the pomp of fratricides. 
 
 Those unburied bones around 60 
 
 There is many a mournful sound ; 
 
 There is no lament for him, 
 
 Like a sunless vapour, dim. 
 
 Who once clothed with life and thought 
 
 What now moves nor murmurs not. 65 
 
174 SHELLEY. 
 
 Ay, many flowering islands lie 
 
 In the waters of wide Agony. 
 
 To such a one this morn was led, 
 
 My bark by soft winds piloted. 
 
 'Mid the mountains Euganean 70 
 
 I stood listening to the paean. 
 
 With which the legioned rooks did hail 
 
 The sun's uprise majestical ; 
 
 Gathering round with wings all hoar. 
 
 Thro' the dewy mist they soar 75 
 
 Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 
 
 Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, 
 
 Flecked with fire and azure, lie 
 
 In the unfathomable sky, 
 
 So their plumes of purple grain, 80 
 
 Starred with drops of golden rain. 
 
 Gleam above the sunlight woods. 
 
 As in silent multitudes 
 
 On the morning\s fitful gale 
 
 Thro' the broken mist they sail, 85 
 
 And the vapours cloven and gleaming 
 
 Follow down the dark steep streaming. 
 
 Till all is bright, and clear, and still. 
 
 Round the solitary hill. 
 
 Beneath is spread like a green sea 90 
 
 The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
 
 Bounded by the vaporous air, 
 
 Islanded by cities fair. 
 
 Underneath day's azure eyes 
 
 Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, 95 
 
 A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
 
 Amphitrite's destined halls, 
 
 Which her hoary sire now paves 
 
 With his blue and beaming waves. 
 
 Lo ! the sun upsprings behind, 100 
 
 Broad, red, radiant, half reclined 
 
 On the level quivering line 
 
 Of the waters crystalline ; 
 
AMONG THE EU GAME AN HILLS. 175 
 
 And before that chasm of light, 
 
 As within a furnace bright, 105 
 
 Column, tower, and dome, and spire. 
 
 Shine like obelisks of fire. 
 
 Pointing with inconstant motion 
 
 From the altar of dark ocean 
 
 To the sapphire-tinted skies ; no 
 
 As the flames of sacrifice 
 
 From the marble shrines did rise, 
 
 As to pierce the dome of gold 
 
 Where Apollo spoke of old. 
 
 Sun-girt City, thou hast been 1 1 5 
 
 Ocean's child, and then his queen ; 
 
 Now is come a darker day. 
 
 And thou soon must be his prey. 
 
 If the power that raised thee here 
 
 Hallow so thy watery bier. 120 
 
 A less drear ruin then than now, 
 
 With thy conquest-branded brow 
 
 Stooping to the slave of slaves 
 
 From thy throne among the waves. 
 
 Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew 125 
 
 Flies, as once before it flew. 
 
 O'er thine isles depopulate, 
 
 And all is in its ancient state ; 
 
 Save where many a palace gate 
 
 With green sea-flowers overgrown 130 
 
 Like a rock of ocean's own, 
 
 Topples o'er the abandoned sea 
 
 As the tides change sullenly. 
 
 The fisher on his watery way, 
 
 Wandering at the close of day, 135 
 
 Will spread his sail and seize his oar 
 
 Till he pass the gloomy shore. 
 
 Lest thy dead should, from their .sleep 
 
 Bursting o'er the starlight deep, 
 
 Lead a rapid masque of death 140 
 
 O'er the waters of his path. 
 
176 SHELLEY. 
 
 Those who alone thy towers behold 
 
 Quivering through aerial gold, 
 
 As I now behold them here, 
 
 Would imagine not they were 145 
 
 Sepulchres, where human forms. 
 
 Like pollution-nourished worms 
 
 To the corpse of greatness cling, 
 
 Murdered, and now mouldering. 
 
 But if Freedom should awake 150 
 
 In her omnipotence, and shake 
 
 From the Celtic Anarch's hold 
 
 All the keys of dungeons cold. 
 
 Where a hundred cities lie 
 
 Chained like thee, ingloriously, 155 
 
 Thou and all thy sister band 
 
 Might adorn this sunny land. 
 
 Twining memories of old time 
 
 With new virtues more sublime. 
 
 If not, perish thou and they ! — 160 
 
 Clouds which stain truth's rising day 
 
 By her sun consumed away — 
 
 Earth can spare ye ; while like flowers. 
 
 In the waste of years and hours, 
 
 From your dust new nations spring 165 
 
 With more kindly blossoming. 
 
 Perish — let there only be 
 
 Floating o'er thy hearthless sea 
 
 As the garment of thy sky 
 
 Clothes the world immortally, 170 
 
 One remembrance, more sublime 
 
 Than the tattered pall of time. 
 
 Which scarce hides thy visage wan ; — 
 
 That a tempest-cleaving Swan 
 
 Of the songs of Albion, 175 
 
 Driven from his ancestral streams 
 
 By the might of evil dreams. 
 
 Found a nest in thee ; and Ocean 
 
 Welcomed him with such emotion 
 
 That its joy grew his, and sprung 1 80 
 
AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. \Ti 
 
 From his lips like music flung 
 
 O'er a mighty thunder-fit 
 
 Chastening terror. What though yet 
 
 Poesy's unfailing River, 
 
 Which tliro' Albion winds for ever 185 
 
 Lashing with melodious wave 
 
 Many a sacred Poet's grave, 
 
 Mourn its latest nursling fled? 
 
 What though thou with all thy dead 
 
 Scarce can for this fame repay 190 
 
 Aught thine own? oh, rather say 
 
 Though thy sins and slaveries foul 
 
 Overcloud a sunlike soul? 
 
 As the ghost of Homer clings 
 
 Round Scamander's wasting springs; 195 
 
 As divinest Shakespere's might 
 
 Fills Avon and the world with light 
 
 Like omniscient power which he 
 
 Imaged 'mid mortality ; 
 
 As the love from Petrarch's urn, 200 
 
 Yet amid yon hills doth burn, 
 
 A quenchless lamp by which the heart 
 
 Sees things unearthly ; — so thou art 
 
 Mighty spirit ! so shall be 
 
 The City that did refuge thee. 205 
 
 Lo, the sun floats up the sky 
 
 Like thought-winged Liberty, 
 
 Till the universal light 
 
 Seems to level plain and height. 
 
 From the sea a mist has spread. 210 
 
 And the beams of morn lie dead 
 
 On the towers of Venice now, 
 
 Like its glory long ago. 
 
 By the skirts of that gray cloud 
 
 Many-domd:d Padua proud 215 
 
 Stands, a peopled solitude, 
 
 'Mid the harvest-shining plain, 
 
 Where the peasant heaps liis grain 
 
178 SHELLEY. 
 
 In the garner of his foe, 
 
 And the milk-white oxen slow 220 
 
 With the purple vintage strain, 
 
 Heaped upon the creaking wain, 
 
 That the brutal Celt may swill 
 
 Drunken sleep with savage will ; 
 
 And the sickle to the sword 225 
 
 Lies unchanged, though many a lord, 
 
 Like a weed whose shade is poison, 
 
 Overgrows this region's foison. 
 
 Sheaves of whom are ripe to come 
 
 To destruction's harvest home. 230 
 
 Men must reap the things they sow. 
 
 Force from force must ever flow. 
 
 Or worse ; but 'tis a bitter woe 
 
 That love or reason cannot change 
 
 The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. 235 
 
 Padua, thou within whose walls 
 
 Those mute guests at festivals. 
 
 Son and Mother, Death and Sin, 
 
 Played at dice for Ezzelin, 
 
 Till Death cried, "I win, I win!" 240 
 
 And Sin cursed to lose the wager. 
 
 But Death promised, to assuage her, 
 
 That he would petition for 
 
 Her to be made Vice-Emperor, 
 
 When the destined years were o'er, 245 
 
 Over all between the Po 
 
 And the eastern Alpine snow, 
 
 Under the mighty Austrian. 
 
 Sin smiled so as Sin only can, 
 
 And since that time, ay, long before, 250 
 
 Both have ruled from shore to shore — 
 
 That incestuous pair, who follow 
 
 Tyrants as the sun the swallow, 
 
 As Repentance follows Crime, 
 
 And as changes follow Time. 255 
 
AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 17i) 
 
 In thine halls the lamp of learning, 
 
 Padua, now no more is burning ; 
 
 Like a meteor, whose wild way 
 
 Is lost over the grave of day. 
 
 It gleams betrayed and to betray. 260 
 
 Once remotest nations came 
 
 To adore that sacred flame, 
 
 When it lit not many a hearth 
 
 On this cold and gloomy earth : 
 
 Now new fires from antique light 265 
 
 Spring beneath the wide world's might ; 
 
 But their spark lies dead in thee, 
 
 Trampled out by tyranny. 
 
 As the Norway woodman quells. 
 
 In the depth of piny dells, 270 
 
 One light flame among the brakes. 
 
 While the boundless forest shakes. 
 
 And its mighty trunks are torn 
 
 By the fire thus lowly born ; 
 
 The spark beneath his feet is dead, 275 
 
 He starts to see the flames it fed 
 
 Howling through the darkened sky 
 
 With myriad tongues victoriously, 
 
 And sinks down in fear ; — so thou, 
 
 O Tyranny, beholdest now 280 
 
 Light around thee, and thou hearest 
 
 The loud flames ascend, and fearest. 
 
 Grovel on the earth ; ay, hide 
 
 In the dust thy purple pride ! 
 
 Noon descends around me now. 285 
 
 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow. 
 
 When a soft and purple mist 
 
 Like a vaporous amethyst. 
 
 Or an air-dissolv6d star 
 
 Mingling light and fragrance, far 290 
 
 From the curved horizon's bound 
 
 To the point of heaven's profound. 
 
 Fills the overflowing sky. 
 
180 SHELLEY. 
 
 And the plains that silent lie 
 
 Underneath, the leaves unsodden 295 
 
 Where the infant Frost has trodden 
 
 With his morning-winged feet. 
 
 Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 
 
 And the red and golden vines. 
 
 Piercing with their trellised lines 300 
 
 The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; 
 
 The dun and bladed grass no less. 
 
 Pointing from this hoary tower 
 
 In the windless air; the flower 
 
 Glimmering at my feet ; the line 305 
 
 Of the olive-sandalled Apennine 
 
 In the south dimly islanded; 
 
 And the Alps, whose snows are spread 
 
 High between the clouds and sun • 
 
 And of living things each one; 310 
 
 And my spirit which so long 
 
 Darkened this swift stream of song, — 
 
 Interpenetrated lie 
 
 By the glory of the sky : 
 
 Be it love, light, harmony, 315 
 
 Odour, or the soul of all 
 
 Which from heaven like dew dotli fall, 
 
 Or the mind which feeds this verse 
 
 Peopling the lone universe. 
 
 Noon descends, and after noon 320 
 
 Autumn's evening meets me soon. 
 
 Leading the infantine moon, 
 
 And that one star, which to her 
 
 Almost seems to minister 
 
 Half the crimson light she brings 325 
 
 From the sunset's radiant springs : 
 
 And the soft dreams of the morn 
 
 (Which like wingt^d winds liad borne 
 
 To that silent isle, which lies 
 
 'Mid remembered agonies, 330 
 
 The frail bark of this lone being) 
 
AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 181 
 
 Pass, to other sufferers fleeing. 
 And its ancient pilot. Pain, 
 Sits beside tlie helm again. 
 
 Other flowering isles must be 335 
 
 In the sea of life and agony: 
 
 Other spirits float and flee 
 
 O'er that gulph ; even now, perhaps, 
 
 On some rock the wild wave wraps, 
 
 With folded wings they waiting sit 340 
 
 For my bark, to pilot it 
 
 To some calm and blooming cove, 
 
 Where for me, and those I love, 
 
 May a windless bower be built. 
 
 Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 345 
 
 In a dell ^mid lawny hills. 
 
 Which the wild sea-murmur fills. 
 
 And soft sunshine, and the sound 
 
 Of old forests echoing round, 
 
 And the light and smell divine 350 
 
 Of all flowers that breathe and shine. 
 
 We may live so happy there. 
 
 That the spirits of the air. 
 
 Envying us, may even entice 
 
 To our healing paradise 355 
 
 The polluting multitude ; 
 
 But their rage would be subdued 
 
 By that clime divine and calm. 
 
 And the winds whose wings rain l);ilm 
 
 On the uplifted soul, and leaves 360 
 
 Under which the bright sea heaves ; 
 
 While each breathless interval 
 
 In their whisperings musical 
 
 The inspired soul supplies 
 
 With its own deep melodies, 365 
 
 And the love which heals all strife 
 
 Circling, like the breath of life. 
 
 All things in that sweet abode 
 
 With its own mild brotherhood : 
 
182 SHELLEY. 
 
 They, not it would change ; and soon 370 
 
 Every sprite beneath the moon 
 Would repent its envy vain, 
 And the earth grow young again. 
 
 THE CLOUD. 
 
 1 BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. 
 
 From the seas and the streams ; 
 I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
 
 In their noonday dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 5 
 
 The sweet buds every one, 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's breast. 
 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 1 wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
 
 And whiten the green plains under, 10 
 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 1 sift the snow on the mountains below. 
 
 And their great pines groan aghast ; 
 And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 15 
 
 While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
 Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 
 
 Lightning my pilot sits. 
 In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. 
 
 It struggles and howls at fits ; 20 
 
 Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. 
 
 This pilot is guiding me. 
 Lured l)y the love of the genii that move 
 
 In the depths of the purple sea ; 
 Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 25 
 
 Over the lakes and the plains. 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 
 
 The Spirit he loves remains ; 
 
THE CLOUD. 1^3 
 
 And I all the while bask in heaven's bkie smile. 
 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 
 
 The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread. 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. 
 
 When the morning star shines dead : 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag, 35 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 
 An eagle alit one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings. 
 And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath. 
 
 Its ardours of rest and of love, 40 
 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From the depth of heaven above. 
 With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest. 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden with white tire laden, 45 
 
 Whom mortals call the moon, 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. 
 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 
 
 Which only the angels hear, 50 
 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 
 
 The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees. 
 When 1 widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 55 
 
 Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. 
 
 Are each paved with the moon and these. 
 
 1 bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. 
 
 And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 60 
 
 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 
 When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
 
 From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 
 Over a torrent sea. 
 
184 SHELLEY. 
 
 Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, — 
 
 The mountains its cohnnns be. 
 The triumphal arch through which I marcii 
 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
 When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 
 
 Is the million-coloured bow ; 70 
 
 The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, 
 
 While the moist earth was laughing below. 
 
 I am the daughter of earth and water. 
 
 And the nursling of the sky : 
 I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 75 
 
 I change, but I cannot die. 
 For after the rain when with never a stain, 
 
 The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
 And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams. 
 
 Build up the blue dome of air, 80 
 
 1 silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain, 
 Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 
 
 I arise and unbuild it arain. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 
 
 Bird thou never wert, 
 That from heaven, or near it. 
 Pourest thy full heart 
 In jjrofuse strains of unpremeditated art. 
 
 Higher still and higher 
 
 From the earth thou springest 
 Like a cloud of fire : 
 
 The blue deep thou wingest. 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 
 
TO A SKYLARK. 185 
 
 In the golden lightning 
 
 Of the sunken sun, 
 0"er which clouds are bright'ning, 
 
 Thou dost float and run : 
 Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 15 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts around thy flight : 
 Like a star of heaven. 
 In the broad daylight 
 Thou art unseen, — but yet 1 hear thy shrill delight, 20 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 Of that silver sphere. 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 In the white dawn clear, 
 I'ntil we hardly see, — we feel that it is there. 25 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud. 
 As, when night is bare, 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 30 
 
 What thou art we know not ; 
 
 What is most like thee? 
 From rainbow clouds there flow not 
 Drops so bright to see. 
 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 35 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 In the light of thought. 
 Singing hymns unbidden. 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 40 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 
 In a palace-tower. 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 45 
 
186 SHELLE Y. 
 
 Like a glow-worm golden 
 
 In a dell of dew, 
 Scattering unbeholden 
 Its aerial hue 
 Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the 
 
 view : 50 
 
 Like a rose embowered 
 
 In its own green leaves, 
 By warm winds deflowered, 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged 
 
 thieves: 55 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 
 On the twinkling grass. 
 Rain-awakened flowers, 
 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 60 
 
 Teach us, sprite or bird, 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine : 
 I have never heard 
 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 65 
 
 Chorus Hymeneal, 
 
 Or triumphal chaunt, 
 -Matched with thine would be all 
 
 Rut an empty vaunt, 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 70 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain? 
 What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
 
 What shapes of sky or plain? 
 What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 75 
 
TO A SKYLARK. \Ki 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be : 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 
 Never came near thee : 
 Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 80 
 
 Waking or asleep, 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Things more true and deep 
 
 Than we mortals dream, 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 85 
 
 We look before and after. 
 
 And pine for what is not : 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught ; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 90 
 
 Yet if we could scorn 
 
 Hate, and pride, and fear; 
 If we were things born 
 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 95 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound, 
 Better than all treasures 
 
 That in books are found. 
 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 100 
 
 • 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 
 That thy brain must know, 
 Such harmonious madness 
 
 From my lips would flow, 
 The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 105 
 
188 SHELLE Y. 
 
 SONNET. — TO THE NILE. 
 
 Month after month the gathered rains descend 
 
 Drenching yon secret /Ethiopian dells, 
 
 And from the desert's ice-girt pinnacles 
 
 Where Frost and Heat in strange embraces blend 
 
 On Atlas, fields of moist snow half depend ; 
 
 Girt there with blasts and meteors Tempest dwells 
 
 By Nile's aerial urn, with rapid spells 
 
 Urging those waters to their mighty end. 
 
 O'er Egypt's land of Memory floods are level 
 
 And they are thine, O Nile — and well thou knowest 
 
 That soul-sustaining airs and blasts of evil 
 
 And fruits and poisons spring where'er thou flowest. 
 
 Beware, O Man — for knowledge must to thee 
 
 Like the great flood to Egypt, ever be. 
 
 SONNET. — OZYMANDl AS. 
 
 I MET a traveller from an antique land 
 Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
 Stand in the desert. Near them, on the .sand, 
 Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, 
 And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, 
 Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
 Which yet survive, .stamped on these lifeless things. 
 The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. 
 And on the pedestal these words appear : 
 "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 
 Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair ! " 
 Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
 Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare 
 The lone and level sands stretch far away. 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL 
 
 AT IXVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOXD. 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 
 And these grey rocks ; that household lawn ; 5 
 
 Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 
 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 
 A murmur near the silent lake ; 
 
 This little bay ; a quiet road 
 
 That holds in shelter thy Abode — 10 
 
 In truth together do ye seem 
 
 Like something fashioned in a dream : 
 
 Such Forms as from their covert peep 
 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 
 But, O fair Creature ! in the light 1 5 
 
 Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
 
 I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
 
 I bless thee with a human heart ; 
 
 God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
 
 Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers ; 20 
 
 And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 
 
 With earnest feeling I shall pray 
 For thee when I am far away : 
 For never saw I mien, or face, 
 In which more plainly I could trace 25 
 
 (189) 
 
190 WORDS JVOA' TH. 
 
 Benignity and home-bred sense 
 
 Ripening in perfect innocence. 
 
 Here scattered, like a random seed, 
 
 Remote from men, Thou dost not need 
 
 Tlie embarrassed look of shy distress, 30 
 
 And maidenly shamefacedness : 
 
 Thou wear"st upon thy forehead clear 
 
 The freedom of a Mountaineer : 
 
 A face with gladness overspread ! 
 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 35 
 
 And seemliness complete, that sways 
 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
 
 With no restraint, but such as springs 
 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 40 
 
 Of thy few words of English speech : 
 
 A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — 45 
 
 Tluis beating up against the wind. 
 
 What hand but would a garland cull 
 For thee who art so beautiful? 
 O happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 50 
 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
 A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 55 
 
 Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
 Some claim upon thee, if 1 could, 
 Though Ijut of common neighbourhood. 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
 Thy elder Brother I would be, 60 
 
 Thy Father — anything to thee ! 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 Hath led me to this lonely place. 
 Joy have I had ; and going lience 
 
TO A SKY-LARK. 191 
 
 I bear away my recompence. 65 
 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 
 Our Memory : feel that she hath eyes : 
 
 Then, why should I be loth to stir? 
 
 I feel this place was made for her ; 
 
 To give new pleasure like the past, 70 
 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 
 Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part : 
 
 For I, methinks, till I grow old, 
 
 As fair before me shall behold, 75 
 
 As I do now, the cabin small. 
 
 The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; 
 
 And Thee, the Spirit of them all ! 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 For thy song. Lark, is strong ; 
 Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 Singing, singing. 
 With clouds and sky about thee ringing. 
 
 Lift me, guide me till I tind 
 That spot which seems so to thy mind I 
 
 I have walked through wildernesses dreary 
 
 And to-day my heart is weary ; 
 
 Had I now the wings of a Faery, 
 
 Up to thee would I fly. 
 
 There is madness about thee, and joy divine 
 
 In that song of thine ; 
 
 Lift me, guide me high and high 
 
 To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 
 
 Joyous as morning 
 Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
 Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
 
192 IVONDS IVOR TH. 
 
 And, though Httle troubled with sloth. 
 
 Drunken Lark ! thou would'st be loth 20 
 
 To be such a traveller as I. 
 
 Happy, happy Liver, 
 
 With a soul as strong as a mountain river 
 
 Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 
 
 Joy and jollity be with us both ! ' 25 
 
 Alas I my journey, rugged and uneven. 
 
 Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind ; 
 
 But hearing thee, or others of thy kind. 
 
 As full of gladness and as free of heaven. 
 
 I, with mv fate contented, will plod on, 30 
 
 And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 O BLITHE New-comer I I have heard, 
 
 I hear thee and rejoice. 
 O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird. 
 
 Or but a wandering Voice? 
 
 While I am l\ing on the grass 5 
 
 Th\- twofold shout I hear. 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass. 
 
 At once far off. and near. 
 
 Though babbling only to the Vale, 
 
 Of sunshine and of flowers, lo 
 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 No bird, but an invisible thing, 15 
 
 A voice, a mystery; 
 
TINTERN ABBEY. 193 
 
 The same wliom in mv school -bo\' days 
 
 I listened to ; that Cry 
 Which made me look a thousand wavs 
 
 In bush, and tree, and skv. 20 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love : 
 
 Still longed for, never seen. 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet : 25 
 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessed Bird ! the eartii we pace 
 
 Again appears to be 30 
 
 An unsubstantial, faery place ; 
 
 That is fit home for Thee ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 COMPOSED X FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY. ON REVISITING 
 THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR. JULY I3. I 798. 
 
 FiV'E years have past ; five summers, with the length 
 
 Of five long winters I and again I hear 
 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 
 
 With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 
 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty clifis, 5 
 
 That on a wild secluded scene impress 
 
 Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 
 
 Tile landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 
 The day is come when I again repose 
 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view lo 
 
 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts. 
 
 Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. 
 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
 
194 WORDS IVOR TIL 
 
 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
 
 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge- rows, Httle lines 15 
 
 Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, 
 
 Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke 
 
 Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! 
 
 With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
 
 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 
 
 Or of some Hermifs cave, where by his fire 
 
 The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms. 
 
 Through a long absence, have not been to me 
 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 25 
 
 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them 
 
 In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
 
 Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
 
 And passing even into my purer mind. 
 
 With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 30 
 
 Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps. 
 
 As have no slight or trivial influence 
 
 On that best portion of a good man's life. 
 
 His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 35 
 
 To them I may have owed another gift, 
 
 Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood. 
 
 In which the burthen of the mystery, 
 
 In wliich the heavy and the weary weight 
 
 Of all this unintelligible world, 40 
 
 Is lightened : — that serene and biessed mood. 
 
 In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
 
 Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
 
 And even the motion of our human blood 
 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 45 
 
 In body, and become a living soul : 
 
 While with an eye made quiet by the DOwer 
 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
 
 We see into the life of things. If this 
 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 50 
 
 In darkness and amid the many shapes 
 
 Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 
 
TIN TERN ABBEY. 195 
 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
 
 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
 
 How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 55 
 
 sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thro' the woods. 
 How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
 
 And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, 
 
 With many recognitions dim and faint, 
 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60 
 
 The picture of the mind revives again : 
 
 While here I stand, not only with the sense 
 
 Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
 
 That in this moment there is life and food 
 
 For future years. And so I dare to hope, 65 
 
 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 
 
 1 came among these hills ; when like a roe 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams. 
 
 Wherever nature led : more like a man 70 
 
 Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then 
 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
 
 And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
 
 To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 75 
 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract 
 
 Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock. 
 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. 
 
 Their colours and their forms, were then to me 
 
 An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 80 
 
 That had no need of a remoter charm. 
 
 By thought supplied, nor any interest 
 
 Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, 
 
 And all its aching joys are now no more. 
 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 85 
 
 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts 
 
 Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe, 
 
 Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 
 
 Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 90 
 
 The still, sad music of humanity. 
 
If) 6 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 
 A presence that disturbs me witli the joy 
 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 95 
 
 Of something far more deeply interfused. 
 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 
 And the round ocean and the living air. 
 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 100 
 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought. 
 
 And rolls through all things. Therefore am 1 still 
 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods. 
 
 And mountains : and of all that we behold 
 
 From this green earth; of all the mighty world 105 
 
 Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create, 
 
 And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise 
 
 In nature and the language of the sense. 
 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul iio 
 
 Of all my moral being. Nor perchance. 
 
 If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
 
 Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
 
 For thou art with me here upon the banks 
 
 Of this fair river ; thou my dearest Friend, i i 5 
 
 My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice 1 catcli 
 
 The language of my former lieart, and read 
 
 My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
 
 Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
 
 May I behold in thee what I was once, 120 
 
 My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer 1 make, 
 
 Knowing that Nature never did betray 
 
 The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege. 
 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
 
 From joy to joy: for she can so inform 125 
 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. 
 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 130 
 
LA OD AMI A. 197 
 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
 Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
 Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk: 135 
 
 And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
 To l)low against thee : and, in after years. 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
 Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140 
 
 Th\- menior)- be as a dwelling-place 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh I then. 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 
 Should be th\- portion, with what healing thoughts 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 145 
 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance — 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 
 Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 150 
 
 We stood together; and that 1, so long 
 A worshipper of Nature, hither came 
 Unwearied in that service : rather say 
 With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper zeal 
 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 155 
 
 That after many wanderings, many years 
 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs. 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
 More dear, both for themselves and for thv sake ! 
 
 LAODAMIA. 
 
 "With sacrifice before the rising morn 
 
 Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired ; 
 
 And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn 
 
 Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required : 
 
 Celestial pity 1 again implore ; — 
 
 Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore!''' 
 
198 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
 
 With faitli, tiie Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands ; 
 
 While, like the sun emerging from a cloud. 
 
 Her countenance brightens — and her eye expands; lo 
 
 Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows : 
 
 And she expects the issue in repose. 
 
 terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O joy ! 
 What doth she look on ? — whom doth she behold ? 
 
 Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 15 
 
 His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 
 It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He! 
 And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 
 
 Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand 
 
 That calms all fear ; " Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, 20 
 
 Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 
 
 Thy husband walks the paths of upper air : 
 
 He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; 
 
 Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! " 
 
 Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp; 25 
 
 Again that consummation she essayed ; 
 
 But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 
 
 As often as that eager grasp was made. 
 
 The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite. 
 
 And re-assume his place before her sight. 30 
 
 '♦ Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone! 
 
 Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice : 
 
 This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne ; 
 
 Speak ; and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. 
 
 Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 35 
 
 This precious boon, and blest a sad abode." 
 
 "Great Jove, Laodamia! doth not leave 
 His gifts imperfect : — Spectre though I be, 
 
 1 am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
 
 But in reward of thy fidelity. 40 
 
 And something also did my worth obtain ; 
 For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 
 
LAODAMIA. 199 
 
 " Tliou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 
 
 That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand 
 
 Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold : 45 
 
 A generous cause a victim did demand ; 
 
 And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 
 
 A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 
 
 "Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, best! 
 
 Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 50 
 
 Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 
 
 By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 
 
 Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here tliou art — 
 
 A noisier counsellor than my poor heart. 
 
 " But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 55 
 
 Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 
 
 And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
 
 Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave : 
 
 Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
 
 As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 60 
 
 "No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this; 
 
 Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side ! 
 
 Give, on tliis well-known couch, one nuptial kiss 
 
 To me, this day, a second time thy bride!" 
 
 Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious Parcae threw 65 
 
 Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 
 
 "This visage tells thee that my doom is past: 
 
 Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys 
 
 Of sense were able to return as fast 
 
 And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 70 
 
 Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains : 
 
 Calm pleasure", there abide — majestic pains. 
 
 " Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control 
 
 Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 
 
 The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul; 75 
 
 A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
 
 Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 
 
 When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 
 
200 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "Ah, wherefore? — Did not Hercules by force 
 
 Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 80 
 
 Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 
 
 Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? 
 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 
 
 And ^son stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 
 
 "The Gods to us are merciful — and they 85 
 
 Yet further may relent : for mightier far 
 
 Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 
 
 Of magic potent over sun and star. 
 
 Is love, though oft to agony distrest. 
 
 And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast. 90 
 
 "But if thou goest, I follow — " "Peace!" he said, — 
 
 She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; 
 
 The ghastly colour from his lips had fled ; 
 
 In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 
 
 Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 95 
 
 Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 
 
 He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 
 
 In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 
 
 No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
 
 The past unsighed for, and the future sure; 1 00 
 
 Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
 
 Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 
 
 Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 
 
 In happier beauty; more pellucid streams. 
 
 An ampler ether, a diviner air, 105 
 
 And fields invested with purpureal gleams : 
 
 Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 
 
 Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 
 
 Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 
 
 That privilege by virtue. — "111," said he, iio 
 
 "The end of man's existence I discerned. 
 
 Who from ignoble games and revelry 
 
 Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight. 
 
 While tears were thy best pastime, day and night ; 
 
LA OD AMI A. ■ 201 
 
 "And while my youthful peers before my eyes 115 
 
 (Each Iiero following his peculiar bent) 
 
 Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
 
 By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent. 
 
 Chieftains and kings in council were detained ; 
 
 What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 120 
 
 "The wished-for wind was given: — I then revolved 
 
 The oracle, upon the silent sea; 
 
 And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
 
 That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
 
 The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 125 
 
 Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 
 
 "Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
 
 When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife I 
 
 On thee too fondly did my memory hang. 
 
 And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 1 30 
 
 The paths which we had trod — these fountains, flowers. 
 
 My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.- 
 
 " But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 
 
 ' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array. 
 
 Yet of their number no one dares to die ?' 135 
 
 In soul I swept the indignity away : 
 
 Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty thought, 
 
 In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 
 
 " And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 
 
 In reason, in self-government too slow: 140 
 
 I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
 
 Our blest re-union in the shades below. 
 
 The invisible world with thee hath sympathised ; 
 
 Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 
 
 "Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — 145 
 
 Seeking a higher object. Love was given, 
 
 Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 
 
 For this the passion to excess was driven — 
 
 That self might be annulled : her bondage prove 
 
 The fetters of a dream, opposed to love."' — 150 
 
202 • WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears ! 
 
 Round the dear Shade she would have clung — "tis vain : 
 
 The hours are past — too brief had they been years ; 
 
 And him no mortal effort can detain : 
 
 Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, 155 
 
 He through the portal takes his silent way. 
 
 And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she lay. 
 
 Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved. 
 
 She perished ; and, as for a wilful crime. 
 
 By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved, 160 
 
 Was doomed to wear out her appointed time. 
 
 Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers 
 
 Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 
 
 — Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 
 
 And mortal hopes defeated and overthrown 165 
 
 Are mourned by man, and not by man alone. 
 
 As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
 
 Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
 
 A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
 
 From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; 1 70 
 
 And ever, when such stature they had gained 
 
 That Ilium's walls were subject to their view. 
 
 The trees' tall summits withered at the sight ; 
 
 A constant interchanoje of growth and blight ! 
 
 ODE. 
 
 INTI.MATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 I. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light. 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 5 
 
ODE. 203 
 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day, 
 The thinsrs which I have seen I now can see no more. 
 
 The Rainbow comes and goes, lo 
 
 And lovely is the Rose, 
 The Moon dotli with deUght 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare, 
 Waters on a starry night 
 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 1 5 
 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go. 
 That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 
 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 
 
 And while the young lambs bound 20 
 
 As to the tabor's sound. 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief; 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 
 
 And I again am strong : 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 25 
 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
 I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
 The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 
 Land and sea 30 
 
 Give themselves up to jollily. 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every Beast keep holiday : — 
 Thou Child of Joy, 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 35 
 Shepherd-boy ! 
 
204 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugli with you in your jubilee ; 
 
 My heart is at your festival, 40 
 
 My head hath its coronal, 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
 
 Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
 
 While Earth herself is adorning, 
 
 This sweet May-morning, 45 
 
 And the Children are culling 
 On every side. 
 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
 
 Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm. 
 And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm: — 50 
 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
 
 — But there's a Tree, of many one, 
 A single Field which I have looked upon. 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
 
 The Pansy at my feet 55 
 
 Doth the same tale repeat : 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
 Where is it now, the glorv and the dream? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 60 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 And Cometh from afar : 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulness. 
 
 And not in utter nakedness. 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 65 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Sliades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 70 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 
ODE. 205 
 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
 
 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 
 And by the vision splendid 
 
 Is on his way attended; 75 
 
 At length the Man perceives it die away. 
 And fade into the lisfht of common dav. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 
 And, even with something of a Mother's mind. So 
 
 And no unworth}' aim. 
 
 The homely Nurse doth all she can 
 To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known. 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 85 
 
 Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
 
 A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. 
 
 Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses. 
 
 With light upon him from his Father's eyes ! 90 
 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life. 
 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art : 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral : 
 
 And this hath now his heart. 
 
 And unto this he frames his song : 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside. 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little Actor cons another part ; 
 Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" 
 With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
 
 95 
 
206 WORDS IVOR TH. 
 
 That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 
 As if his whole vocation 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy Soul's immensity; no 
 
 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind. 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 
 
 Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 115 
 
 On whom those truths do rest. 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
 Tliou, over whom thy Immortality 
 
 Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 120 
 
 A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 125 
 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon tliee with a weight, 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 O joy I that in our embers 13° 
 
 Is something that doth live, 
 
 That nature yet remembers 
 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 
 Perpetual benediction: not indeed 135 
 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest — 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : — 
 
 Not for these I raise 140 
 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 
ODE. 207 
 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 
 Blank misgivings of a Creature 145 
 
 Moving about in worlds not realised, 
 High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 
 But for those first affections, 
 
 Those shadowy recollections, 150 
 
 Which, be they what they may. 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day, ' 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 155 
 
 Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake. 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 
 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 160 
 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 Hence in a season of calm weather 
 Though inland far we be. 
 Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 
 Which brought us hither, 165 
 
 Can in a moment travel thither, 
 And see the Children sport upon the shore. 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 
 And let the young Lambs bound 170 
 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 We in thought will join your throng. 
 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 
 Feel the gladness of the May! 175 
 
 What though the radiance which was once so bright 
 Be now for ever taken from my sight. 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 
208 WORDS IVOR TH. 
 
 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 
 
 We will grieve not, rather find i8o 
 
 Strength in what remains behind ; 
 
 In the primal sympathy 
 
 Which having been must ever be ; 
 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 
 Out of human suffering; 185 
 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
 
 Forebode not any severing of our loves I 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 1 90 
 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 
 I love the Brooks which down their channels fret. 
 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 195 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 
 The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
 Another race hath been, and otiier palms are won. 200 
 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 
 O Duty ! if that name thou love 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 To check the erring, and reprove ; 
 Thou, who art victory and law 
 When empty terrors overawe ; 
 
ODE TO DUTY. 209 
 
 From vain temptations dost set free : 
 
 And calm'st tlie weary strife of frail humanity ! 
 
 There are who ask not if tliine eye 
 
 Be on them; who, in love and truth, lo 
 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot 
 Who do thy work, and know it not : 
 
 Oh ! if through confidence misplaced i 5 
 
 They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around 
 them cast. 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright. 
 
 And happy will our nature be. 
 
 When love is an unerring light. 
 
 And joy its own security. 20 
 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 
 Even now, who, not unwisely bold. 
 
 Live in the spirit of tliis creed ; 
 
 Yet seek thy firm support, according tu their need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried; 25 
 
 No sport of every random gust. 
 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 
 Too blindly have reposed my tnist : 
 
 And oft, when in my heart was heard 
 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 30 
 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
 
 But thee I now would serve more stricth'. if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul, 
 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 I supplicate for thy control ; 35 
 
 But in the quietness of thought : 
 
 Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 
 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires : 
 
 My hopes no more must change their name, 
 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same. 40 
 
210 WORDS IVOR TIL 
 
 Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 45 
 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
 And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh 
 and strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power! 50 
 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
 
 Oh, let my weakness have an end I 
 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
 
 The spirit of self-sacritice ; 5 5 
 
 The confidence of reason give ; 
 
 And in the light of truth thv Bondman let me live ! 
 
 SONNET. — TO MILTON. 
 
 Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour : 
 England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen. 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
 Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
 In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
MACAULAY. 
 
 HORATIUS. 
 
 A LAY MADE ABOUT THP: YEAR OE THE CITY CCCLX. 
 
 Lars Porsena of Clusium 
 
 By the Nine Gods he swore 
 That the great house of Tarquin 
 
 Should suffer wrong no more. 
 By the Nine Gods he swore it, 
 
 And named a trysting day, 
 And bade his messengers ride forth. 
 East and west and south and north, 
 
 To summon his array. 
 
 East and west and south and north lo 
 
 The messengers ride fast. 
 And tower and town and cottage 
 
 Have heard the trumpet's blast. 
 Shame on the false Etruscan 
 
 Who lingers in his home, 15 
 
 When Porsena of Clusium 
 
 Is on the march for Rome. 
 
 III. 
 
 The horsemen and the footmen 
 
 Are pouring in amain 
 From many a stately market-place ; 20 
 
 From many a fruitful plain ; 
 
 (211) 
 
212 MA CAUL AY. 
 
 From many a lonely hamlet. 
 
 Which, hid by beech and pine, 
 Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest 
 
 Of purple Apennine ; 25 
 
 IV. 
 From lordly VolaterrjE, 
 
 Where scowls the far-famed hold 
 Piled by the hands of giants 
 
 For godlike kings of old ; 
 From seagirt Populonia, 30 
 
 Whose sentinels descry 
 Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops 
 
 Fringing the southern sky ; 
 
 V. 
 
 From the proud mart of Piss, 
 
 Queen of the western waves, 35 
 
 Where ride Massilia's triremes 
 
 Heavy with fair-haired slaves ; 
 From where sweet Clanis wanders 
 
 Through corn and vines and flowers ; 
 From where Cortona lifts to heaven 40 
 
 Her diadem of towers. 
 
 Tall, are the oaks whose acorns 
 
 Drop in dark Auser's rill ; 
 Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 
 
 Of the Ciminian hill ; 45 
 
 Beyond all streams Clitumnus 
 
 Is to the herdsman dear ; 
 Best of all pools the fowler loves 
 
 The great Volsinian mere. 
 
 VII. 
 But now no stroke of woodman 50 
 
 Is heard by Auser's rill ; 
 No hunter tracks the stag's green path 
 
 Up the Ciminian hill ; 
 
HORATIUS. 213 
 
 Unwatched along Clitumnus 
 
 Grazes the milk-white steer; 55 
 
 Unharmed the water fowl may dip 
 
 In the Volsinian mere. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The harvests of Arretium, 
 
 This year, old men shall reap. 
 This year, young boys in Umbro 60 
 
 Shall plunge the struggling sheep ; 
 And in the vats of Luna, 
 
 This year, the must shall foam 
 Round the white feet of laughing girls 
 
 Whose sires have marched to Rome. 65 
 
 IX. 
 
 There be thirty chosen prophets. 
 
 The wisest of the land. 
 Who always by Lars Porsena 
 
 Both morn and evening stand : 
 Evening and morn the Thirty "jo 
 
 Have turned the verses o"er, 
 Traced from the right on linen white 
 
 By mighty seers of yore. 
 
 X. 
 
 And with one voice the Thirty 
 
 Have their glad answer given : 75 
 
 ' Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena ; 
 
 Go forth, beloved of Heaven ; 
 Go, and return in glory 
 
 To Clusium's royal dome ; 
 And hang round Nurscia's altars 80 
 
 The golden shields of Rome.' 
 
 XI. 
 
 And now hath every city 
 
 Sent up her tale of men ; 
 The foot are fourscore thousand, 
 
 The horse are thousands ten : 8 ; 
 
214 MA CAUL A V. 
 
 Before the gates of Sutrium 
 
 Is met the great array. 
 A proud man was Lars Porsena 
 
 Upon the trysting day. 
 
 XII. 
 
 For all the Etruscan armies 90 
 
 Were ranged beneath his eye, 
 And many a banished Roman, 
 
 And many a stout ally ; 
 And with a mighty following 
 
 To join the muster came 95 
 
 The Tusculan Mamihus, 
 
 Prince of the Latian name. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But by the yellow Tiber 
 
 Was tumult and affright : 
 From all the spacious champaign 100 
 
 To Rome men took their flight. 
 A mile around the city, 
 
 The throng stopped up the ways : 
 A fearful sight it was to see 
 
 Through two long nights and days. 105 
 
 XIV. 
 
 For agdd folks on crutches, 
 
 And women great with child, 
 And mothers sobbing over babes 
 
 That clung to them and smiled, 
 And sick men borne in litters no 
 
 High on the necks of slaves. 
 And troops of sun-burned husbandmen 
 
 With reaping-hooks and staves, 
 
 XV. 
 
 And droves of mules and asses 
 
 Laden with skins of wine, 115 
 
 And endless flocks of goats and sheep. 
 
 And endless herds of kine. 
 
HOKATIUS. 215 
 
 And endless trains of waggons 
 
 That creaked beneath the weight 
 Of corn-sacks and of household goods, 120 
 
 Choked every roaring gate. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 
 
 Could the wan burghers spy 
 The line of blazing villages 
 
 Red in the midnight sky. 125 
 
 The Fathers of the City, 
 
 They sat all night and day. 
 For every hour some horseman came 
 
 With tidings of dismay. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 To eastward and to westward 130 
 
 Have spread the Tuscan bands ; 
 Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote 
 
 In Crustumerium stands. 
 Verbenna down to Ostia 
 
 Hath wasted all the plain; 135 
 
 Astur hath stormed Janiculum, 
 
 And the stout guards are slain. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 I wis, in all the Senate, 
 
 There was no heart so bold. 
 But sore it ached and fast it beat, 140 
 
 When that ill news was told. 
 Forthwith up rose the Consul, 
 
 Up rose the Fathers all ; 
 In haste they girded up their gowns. 
 
 And hied them to the wall. 145 
 
 XIX. 
 
 They held a council standing 
 
 Before the River-Gate ; 
 Short time was there, ye well may guess, 
 
 For musing- or debate. 
 
21(; MACAUL.-IY. 
 
 Out spake the Consul roundly : 
 
 ■ The bridge must straight go down : 
 
 For, since Janiculum is lost, 
 
 Naught else can save the town.' 
 
 Just then a scout came tiying, 
 
 All wild with haste and fear; 155 
 
 • To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul : 
 
 Lars Porsena is here." 
 On the low hills to westward 
 
 The Consul fixed his eye, 
 And saw the swarthy storm of dust 160 
 
 Rise fast along the skv. 
 
 And nearer fast and nearer 
 
 Doth the red whirlwind come ; 
 And louder still and still more loud, 
 From underneath that rolling cloud, 165 
 
 Is heard the trumpefs war-note proud. 
 
 The trampling, and the hum. 
 And plainly and more plainly 
 
 Now through the gloom appears. 
 Far to left and far to right, 170 
 
 In broken gleams of dark-blue light. 
 The long array of helmets bright. 
 
 The long array of spears. 
 
 And plainly and more plainly, 
 
 Above that glimmering line, 1 75 
 
 Now might ye see the banners. 
 
 Of twelve fair cities shine ; 
 But the banner of proud Clusium 
 
 Was highest of them all, 
 The terror of the Umbrian, 180 
 
 The terror of the Gaul. 
 
HORATIUS. 217 
 
 And plainly and more plainly 
 
 Now might the burghers know, 
 By port and vest, by horse and crest. 
 
 Each warlike Lucumo. 185 
 
 Tliere Cilnius of Arretium 
 
 On his fleet roan was seen ; 
 And Astur of the fourfold shield, 
 Girt with the brand none else may wield, 
 Tolumnius with the belt of gold, 
 And dark Verbenna from the hold 1 90 
 
 By reed}' Thrasymene. 
 
 Fast by the royal standard, 
 
 O'erlooking all the war, 
 Lars Porsena of Clusium 195 
 
 Sat in his ivory car. 
 By the right wheel rode Mamilius 
 
 Prince of the Latian name ; 
 And by the left, false Sextus, 
 
 That wrouijht the deed of shame. 200 
 
 But when the face of Sextus 
 
 Was seen among the foes, 
 A yell that rent the firmament 
 
 From all the town arose. 
 On the house-tops was no woman 205 
 
 But spat towards him and hissed, 
 No child but screamed out curses, 
 
 And shook its little fist. 
 
 But the ConsuPs brow was sad, 
 And the ConsuPs speech was low, 
 
 And darkly looked he at the wall. 
 And darklv at the foe. 
 
•JlH 
 
 A/.ic.iu/..ty. 
 
 ' 'I'licir van will he ii{ii)ii iis 
 
 llrli.ic tlir l)ii(l;'r ;m.c'. (Iiiwii : 
 
 And il t lii\ I MK I in,i \ win I In- In iilf^i', 
 VVll.ll luilic 111 .JVC (III' IdWIl!'' 
 
 211; 
 
 \ \ \' 1 1 , 
 'I'licn (Mil '.ii.il.r In.iM- I liii.ilinN, 
 'I'lic ( '.i|>l.iin III IJM' < ..ill' 
 
 ■ 'I'l I rv rl \ III. I II U| II III I III. I .11 I II 
 I )<',llll I iiliirlll Minn Ml l.ili . 
 
 ,'\nil ill i\v ( .III ill. in ili.' I III III 
 Til. Ill I. II ill!; Ir.ii hi! iiilds, 
 
 I'ul llir .l.lli", III hi:. l.llhrlS. 
 .\nil Ihr Inniili". ul hi'. ( iiids, 
 
 2 20 
 
 .\ X V 1 1 1 . 
 
 ' .And liii Ihr li-ndri inulhri 
 Willi d.indli'd hini In ii".l, 
 \iid (ill ihi- wilr ulin nurses 
 
 .III. Ii.ili\ .Il hii liir.r.l, 
 .\iiil liii ihr liiil\ iii.iidins 
 
 Willi Irrd Ihr rli'lll.ll li.linc. 
 'I'd ■..l\r lliilil lliilll l.lh.r ,'>i-xlll', 
 
 'I'h.il WMiiiidil Ihr dri-d III ■.h.iinc? 
 
 ^.v 
 
 ' I Irw diiu n Ihr In idl'r, S\\ ( iili'.ul, 
 
 Willi .ill Ihr :.|)ri'd \i' may; 
 
 I. wilh Iwu lliiilr 111 hrl|i nil', 
 Will hiild Ihr liir in |i|.l\. 
 
 In v'()n '.li.iil I'.ilh .1 I hull. .111(1 
 
 iVIaV well lir '.liililird li\ lIllCC. 
 
 Now wild will '.l.ind nil rilhrl ll.llld. 
 
 /\iul Ivt'i'p Ihr liiidrr wilh liic:'' 
 
 •^^S 
 
 'I'hi'ii mil '.|i.iL' .S|iiii ni:> I ..n I iu.H ; 
 
 ,\ K.iiiini.iii 1 11 1 mil w .1'. Iir : 
 •In. I will .l.iiid .il lli\ ii:dil h.iiid. 
 
 .Allil krc|i Ihr |ili(l!;r wilh llicc' 
 
/\ii(l mil '.{i.il'.i' '.liiiii!', I lri niiiiiii'. ; 
 ( >l I III. Ill M I U.I'. Ill 
 
 ■ I \\\\\ .ihhlc Oh lliv l< II M<l<', 
 
 .\imI hep 111, l.iMh'c uilli Ihri',' 
 
 21!) 
 
 ■ I ll ll.ll III'.,' Illllll ll I III' < I III. Ill, 
 
 • ,''\'. Illllll '..i\i' .1, ',11 ll I ll 1)1-.' .ii;f, 
 
 .\iiil '.li.ii!'lil .iv.ini'.l lli.il ;',ii'.il .in.iy 
 
 I'lillll Ui'lll llii il.iiililli ','. Ililrc. 
 I' I ll ki Mil. Ill', in l'!i Hill' '. I |ii.ii ll I 
 
 Sp.inil III illii I I.iihI mil "ulil, 
 .Niii Mill mil will', mil Illllll mil lilr, .>i;i; 
 
 III lll<- 1)1. IV<' (l.iv:. Ill old 
 
 VXXII. 
 
 Till II Illllll' w.r. Iiii .( |i.ii I \ ; 
 
 I hill .ill ui'ii' loi llii' '.l.ilc ; 
 'I'lirll I III' ;',li'.ll III. Ill lii'l|ii'il I III' {lool , 
 
 Ami llii' |iooi III. Ill lo\i'il llii' j'ic.il : .'.()0 
 
 '! lull l.iml', unr l.iii l\ |ioi I mm ll ; 
 
 Till II '.iioii:-! wiTi' l.iiil\ Milil 
 ■| III Illllll, HIS well' lil-.r lilollici;, 
 
 III III! hl.ivi' ll.lV. Ill ol'l. 
 
 .\ ,\ .\ 1 1 1 , 
 
 Now Inoiii.iii i , III l-!oiii.iii i.()<^ 
 
 iMon ll. Ill Jul III. Ill .1 lor, 
 Ami 111. illlilim'. Iir.iiil llir lli;i;ll, 
 
 Ami llii I'.iIIhi'. j'liml llic low. 
 Af'i wi' w.i.x liol ill I.H I ion, 
 
 In li.illli- wr w.i.\ ( olil : .v/'i 
 
 WIn'U'loii' iiii'ii li).',lil mil .I', llicy li)n;.',lil 
 
 III llii' liMVr (l.iy'1 (ll olil. 
 
 ,\ .S X I V . 
 Now wllili- lllf 'I'llJii- Will li;4li(c|llll^ 
 
 'I'lirir li:iiiii'.ss on iIh ii ImcUh, 
 'I'll!' < oirviil vv;i', till' loii'imcil iikiii }."] z^ 
 
 To l:il'.i' in li.iml .III .i.<<i' 
 
220 MACAULAY. 
 
 And Fathers, mixed with Commons, 
 
 Seized hatchet, bar, and crow. 
 And smote upon the planks above, 
 
 And loosed the props below. ■ 280 
 
 Meanwhile the Tuscan army. 
 
 Right glorious to behold, 
 Came flashing back the noonday light. 
 Rank behind rank, like surges bright 
 
 Of a broad sea of gold. 285 
 
 Four hundred trumpets sounded 
 
 A peal of warlike glee, 
 As that great host, with measured tread, 
 And spears advanced, and ensigns spread. 
 Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, 290 
 
 Where stood the dauntless Three. 
 
 The Three stood calm and silent, 
 
 And looked upon the foes, 
 And a great shout of laughter 
 
 From all the vanguard rose : 295 
 
 And forth three chiefs came spurring 
 
 Before that deep array ; 
 To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, 
 
 And lifted high their shields, and flew 
 To win the narrow way ; 300 
 
 Annus from green Tifernum 
 
 Lord of the Hill of Vines ; 
 And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 
 
 Sicken in Ilva''s mines ; 
 And Picus, long to Clusium 305 
 
 \'assal in peace and war, 
 
HO RATI us. 221 
 
 Who led to fight his Umbrian powers 
 
 From that grey crag where, girt with towers, 
 
 The fortress of Nequinum lowers 
 
 O'er the pale waves of Nar. 3 1 o 
 
 Stout Lartius hurled down Annus 
 
 Into the stream beneath : 
 Herminius struck at Seius, 
 
 And clove him to the teeth : 
 At Pious brave Horatius 315 
 
 Darted one fiery thrust ; 
 And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 
 
 Clashed in the bloody dust. 
 
 Then Ocnus of Falerii 
 
 Rushed on the Roman Three ; 320 
 
 And Lausulus of Urgo 
 
 The rover of the sea ; 
 And Aruns of Volsinium, 
 
 Who slew the great wild boar. 
 The great wild boar that had his den 325 
 
 Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, 
 And wasted fields, and slaughtered men. 
 
 Along Albinia's shore. 
 
 Herminius smote down Aruns : 
 
 Lartius laid Ocnus low : 330 
 
 Right to the heart of Lausulus 
 
 Horatius sent a blow. 
 ' Lie there,' he cried, ' fell pirate ! 
 
 No more, aghast and pale, 
 From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 335 
 
 The track of thy destroying bark. 
 No more Campania's hinds shall fly 
 To woods and caverns wlien they spy 
 
 Thv thrice-accursed sail.' 
 
222 MACAULAY. 
 
 But now no sound of laughter 340 
 
 Was heard among the foes, 
 A wild and wrathful clamour 
 
 From all the vanguard rose. 
 Six spears' lengths from the entrance 
 
 Halted that deep array, 345 
 
 And for a space no man came forth 
 
 To win the narrow way. 
 
 But hark ! the cry is Astur : 
 
 And lo ! the ranks divide ; 
 And the great Lord of Luna 350 
 
 Comes with his stately stride. 
 Upon his ample shoulders 
 
 Clangs loud the fourfold shield. 
 And in his hand he shakes the brand 
 
 Which none but he can wield. 355 
 
 He smiled on those bold Romans 
 
 A smile serene and high ; 
 He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 
 
 And scorn was in his eye. 
 Quoth he, ' The she-wolf's litter 360 
 
 Stand savagely at bay : 
 But will ye dare to follow. 
 
 If Astur clears the wav?' 
 
 Then, whirling up his broadsword 
 
 With both hands to the height, 365 
 
 He rushed against Horatius, 
 
 And smote with all his might. 
 With shield and blade Horatius 
 
 Right deftly turned the blow. 
 
HORA TIUS. V23 
 
 The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; 370 
 It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh : 
 The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 
 To see the red blood flow. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 He reeled, and on Herminius 
 
 He leaned one breathing-space; 375 
 
 Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds. 
 
 Sprang right at Astur's face ; 
 Through teeth, and skull, and lielmet 
 
 So fierce a thrust he sped. 
 The good sword stood a hand-breadtli c)ut 380 
 
 Behind the Tuscan's head. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 And the great Lord of Luna 
 
 Fell at that deadly stroke. 
 As falls on Mount Alvernus 
 
 A thunder-smitten oak. 385 
 
 Far o'er the crashing forest 
 
 The giant arms lie spread ; 
 And the pale augurs, muttering low. 
 
 Gaze on the blasted head. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 On Astur's throat Horatius 390 
 
 Right firmly pressed his heel. 
 And thrice and four times tugged amain. 
 
 Ere he wrenched out the steel. 
 ■ And see,' he cried, ' the welcome. 
 
 Fair guests, that waits you here ! 395 
 
 What noble Lucumo comes next 
 
 To taste our Roman cheer?' 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 But at his haughty challenge 
 
 A sullen murmur ran, 
 Mingled of wrath and shame and dread, 400 
 
 Alons: that glittering van. 
 
224 MACAULAY. 
 
 There lacked not men of prowess, 
 
 Nor men of lordly race ; 
 For all Etruria's noblest 
 
 Were round the fatal place. 405 
 
 But all Etruria's noblest 
 
 Felt their hearts sink to see 
 On the earth the bloody corpses, 
 
 In the path the dauntless Three : 
 And, from the ghastly entrance 410 
 
 Where those bold Romans stood. 
 All shrank, like boys who unaware, 
 Ranging the woods to start a hare. 
 Come to the mouth of the dark lair 
 Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 415 
 
 Lies amidst bones and blood. 
 
 Was none who would be foremost 
 
 To lead such dire attack : 
 But those behind cried ' Forward I ' 
 
 And those before cried ' Back I ' 420 
 
 And backward now and forward 
 
 Wavers the deep array ; 
 And on the tossing sea of steel, 
 
 To and fro the standards reel ; 
 And the victorious trumpet-peal 425 
 
 Dies fitfuHv awav. 
 
 Yet one man for one moment 
 
 Stood out before the crowd ; 
 Well known was he to all the Three, 
 
 And they gave him greeting loud : 430 
 
 ' Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 
 
 Now welcome to thy home ! 
 Why dost thou stay, and turn away? 
 
 Here lies the road to Rome.' 
 
MORA TIUS. 225 
 
 Thrice looked he at the city; 435 
 
 Thrice looked he at tlie dead ; 
 And thrice came on in fury. 
 
 And thrice turned back in dread : 
 And, white with fear and hatred, 
 
 Scowled at the narrow way, 440 
 
 Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 
 
 The bravest Tuscans lay. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 But meanwhile axe and lever 
 
 Have manfully been plied ; 
 And now the bridge hangs tottering 445 
 
 Above the boiling tide. 
 ' Come back, come back, Horatius ! ' 
 
 Loud cried the Fathers all ; 
 ' Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! 
 
 Back, ere the ruin fall ! ' 450 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Back darted Spurius Lartius ; 
 
 Herminius darted back : 
 And, as they passed, beneath their feet 
 
 They felt the timbers crack. 
 But when they turned their faces, 455 
 
 And on the farther shore 
 Saw brave Horatius stand alone. 
 
 They would have crossed once more. 
 
 LV. 
 
 But with a crash like thunder 
 
 Fell every loosened beam, 460 
 
 And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 
 
 Lay right athwart the stream. 
 And a long shout of triumph 
 
 Rose from the walls of Rome, 
 As to the highest turret-tops 465 
 
 Was splashed the yellow foam. 
 
226 MACAULAY. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 And, like a horse unbroken 
 
 When first he feels the rein, 
 The furious river struggled hard, 
 
 And tossed his tawny mane, 470 
 
 And burst the curb, and bounded, 
 
 Rejoicing to be free. 
 And whirling down, in fierce career, 
 Battlement, and plank, and pier, 
 
 Rushed headlong to the sea. 475 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Alone stood brave Horatius, 
 
 But constant still in mind ; 
 Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 
 
 And the broad flood behind. 
 ♦ Down with him I ' cried false Sextus, 480 
 
 With a smile on his pale face. 
 ' Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, 
 ■ ' Now yield thee to our grace.' 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Round turned he, as not deigning 
 
 Those craven ranks to see ; 485 
 
 Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 
 
 To Sextus naught spake he ; 
 But he saw on Palatinus 
 
 The white porch of his home ; 
 And he spake to the noble river 490 
 
 That rolls by the towers of Rome : 
 
 LIX. 
 
 ♦Oh, Tiber! father Tiber! 
 
 To whom the Romans pray, 
 A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, 
 
 Take thou in charge this day ! ' 495 
 
 So he spake, and speaking sheathea 
 
 The good sword by his side, 
 And with his harness on his back, 
 
 Plunged headlong in the tide. 
 
HORA TIUS. 227 
 
 No sound of joy or sorrow 500 
 
 Was heard from either bank ; 
 But friends and foes in dumb surprise. 
 With parted lips and straining eyes, 
 
 Stood gazing where he sank ; 
 And when above the surges 505 
 
 They saw his crest appear, 
 All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
 And even the ranks of Tuscany 
 
 Could scarce forbear to cheer. 
 
 But fiercely ran the current, 5 i o 
 
 Swollen high by months of rain : 
 And fast his blood was flowing ; 
 
 And he was sore in pain. 
 And heavy with his armour. 
 
 And spent with changing blows : 515 
 
 And oft they thought him sinking, 
 
 But still airain he rose. 
 
 Never, I ween, did swimmer, 
 
 In such an evil case. 
 Struggle through such a raging flood 520 
 
 Safe to the landing place : 
 But his limbs were borne up bravely 
 
 By the brave heart within, 
 And our good father Tiber 
 
 Bare bravely up his chin. 525 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Curse on him I' quoth false Sextus : 
 
 ' Will not the villain drown ? 
 But for this stay, ere close of day 
 We should have sacked the town ! ^ 
 
228 MACAU LAY. 
 
 ' Heaven help him I ' quoth Lars Porsena, 530 
 ' And bring him safe to shore ; 
 For such a gallant feat of arms 
 Was never seen before.' 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 And now he feels the l)ottom ; 
 
 Now on dry earth he stands; 535 
 
 Now round liim throng the Fathers 
 
 To press his gory hands ; 
 And now, with shouts and clapping, 
 
 And noise of weeping loud. 
 He enters through the River-Gate, 540 
 
 Borne by the joyous crowd. 
 
 L.W. 
 
 They gave him of the corn-land, 
 
 That was of public right, 
 As much as two strong oxen 
 
 Could plough from morn till nigiit : 545 
 
 And they made a molten image. 
 
 And set it up on high. 
 And there it stands unto this day 
 
 To witness if 1 lie. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 It stands in the Comitium, 550 
 
 Plain for all folk to see ; 
 Horatius in his harness, 
 
 Halting upon one knee : 
 And underneath is written, 
 
 In letters all of gold, 555 
 
 How valiantly he kept the bridge 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 And still his name sounds stirring 
 
 Unto the men of Rome, 
 As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 560 
 
 To charge the Volscian home ; 
 
HO RATI us. 229 
 
 And wives still pray to Juno 
 
 For boys with hearts as bold 
 As his who kept the bridge so well 
 
 In the brave days of old. 565 
 
 And in the nights of winter, 
 
 When the cold north winds blow, 
 And the long howling of the wolves 
 
 Is heard amidst the snow ; 
 When round the lonely cottage 570 
 
 Roars loud the tempest's din, 
 And the good logs of Algidus 
 
 Roar louder yet within ; 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 When the oldest cask is opened, 
 
 And the largest lamp is lit; 575 
 
 When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 
 
 And the kid turns on the spit ; 
 When young and old in circle 
 
 Around the firebrands close ; 
 When the girls are weaving baskets, 580 
 
 And the lads are shaping bows ; 
 
 When the goodman mends his armour, 
 
 And trims his helmet's plume ; 
 When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 
 
 Goes flashing through the loom; 585 
 
 With weeping and with laughter 
 
 Still is the story told. 
 How well Horatius kept the bridge 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 QUA CURSUM VENTUS. 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that la\- 
 With canvas drooping, side by side. 
 
 Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
 
 Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 
 
 Wlien fell the night, upsprung the l^reeze, 
 And all the darkling hours they plied, 
 
 Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
 By each was cleaving, side by side. 
 
 E'en so — liut why the tale reveal 
 
 Of those, whom year by year unchanged, 
 
 Brief absence joined anew to feel. 
 
 Astounded, soul from soul estranged? 
 
 At dead of night their sails were filled. 
 And onward each rejoicing steered — 
 
 Ah, neither blame, for neither willed. 
 Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ' 
 
 To veer, how vain! On, onward strain. 
 Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too. 
 
 Through winds and tides one compass guides — 
 To that, and your own selves, be true. 
 
 But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas. 
 Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 
 
 On your wide plain they join again. 
 Together lead them home at last. 
 
 (230) 
 
MAR I MAG NO, OR TALES ON BOARD. 231 
 
 One port, methought, alike they sought, 25 
 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 
 O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 
 
 At last, at last, unite them there ! 
 
 MARI MAGNO, OR TALES ON BOARD. 
 
 [PROLOGUE.] 
 
 A YOUTH was I. An elder friend with me, 
 'Twas in September o'er the autumnal sea 
 We went ; the wide Atlantic ocean o'er 
 Two amongst many the strong steamer bore. 
 
 Delight it was to feel that wondrous force 5 
 
 That held us steady to our purposed course, 
 The burning resolute victorious will 
 'Gainst winds and waves that strive unwavering still. 
 Delight it was with each returning day 
 
 To learn the ship had won upon her way 10 
 
 Her sum of miles, — delight were mornings grey 
 And gorgeous eves, — nor was it less delight, 
 On each more temperate and favouring night. 
 Friend with familiar or with new-found friend. 
 To pace the deck, and o'er the bulwarks bend, 15 
 
 And the night watches in long converse spend ; 
 While still new subjects and new thoughts arise 
 Amidst the silence of the seas and skies. 
 
 Amongst the mingled multitude a few. 
 Some three or four, towards us early drew ; 20 
 
 We proved each other with a day or two ; 
 Night after night some three or four we walked. 
 And talked, and talked, and infinitely talked. 
 
 Of the New England ancient blood was one ; 
 His youthful spurs in letters he had won, 25 
 
 Unspoilt by that, to Europe late had come, — 
 Hope long deferred, — and went unspoilt by Europe home. 
 What racy tales of Yankeeland he had ! 
 Up-country girl, up-country farmer lad ; 
 
 The regnant clergy of the time of old 30 
 
 In wig and gown; — tales not to be retold 
 
232 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 By me. I could but spoil were I to tell : 
 Himself must do it who can do it well. 
 
 An English clergyman came spick and span 
 In black and white — a large well-favored man, 35 
 
 Fifty years old, as near as one could guess. 
 He looked the dignitary more or less. 
 A rural dean, I said, he was, at least, 
 Canon perhaps ; at many a good man's feast 
 A guest had been, among the choicest there. 40 
 
 Manly his voice and manly was his air : 
 At the first sight you felt lie had not known 
 The things pertaining to his cloth alone. 
 Chairman of Quarter Sessions had lie l^een ? 
 Serious and calm, 'twas plain he much liad seen, 45 
 
 Had miscellaneous large e.xperience had 
 Of human acts, good, half and half, and Ijatl. 
 Serious and calm, yet lurked, I know not wh\-. 
 At times, a softness in his voice and eye. 
 
 Some shade of ill a prosperous life had crossed ; 50 
 
 Married no doubt : a wife or child had lost ? 
 He never told us why he passed tlie sea. 
 
 My guardian friend was now at thirty-three, 
 A rising lawyer — ever, at the best, 
 
 Slow rises wortli in lawyer's gown compressed; 55 
 
 Succeeding now, yet just, and only just. 
 His new success he never seemed to trust. 
 Hy nature he to gentlest thoughts inclined, 
 To most severe had disciplined his mind ; 
 
 He held it duty to be half unkind. 60 
 
 Bitter, they .said, who but the e.xterior knew ; 
 In friendship never was a friend so true: 
 The unwelcome fact he did not shrink to tell. 
 The good, if fact, he recognized as well. 
 
 Stout to maintain, if not the first to see ; 65 
 
 In conversation who so great as he? 
 Leading but seldom, always sure to guide ; 
 To false or silly, if 'twas borne aside. 
 His quick correction silent he expressed. 
 And stopped you short, and forced you to your best. 70 
 
MAKI MAGXO, OK TALES ON BOARD. 233 
 
 Often, I think, he suffered from some pain 
 
 Of mind, that on the body worked again ; 
 
 One felt it in his sort of half-disdain. 
 
 Impatient not, but acrid in his speech ; 
 
 The world with him her lesson failed to teach 75 
 
 To take things easily and let them go. 
 
 He, for what special fitness I scarce know, 
 f'or which good quality, or if for all, 
 With less of reservation and recall 
 
 And speedier favor than I e'er had seen, 80 
 
 Took as we called him, to the rural dean. 
 As grew the gourd, as grew the stalk of bean. 
 So swift it seemed, betwixt these differing two 
 A stately trunk of confidence up-grew. 
 
 Of marriage long one night they held discourse 85 
 
 Regarding it in different ways, of course. 
 Marriage is discipline, the wise had said, 
 A needful human discipline to wed ; 
 Novels of course depict it final bliss, — 
 Say, had it ever really once been this? go 
 
 Our Yankee friend (whom, ere the night was done. 
 We called New England or the Pilgrim Son), 
 A little tired, made bold to interfere; 
 "Appeal,"' he said, "to me; my sentence hear. 
 You'll reason on till night and reason fail ; 95 
 
 My judgment is you each shall tell a tale ; 
 And as on marriage you cannot agree, 
 Of love and marriage let the stories be."' 
 Sentence delivered, as the younger man. 
 My lawyer friend was called on and began. 1 00 
 
 THE LAWYER'S FIRST TALE. 
 
 LOVE IS FELLOW-SERVICE. 
 
 A YOUTH and maid upon a summer night 
 Upon the lawn, while yet the skies were light, 
 Edmund and Emma, let their names be these, 
 Among the shrubs within the circling; trees. 
 
234 ARTHUR HUGH C LOUGH. 
 
 Joined in a game with boys and girls at play: 105 
 
 For games perhaps too old a little they ; 
 
 In Ajiril she her eighteenth year begun, 
 
 And twenty he, and near to twenty-one. 
 
 A game it was of running and of noise ; 
 
 He as a boy, with other girls and boys 1 1 o 
 
 (Her sisters and her brothers), took the fun; 
 
 And when her turn, she marked not, came to run, 
 
 "Emma," he called, — then knew that he was wrong. 
 
 Knew that her name to him did not belong. 
 
 Her look and manner proved his feeling true, — 115 
 
 A child no more, her womanhood she knew ; 
 
 Half was the color mounted on her face. 
 
 Her tardy movement had an adult grace. 
 
 Vexed with himself, and shamed, he felt the more 
 
 A kind of joy he ne'er had felt before. 120 
 
 Something there was that from this date began ; 
 
 "Twas beautiful with her to be a man. 
 
 Two years elapsed, and he who went and came. 
 Changing in much, in this appeared the same ; 
 The feeling, if it did not greatly grow, 125 
 
 Endured and was not wholly hid below. 
 He now, overtasked at school, a serious bo\', 
 A sort of after-boyhood to enjoy 
 Appeared — in vigor and in spirit high 
 
 And manly grown, but kept the boy's soft eve: 130 
 
 And full of blood, and strong and lithe of liml). 
 To him 'twas pleasure now to ride, to swim : 
 The peaks, the glens, the torrents tempted liini. 
 Restless he seemed, — long distances would walk. 
 And lively was, and vehement in talk. 133 
 
 A wandering life his life had lately been. 
 Books he had read, the world had little seen. 
 One former frailty haunted him, a toucli 
 Of something introspective overmucli. 
 
 With all his eager motions still there went 140 
 
 A self-correcting and ascetic bent. 
 That from the obvious good still led astray. 
 And set him travelling on the longest way; 
 
MARI MAGNO, OR TALES ON BOARD. 235 
 
 Seen in these scattered notes their date that claim 
 
 When first his feeUng conscious sought a name. 145 
 
 "Beside the wisliing gate wliich so they name, 
 "Alid northern hills to me this fancy came, 
 A wish I formed, my wish I thus expressed : 
 Would I could wish my wishes all to rest, 
 
 .hid know to wisJi the wish that were the best! 150 
 
 O for some winnowing wind, to the empty air 
 This chaff of easy sympathies to bear 
 Far off, and leave me of myself aware ! 
 While thus this over health deludes me still, 
 So willing that I know not what I will; 155 
 
 O for some friend, or more than friend, austere. 
 To make me know myself, and make me fear ! 
 O for some touch, too noble to be kind, 
 To awake to life the mind within the mind I " 
 
 "O charms, seductions and divine delights! 160 
 
 All through the radiant yellow summer nights, 
 Dreams, hardly dreams, that yield or e'er they're done, 
 To the bright fact, my day, my risen sun I 
 O promise and fulfilment, both in one ! 
 
 O bliss, already bliss, which naught has shared, 165 
 
 Whose glory no fruition has impaired, 
 And, emblem of my state, thou coming day, 
 With all thy hours unspent to pass awa\- ! 
 Why do I wait ? What more propose to know ? 
 Where the sweet mandate bids me, let me go; 170 
 
 My conscience in my impulse let me find. 
 Justification in the moving mind, 
 Law in the strong desire ; or yet behind, 
 Say, is there aught the spell that has not heard, 
 A something that refuses to be stirred?" 175 
 
 " In other regions has my being heard 
 Of a strange language the diviner word? 
 Has some forgotten life the exemplar shown? 
 Elsewhere such high communion have I known. 
 As dooms me here, in this, to live alone? 180 
 
 Then love, that shouldest blind me, let me, love, 
 Nothing behold beyond thee or above ; 
 
236 ARTHUR JIUGJI CLOU GIL 
 
 Ye impulses, that should be stronoj and wild. 
 Beguile me, if I am to be l)eguiiecb" 
 
 "Or are there modes of love, and different kinds, 185 
 
 Proportioned to the sizes of our minds? 
 There arc wlio sav thus, I held there was one. 
 One love, one deity, one central sun ; 
 As he resistless brings the expanding day. 
 
 So love should come on Ids victorious way. 190 
 
 If light at all, can light indeed be there. 
 Yet only permeate lialf the ambient air? 
 Can the high noon l)e regnant in the sky. 
 Yet lialf tlic land in light, and lialf in d.irkness lie? 
 Can love, if love, be occupant in part. 195 
 
 Hold, as it were, some chambers in tlie hcarl : 
 Tenant at will of so much of the soul, 
 Not lord and miglity master of the whole? 
 There are who say, and say that it is well ; 
 Opinion all, of knowledge none can tell." 200 
 
 "Montaigne, 1 know in a realm high above 
 Places the scat of friendship o\er love ; 
 'Tis not in love that we should think to lind 
 The lofty fellowship of mind with mind; 
 
 Love's not a joy where soul and soul unite, 205 
 
 Rather a wondrous animal delight ; 
 And as in s])ring, for one consummate hour 
 The world of vegetation turns to flower, 
 The birds with liveliest plumage trim their wing. 
 And all the woodland listens as they sing; 210 
 
 When spring is o'er and summer days are .sped. 
 The .songs are silent, and the blos.soms dead : 
 P2'en so of man and woman is the bliss. 
 O, but I will not tamely yield to this I 
 
 1 think it only shows us in the end, 215 
 
 Montaigne was happy in a noble friend. 
 Had not the fortune of a noble wife ; 
 He lived, I think, a poor ignoble life, 
 And wrote of petty ])leasures, petty pain ; 
 I do not greatly think about Montaigne." 220 
 
 "How charminiT to be with her! Yet indeed, 
 
MAR I MAG NO, OR TALES ON BOARD. 237 
 
 After a while I find a blank succeed : 
 
 After a while she little lias to say, 
 
 Tm silent too, althougli I wish to stay; 
 
 What would it be all day, day after day? 225 
 
 Ah ! but I ask, I do not doubt, too much ; 
 
 I think of love as if it should be such 
 
 As to fulfil and occupy in whole 
 
 The naught-elsc-seekint;, naught-essayini^ soul. 
 
 Therefore it is my mind with doubts I urge; 230 
 
 Hence are these fears and shiverings on the verge ; 
 
 By books, not nature, thus have we been schooled, 
 
 By poetry and novels been befooled ; 
 
 Wiser tradition says, the affections' claim 
 
 Will be supplied, the rest will be tlie same. 235 
 
 I think too much of love, 'tis true : I know 
 
 It is not all, was ne'er intended so ; 
 
 Yet such a change, so entire, I feel, 'twould i)e, 
 
 So potent, so omnipotent with me ; 
 
 My former self I never should recall, — 240 
 
 Indeed I think it must be all in all." 
 
 "I thought that Love was winged; witliout a sound, ^ 
 His purple pinions bore him o'er the ground. 
 Wafted without an effort here or there, 
 
 He came — and we too trod as if in air : — 245 
 
 But panting, toiling, clambering up the hill. 
 Am I to assist him? I, put forth my will 
 To upbear his lagging footsteps, lame and slow, 
 And help him on and tell him where to go. 
 And ease him of his quiver and his liow? " 250 
 
 " Erotion ! I saw it in a book; 
 Why did I notice it, why did I look? 
 Yea, is it so, ye powers that see above? 
 I do not love, I want, I try to love ! 
 
 This is not love, but lack of love instead! 255 
 
 Merciless thought ! I would I had been dead, 
 Or e'er the phrase had come into my head." 
 
 She also wrote : and here may find a place, 
 Of her and of her thoughts some slender trace. 
 
 "He is not vain: if proud, lu- quells his pride, 260 
 
238 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 And somehow really likes to be defied ; 
 
 Rejoices if vou humble him : indeed 
 
 Gives way at once, and leaves you to succeed." 
 
 " Easy it were with such a mind to play, 
 And foolish not to do so, some would say; 265 
 
 One almost smiles to look and see the way : 
 But come what will, I will not play a part. 
 Indeed, I dare not condescend to art." 
 
 "Easy 'twere not, perhaps, with him to live; 
 He looks for more than anyone can give : 270 
 
 So dulled at times and disappointed; still 
 Expecting what depends not of my will : 
 My inspiration comes not at my call, 
 Seek me as I am, if seek you do at all." 
 
 "Like him 1 do, and think of liim 1 must; 275 
 
 But more — 1 dare not and I cannot trust. 
 This more he brings — say, is it more or less 
 Than that no fruitage ever came to bless, — 
 The old wild flower of love-in-idleness?" 
 
 " Me when he leaves and others when he sees, 280 
 
 »What is my fate who am not there to please? 
 Me he has left ; already may have seen 
 One, who for me forgotten here has been ; 
 And he, the while is balancing between. 
 
 If the heart spoke, the heart I knew were bound ; 285 
 
 What if it utter an uncertain sound?" 
 
 "So quick to vary, so rejoiced to change, 
 From tliis to that his feelings surely range ; 
 His fancies wander, and his thoughts as well ; 
 And if the heart be constant, who can tell? 290 
 
 Far off to fly, to abandon me, and go. 
 He seems returning then before I know : 
 With every accident he seems to move, 
 Is now below me and is now above, 
 Now far aside, — O, does he really love?" 295 
 
 ' ' Absence were hard ; yet let the trial be ; 
 His nature's aim and purpose he would free. 
 And in the world his course of action see. 
 O should he lose, not learn; pervert his scope; 
 
MARI MAGNO, OR TALES ON BOARD. 239 
 
 should I lose ! and yet to win I hope. 300 
 
 1 win not now ; his way if now I went, 
 Brief joy I gave, for years of discontent." 
 
 "Gone, is it true ? l3ut oft he went before, 
 And came again liefore a month was o'er. 
 
 Gone — though I could not venture upon art, 305 
 
 It was perhaps a foolish pride in part ; 
 He had such ready fancies in his head. 
 And really was so easy to be led ; 
 One might have failed ; and yet I feel 'twas pride. 
 And can't but half repent I never tried. 310 
 
 Gone, is it true ? l)ut he again will come. 
 Wandering he loves, and loves returning home." 
 
 Gone, it was true ; nor came so soon again. 
 Came, after travelling, pleasure half, half pain, 
 Came, but a half of Europe first o'erran ; 315 
 
 Arrived, his father found a ruined man. 
 Rich they had been, and rich was Emma too. 
 Heiress of wealth she knew not, Edmund knew. 
 
 Farewell to her I — In a new home obscure. 
 Food for his helpless parents to secure, 320 
 
 From early morning to advancing dark, 
 He toiled and labored as a merchant's clerk. 
 Three years his heavy load he bore, nor quailed. 
 Then all his health, though scarce his spirit, fiiiled ; 
 Friends interposed, insisted it must be, 325 
 
 Enforced their help, and sent him to the sea. 
 
 Wandering about with little here to do. 
 His old thoughts mingling dimly with his new. 
 Wandering one morn, he met upon the shore, 
 Her, whom he quitted five long years before. 330 
 
 Alas ! why quitted? Say that charms are naught, 
 Nor grace, nor beauty worth one serious thought ; 
 Was there no mystic virtue in the sense 
 That joined your boyish girlish innocence? 
 
 Is constancy a thing to throw away, 335 
 
 And loving faithfulness a chance of every day? 
 Alas! why quitted? is she changed? but now 
 The weight of intellect is in her brow ; 
 
240 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 Changed, or but truer seen, one sees in her 
 
 Something to wake the soul, the interior sense to stir. 340 
 
 Alone they met, from alien eyes away. 
 The high shore hid them in a tiny bay. 
 Alone was he, was she ; in sweet surprise 
 They met, before they knew it, in their eyes. 
 In his a wondering admiration glowed, 345 
 
 In hers, a world of tenderness o'erflowed ; 
 In a brief moment all was known and seen, 
 That of slow years the wearying work had been : 
 Morn's early odorous breath perchance in sooth, 
 Awoke the old natural feeling of their youth: 350 
 
 The sea, perchance, and solitude had charms, 
 They met — I know not — in each other's arms. 
 
 Why linger now — why waste the sands of life ? 
 A few sweet weeks, and they were man and wife. 
 
 To his old frailty do not be severe, 355 
 
 His latest theory with patience hear : 
 " I sought not, truly would to seek disdain, 
 A kind, soft pillow for a wearying pain. 
 Fatigues and cares to lighten, to relieve ; 
 
 But love is fellow-service, I believe." 360 
 
 " No, truly no, it was not to obtain. 
 Though that alone were happiness, were gain, 
 A tender breast to fall upon and weep, 
 A heart, the secrets of my heart to keep ; 
 
 To share my hopes, and in my griefs to grieve ; 365 
 
 Yet love is fellow-service, I believe." 
 
 " Yet in the eye of life's all-seeing sun 
 We shall behold a something we have done, 
 Shall of tlie work together we have wrought. 
 Beyond our aspiration and our thought, 370 
 
 Some not unworthy issue yet receive ; 
 For love is fellow-service, 1 believe." 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 
 
 Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill : 
 Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes ! 
 
 No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed. 
 Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats. 
 
 Nor the cropped herbage shoot another head ; 5 
 
 But when the fields are still. 
 And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, 
 
 And only the white sheep are sometimes seen 
 
 Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green, 
 Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest! 10 
 
 Here, where the reaper was at work of late — 
 In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves 
 
 His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse. 
 And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves. 
 
 Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use — 15 
 Here will I sit and wait. 
 While to my ear from uplands far away 
 
 The bleating of the folded flocks is borne. 
 
 With distant cries of reapers in the corn — 
 All the live murmur of a summer's day. 20 
 
 Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field. 
 And here till sun-down, shepherd ! will I be. 
 
 Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, 
 And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see 
 
 Pale pink convolvulus in tendrils creep ; 2 5 
 
 And air-swept lindens yield 
 
 (241) 
 
•242 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers 
 Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, 
 And bower me from the August sun with shade ; 
 
 And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers. 30 
 
 And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book — 
 Come, let me read the oft-read tale again I 
 
 The story of the Oxford scholar poor, 
 Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain, 
 
 Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door, 35 
 
 One summer-morn forsook 
 His friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore, 
 
 And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood, 
 
 And came, as most men deem'd, to little good. 
 Rut came to Oxford and his friends no more. 40 
 
 But once, years after, in the country-lanes. 
 Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew. 
 
 Met him, and of his way of life enquired ; 
 Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy-crew. 
 
 His mates, had arts to rule as they desired 45 
 
 The workings of men's brains. 
 And they can bind them to what thoughts they will. 
 
 "And I," he said, "the secret of their art. 
 
 When fully learn'd, will to the world impart ; 
 But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill." 50 
 
 This .said, he left them, and return'd no more. — 
 But rumors hung about the country-side. 
 
 That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray. 
 Seen bv rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, 
 
 In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey. 55 
 
 The same the gipsies wore. 
 Shepherds had met liim on the Hurst in spring ; 
 
 At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors. 
 
 On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors 
 Had found him seated at their entering, 60 
 
 But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly. 
 And I myself seem lialf to know thy looks, 
 
THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 243 
 
 And put the shepherds, wanderer ! on thy trace ; 
 And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks 
 
 I ask if thou hast passed their quiet place ; 65 
 
 Or in my boat I lie 
 JMoor'd to the cool bank in the summer-heats, 
 
 'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, 
 
 And watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills. 
 And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. 70 
 
 For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground 1 
 Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe. 
 
 Returning home on summer-nights, have met. 
 Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe, 
 
 Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, 75 
 
 As the punt's rope chops round ; 
 And leaning backward in a pensive dream, 
 
 And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers 
 
 Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, 
 And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream. 80 
 
 And then they land, and thou art seen no more I — 
 Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come 
 
 To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, 
 Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, 
 
 Or cross a stile into the public way. 85 
 
 Oft thou hast given them store 
 Of flowers — the frail-leafd, white anemone. 
 
 Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves, 
 
 And purple orchises with spotted leaves — 
 But none hath words she can report of thee. 90 
 
 And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time"s here 
 In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames. 
 
 Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass 
 Where black- wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames. 
 To bathe in the abandonVl lasher pass, 95 
 
 Have often passed thee near 
 Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown ; 
 
 Mark"d thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare. 
 
244 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air — 
 Hut, when they came from loathing, thou wast gone 1 loo 
 
 At some lone homestead in tlie Cumner hills. 
 Where at her open door the housewife darns, 
 
 Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate 
 To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. 
 
 Children, who early range these slopes and late 105 
 
 For cresses from the rills. 
 Have known thee eying, all an April-day, 
 
 The springing pastures and the feeding kine ; 
 
 And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine. 
 Through the long dewy grass move slow away. 110 
 
 In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood — 
 Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way 
 
 Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see 
 With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of grey. 
 
 Above the forest-ground called Thessaly — 1 1 5 
 
 The blackbird, picking food, 
 Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all ; 
 
 So often has he known thee past him stray, 
 
 Rapt, twirling in thy hand a withered spray, 
 And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall. 120 
 
 .\nd once, in winter, on the causeway chill 
 
 Wliere home through flooded fields foot-travellers go. 
 
 Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge. 
 Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow. 
 
 Thy face tow'rd Hinksey and its wintry ridge? 125 
 
 And thou hast climbVl the hill, 
 .\.nd gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range : 
 
 Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowfiakes tall, 
 
 The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall — 
 Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange. 130 
 
 But what — I dream! Two hundred years are flown 
 Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls. 
 And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe 
 
THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 245 
 
 That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls 
 
 To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe; 135 
 
 And thou from earth art gone 
 
 Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid — 
 Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave 
 Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave. 
 
 Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade. 140 
 
 — No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours ! 
 For what wears out the life of mortal men? 
 
 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls : 
 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again. 
 
 Exhaust the energy of strongest souls 1 45 
 
 And numl3 the elastic powers. 
 Till having used our nei'\'es with bliss and teen, 
 
 And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit. 
 
 To the just-pausing Genius we remit 
 Our worn-out life, and are — what we have been. 150 
 
 Thou hast not lived, why shoukFst thou perish, so? 
 Thou hadst one aim. one business, one desire ; 
 
 Else wert thou long since number"d with the dead I 
 Else hadst thou spent, like other men. thy fire ! 
 
 The generations of thy peers are fled. 155 
 
 And we ourselves shall go : 
 But thou possessest an immortal lot. 
 
 And we imagine thee exempt from age 
 
 And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page. 
 Because thou hadst — what we, alas I have not. 160 
 
 For early didst thou lea\e the world, with powers 
 Fresh, undiverted to the world without. 
 
 Firm to their mark, not spent on other things : 
 Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt. 
 
 Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, 165 
 
 brings. 
 O life unlike to ours ! 
 Who fluctuate idly without term or scope. 
 
 Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, 
 
246 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 And each half Hves a hundred different lives ; 
 Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. 170 
 
 Thou waitest for the spark from heaven ! and we, 
 Light half-believers of our casual creeds, 
 
 Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd. 
 Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, 
 
 Whose vague resolves never have been fulfilPd ; 175 
 
 For whom each year we see 
 Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new ; 
 
 Who hesitate and falter life away, 
 
 And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day — 
 Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too? 180 
 
 Yes, we await it ! — but it still delays. 
 
 And then we suffer ! and amongst us one. 
 
 Who most has sulTer'd, takes dejectedly 
 His seat upon the intellectual throne ; 
 
 And all his store of sad experience he 185 
 
 La\s bare of wretched days ; 
 Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs. 
 
 And how the dying spark of hope was fed, 
 
 And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, 
 /Vnd all his hourly varied anodynes. 190 
 
 This for our wisest ! and we others pine. 
 
 And wish the long unhappy dream would enil. 
 
 And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear : 
 With close-lipp'd patience for our only friend. 
 
 Sad patience, too near neighbor to despair — 195 
 
 Ikit none has hope like thine ! 
 Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray. 
 
 Roaming the country-side, a truant boy. 
 
 Nursing thy project in unclouded joy. 
 And every doubt long blown by time away. 200 
 
 O born in days wiieii wits were fresh and clear. 
 And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames ; 
 Before this strange disease of modern life. 
 
THE SCHOLAR- GIPSY. 247 
 
 With its sick hurry, its divided aims, 
 
 Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife — 205 
 
 Fly hence, our contact fear! 
 
 Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood ! 
 Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern 
 From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, 
 
 Wave us away, and keep thy solitude! 210 
 
 Still nursing the unconquerable hope. 
 Still clutching the inviolable shade. 
 
 With a free, onward impulse brushing through. 
 By night, the silver'd branches of the glade — 
 
 Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, 215 
 
 On some mild pastoral slope 
 Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales 
 
 Freshen thy flowers as in former years 
 
 With dew, or listen with enchanted ears. 
 From the dark dingles, to the nightingales! 220 
 
 But fly our paths, our feverish contact fl}- ! 
 For strong the infection of our mental strife. 
 
 Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest ; 
 And we should win thee from thy own fair life. 
 
 Like us distracted, and like us unblest. 225 
 
 Soon, soon thy cheer would die, 
 Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers. 
 
 And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made ; 
 
 And then thy glad perennial youth would fade. 
 Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. 230 
 
 Then fly our greetings, fl\" our speech and smiles ! 
 — As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea. 
 
 Descried at sunrise an emerging prow 
 Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily. 
 
 The fringes of a southward-facing brow 235 
 
 Among the yEgsan isles ; 
 And saw the merry Grecian coaster come. 
 
 Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine. 
 
 Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine — 
 And knew the intruders on his ancient home, 240 
 
248 MATTHEIV ARXOLD. 
 
 The young liglit-hearted masters of the waves — 
 And snatch'd liis rudder, and shook out more sail ; 
 
 And day and night held on indignantly 
 O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, 
 
 Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 245 
 
 To where the Atlantic raves 
 Outside the western straits : and unbent sails 
 
 There, where down cloudy clifts, through sheets of foam. 
 
 Shv traffickers, the dark Iberians come ; 
 And on the beach undid his corded bales. 250 
 
 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. 
 
 Co.MK. dear children, let us away: 
 
 Down and awa}" lielow I 
 
 Now my brothers call from the bay, 
 
 Now the great winds shoreward blow. 
 
 Now the salt tides seaward flow ; 5 
 
 Now the wild white horses play. 
 
 Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 
 
 Children dear, let us away ! 
 
 This w^ay, tiiis way ! 
 
 Call her once before you go — 10 
 
 Call once yet ! 
 
 In a voice that she will know: 
 
 " Margaret I Margaret ! " . 
 
 Children's voices should be dear 
 
 (Call once more) to a mother's ear ; 1 5 
 
 Children's voices, wild with pain — 
 
 Surely she will come again ! 
 
 Call her once and come away ; 
 
 This way, this way ! 
 
 "Mother dear, we cannot stay! 20 
 
 The wild white horses foam and fret." 
 
 Margaret I Margaret ! 
 
THE FORSAKEN^ MERMAN. 249 
 
 Come, dear children, come away down ; 
 
 Call no more ! 
 
 One last look at the wliite-waird town, 23 
 
 And the little grev church on the windy shore ; 
 
 Then come down I 
 
 She will not come though you call all day ; 
 
 Come away, come away ! 
 
 Children dear, was it \esterday 30 
 
 We heard the sweet bells o\er the bay? 
 
 In the ca\'erns where we la}-. 
 
 Through the surf and through the swell. 
 
 The far-off sound of a silver bell? 
 
 Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 35 
 
 Where the winds are all asleep ; 
 
 Where the spent lights quiver and gleam. 
 
 Where the salt weed sways in the stream. 
 
 Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round. 
 
 Feed in the ooze of their pasture -ground ; 40 
 
 Where the sea-snakes coil and twine. 
 
 Dry their mail and bask in the brine ; 
 
 Where great whales come sailing by. 
 
 Sail and sail, with unshut eye, 
 
 Round the world for ever and aye? 45 
 
 When did music come this way? 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterda\- ? 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterda\ 
 
 (Call yet once) that she went away? 
 
 Once she sate with you and me, 50 
 
 On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea. 
 
 And the youngest sate on her knee. 
 
 She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well. 
 
 When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. 
 
 She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea; 55 
 
 She said: " I must go, for my kinsfolk pray 
 
 In the little grey church on the shore to-day. 
 
 'Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me ! 
 
 And I lose my poor soul, Merman ! here with thee." 
 
2o0 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves; 60 
 
 Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves ! " 
 She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. 
 Children dear, was it yesterday? 
 
 Children dear, were we long alone? 
 ' ' The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan ; 65 
 
 Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say; 
 Come ! " I said : and we rose through the surf in the bay. 
 We went up the beach, by the sandy down 
 Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town : 
 Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, 70 
 
 To the little grey church on the windy hill. 
 From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers. 
 But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 
 We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains. 
 And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. 75 
 She sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear : 
 "Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! 
 Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone; 
 The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." 
 But, ah, she gave me never a look, 80 
 
 For her eyes were seaFd to the holy book ! 
 Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the door. 
 Come away, children, call no more ! 
 Come away, come down, call no more ! 
 
 Down, down, down ! 85 
 
 Down to the depths of the sea ! 
 She sits at her wheel in the humming town. 
 Singing most joyfully. 
 Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy. 
 
 For the humming street, and the child with its toy! 90 
 
 For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well ; 
 For the wheel where I spun, 
 And the blessed light of the sun ! " 
 And so she sings her fill. 
 
 Singing most joyfully, 95 
 
 Till the spindle drops from her hand, 
 
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. 251 
 
 And the whizzing wheel stands still. 
 
 She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, 
 
 And over the sand at the sea ; 
 
 And her eyes are set in a stare; loo 
 
 And anon there breaks a sigh. 
 
 And anon there drops a tear, 
 
 From a sorrow-clouded eye, 
 
 And a heart sorrow-laden, 
 
 A long, long sigh; 105 
 
 For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden 
 
 And the gleam of her golden hair. 
 
 Come away, away children ; 
 Come children, come down ! 
 
 The hoarse wind blows coldly ; 1 1 o 
 
 Lights shine in the town. 
 She will start from her slumber 
 When gusts shake the door ; 
 She will hear the winds howling, 
 Will hear the waves roar. 115 
 
 We shall see, while above us 
 The waves roar and whirl, 
 A ceiling of amber, 
 A pavement of pearl. 
 
 Singing: "Here came a mortal, 120 
 
 But faithless was she ! 
 And alone dwell for ever 
 The kings of the sea." 
 
 But, children, at midnight, 
 
 When soft the winds blow, 125 
 
 When clear falls the moonlight. 
 
 When spring-tides are low ; 
 
 When sweet airs come seaward 
 
 From heaths starred with broom. 
 
 And high rocks throw mildly 130 
 
 On the blanch'd sands a gloom ; 
 
 Up the still, glistening beaches. 
 
 Up the creeks we will hie. 
 
252 MATI'HEIV ARNOLD. 
 
 Over banks of bright seaweed 
 
 The ebb-tide leaves dry. 135 
 
 We will gaze, from the sand-hills, 
 
 At the white, sleeping town ; 
 
 At the churcli on the hill-side — 
 
 And then come back down. 
 
 Singing: "There dwells a loved one. 140 
 
 But cruel is she ! 
 
 She left lonely for ever 
 
 The kinoes of the sea." 
 
BROWNING. 
 
 A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES. 
 
 There slept a silent palace in the sun. 
 With plains adjacent and Tliessalian peace — 
 Pherai, where King Adnietos ruled tlie land. 
 
 "What now may mean the silence at the door? 
 
 Why is Adm&tos' mansion stricken dumb? 5 
 
 Not one friend near, to say if we should mourn 
 
 Our mistress dead, or if Alkestis lives 
 
 And sees the light still, Pelias' child — to me 
 
 To all, conspicuously the best of wives 
 
 That ever was toward husband in this world ! 10 
 
 Hears anyone or wail beneath the roof. 
 
 Or hands that strike each other, or the groan 
 
 Announcing all is done and naught to dread ? 
 
 Still not a servant stationed at the gates ! 
 
 O Paian, that thou would'st dispart the wave i 5 
 
 O" the woe, be present ! Yet, had woe overwhelmed 
 
 The housemates, they were hardly silent thus : 
 
 It cannot be, the dead is forth and gone. 
 
 Whence comes thy gleam of hope ? I dare not hope : 
 
 What is the circumstance that heartens thee? 20 
 
 How could Admetos have dismissed a wife 
 
 So worthy, unescorted to the grave? 
 
 Before the gates I see no hallowed vase 
 
 Of fountain water, such as suits death's door ; 
 
 Nor any dipt locks strew the vestibule, 25 
 
 Though surely these drop when we grieve the dead. 
 
 Nor hand sounds smitten against youthful hand, 
 
 (253) 
 
254 BROWNING. 
 
 The women's way. And yet — the appointed time 
 
 How speak the word? — this day is even the day 
 
 Ordained her for departing from its light. 30 
 
 O touch calamitous to heart and soul ! 
 
 Needs must one, when the good are tortured so. 
 
 Sorrow, — one reckoned faithful from the first.'' 
 
 So wailed they, while a sad procession wound 
 
 Slow from the innermost o' the palace, stopped 35 
 
 At the extreme verge of the platform-front : 
 
 There opened, and disclosed Alkestis' self. 
 
 The consecrated lady, borne to look 
 
 Her last — and let the living look their last — 
 
 She at the sun. we at Alkestis. ... 40 
 
 "Sun, and thou light of day, and heavenly dance 
 
 O' the fleet cloud-figure ! " (so her passion paused. 
 
 While the awe-stricken husband made his moan, 
 
 Muttered now this, now that ineptitude : 
 
 " Sun that sees thee and me, a suffering pair, 45 
 
 Who did the Gods no wrong whence thou should'st die ! ") 
 
 Then, as if caught up, carried in their course, 
 
 Fleeting and free as cloud and sunbeam are, 
 
 She missed no happiness that lay beneath : 
 
 "O thou wide earth, from these my palace roofs, 50 
 
 To distant nuptial chambers once my own 
 
 In that lolkos of my ancestry!" — 
 
 There the flight failed her. "Raise thee, wretched one! 
 
 Give us not up ! Pray pity from the Gods ! " 
 
 Vainly Admetos : for ' ' I see it — see 5 5 
 
 The two-oared boat ! The ferryer of the dead, 
 Charon, hand hard upon the boatman's-pole. 
 Calls me — even now calls — ' Why delayest thou ? 
 Quick ! Thou obstructest all made ready here 
 For prompt departure : quick, then ! ' '' 
 
 " Woe is me ! 60 
 
 A bitter voyage this to undergo, 
 Even i' the telling ! Adverse Powers above, 
 How do ye plague us ! " 
 
A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES. 255 
 
 Then a shiver ran : 
 "He has me — seest not? — hales me, — who is it? — 
 To the hall o' the Dead — ah, who but Hades' self, 65 
 
 He, with tlie wings there, glares at me, one gaze, 
 All that blue brilliance, under the eyebrow ! 
 What wilt thou do? Unhand me! Such a way 
 I have to traverse, all unhappy one!" 
 
 " Way — piteous to my friends, but, most of all, 70 
 
 Me and thy children : ours assuredly 
 
 A common partnership in grief like this ! " 
 
 Whereat they closed about her ; but ' ' Let be ! 
 
 Leave, let me lie now ! Strength forsakes my feet. 
 
 Hades is here, and shadowy on my eyes 75 
 
 Comes the night creeping. Children — children, now 
 
 Indeed, a mother is no more for you ! 
 
 Farewell, O children, long enjoy the light ! " 
 
 " Ah me, the melancholy word I hear. 
 
 Oppressive beyond every kind of death ! 80 
 
 No, by the Deities, take heart nor dare 
 
 To give me up — no, by our children too 
 
 Made orphans of ! But rise, be resolute. 
 
 Since, thou departed, I no more remain ! 
 
 For in thee are we bound up, to exist 85 
 
 Or cease to be — so we adore thy love ! " 
 
 — Which brought out truth to judgment. At this word 
 
 And protestation, all the truth in her 
 
 Claimed to assert itself: she waved away 
 
 The blue-eyed, black-wing"d phantom, held in check 90 
 
 The advancing pageantry of Hades there. 
 
 And, with no change in her own countenance. 
 
 She fixed her eyes on the protesting man. 
 
 And let her lips unlock their sentence, — so ! 
 
 " Admetos, — how things go with me thou seest, — 95 
 
 1 wish to tell thee, ere I die, what things 
 
 I wish should follow. I — to honor thee, 
 
2/)(i BROWNTNG. 
 
 Secure for thee, by my own souPs exchange, 
 
 Continued looking on the daylight here — 
 
 Die for thee — yet, if so I pleased, might live, loo 
 
 Nay, wed what man of Thessaly I would. 
 
 And dwell i' the dome with pomp and queenliness. 
 
 I would not, — would not live bereft of thee. 
 
 With children orphaned, neither sln-anlc at all. 
 
 Though having gifts of youtli wlierein 1 joyed. 105 
 
 Yet, who begot thee and wlio gave thee birth. 
 
 Both of these gave thee up ; no less, a term 
 
 Of life was reached when death became them well. 
 
 Ay, well — to save their cliild and glorious die : 
 
 Since thou wast all they had, nor hope remained 1 1 o 
 
 Of having other children in thy place. 
 
 So, I and thou had lived out our full time, 
 
 Nor thou, left lonely of thy wife, wouldst groan 
 
 With children reared in orphanage : but thus 
 
 Some God disposed thmgs, willed they .so should be. i 1 5 
 
 r>e they so ! Now do thou remember this. 
 
 Do me in turn a favor — favor, since 
 
 Certainly I shall never claim my due. 
 
 For nothing is more precious than a life : 
 
 But a fit favor, as thyself wilt .say, 120 
 
 Loving our children here no less than 1, 
 
 If head and heart be sound in thee at least. 
 
 Upliold them, make them masters of my house. 
 
 Nor wed and give a step-dame to the pair. 
 
 Wlio, being a worse wife than I, through spite 125 
 
 Will raise her hand against both thine and mine. 
 
 Never do this at least, I pray to thee ! 
 
 For hostile the new-comer, the step-dame. 
 
 To the old brood — a very viper she 
 
 For gentleness! Here stand they, boy and girl; 130 
 
 The boy has got a father, a defence 
 
 Tower-like, he speaks to and has answer from : 
 
 But thou, my girl, how will thy virginhood 
 
 Conclude itself in marriage fittingly? 
 
 Upon what sort of sire-found yoke-fellow 135 
 
 Art thou to chance? With all to apprehend — 
 
A TKAXSCA'/PT FROM EUJU FIDES. 257 
 
 Lest, casting on thee some unkind report. 
 
 She blast tliy nuptials in the bloom of youth. 
 
 For neither sliall thv mother watch thee wed. 
 
 Nor hearten tliee in child-ljirth, standing by 140 
 
 Just when a mother's presence lielps the most. 
 
 No, for I have to die : and tliis mv ill 
 
 Comes to me, nor to-morrow, no, nor \et 
 
 The third day of the month, but now, even now, 
 
 1 shall be reckoned among those no more. 145 
 
 Farewell, lie liappy I And to thee, indeed. 
 
 Husband, the boast remains permissible 
 
 Thou hadst a wife was worth}' ! And to vou. 
 
 Children; as good a mother gave you birtli." 
 
 [Adtnefos promises to care tenderly for the children and never to 7ved ao-ain. 
 A Ike st is then continues : ] 
 
 •' O children, now yourselves have heard these thmgs — 150 
 Your father saying he will never wed 
 Another woman to be over you, 
 Nor vet dishonor me ! " 
 
 ' ' And now at least 
 I say it, and 1 will accomplish, too!" 
 
 "Then, for such promise of accomplishment, 155 
 
 Take from m\- hand these children ! '" 
 
 " Thus I take — 
 Dear gift from the dear hand ! " 
 
 " Do thou become 
 Mother, now, to these children in my place ! " 
 
 "Great the necessity I should be so, 
 
 At least, to these bereaved of thee!" 160 
 
 " Child — child ! 
 Just when I needed most to live, below 
 Am I departing from you both ! "' 
 
 ' ' Ah me ! 
 And what shall I do, then, left lonely thus ? " 
 
258 BROWNING. 
 
 "Time will appease ihee : who is dead is naught." 
 
 "Take mc with thee — take, hy the Gods below!" 165 
 
 "We are sufficient, we who die for thee." 
 
 "Oh, Powers, ye widow me of what a wife!" 
 
 "And truly the dimmed eye draws earthward now!" 
 
 "Wile, if thou leav'st me, I am lost indeed!" 
 
 ".She once was — now is nothin<^, thou mayst say." 170 
 
 "Raise thy face, nor forsake thy children thus!" 
 
 "Ah, willini^ly indeed 1 leave them not! 
 But — fare ye well, my children!" 
 
 " Look on them — 
 Look ! " 
 
 '• I am nothingness." 
 
 "What dost thou? Leav'st . . ." 
 " Farewell ! " 
 
 And in the breath she passed away. 175 
 
 "Undone — me miserable!" moaned the king, 
 While friends released the long-suspended sigh. 
 "Gone is she: no wife for Admetos more!" 
 
 [ The chorus then laments the death of Alkestis, when] 
 
 A great \'oice — 
 " My hosts here ! " 
 
 Oh, the thrill that ran through us! 
 Never was aught so good and opportune! 180 
 
 As that great interrupting voice. For see ! 
 Here maundered this dispirited old age 
 Before the palace : whence a something crept 
 Which told us well enough without a word 
 What was a-doing inside, — every touch 1S5 
 
 O' the garland on those temples, tenderest 
 Disposure of each arm along its side, 
 Came putting out what warmth i' the world was left. 
 Then, as it happens at a sacrifice 
 
A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES. 259 
 
 When, drop by drop, some lustral bath is brimmed: 190 
 
 Into the thin and clear and cold, at once 
 
 They slaughter a whole wine-skin ; Bacchos' blood 
 
 Sets the white water all aflame : even so, 
 
 Sudden into the midst of sorrow, leapt 
 
 Along with the gay cheer of that great voice, 1 95 
 
 Hope, joy, salvation : Herakles was here ! 
 
 Himself, o' the threshold, sent his voice on first 
 
 To herald all that human and divine 
 
 r the weary happy face of him, — half God, 
 
 Half man, which made the god-part God the more. 200 
 
 " Hosts mine," he broke upon the sorrow with, 
 " Inhabitants of this Pheraian soil. 
 Chance I upon Admetos inside here?" 
 
 The irresistible sound wholesome heart 
 
 O' the hero, — more than all the mightiness 205 
 
 At labor in the limbs that, for man's sake, 
 
 Labored and meant to labor their life-long, — 
 
 This drove back, dried up sorrow at its source. 
 
 How could it brave the happy weary laugh 
 
 Of who had bantered sorrow "Sorrow here? 210 
 
 What have you done to keep your friend from harm ? 
 
 Could no one give the life I see he keeps? 
 
 Or, say there's sorrow here j^ast friendly help. 
 
 Why waste a word or let a tear escape 
 
 While other sorrows wait you in the world, 215 
 
 And want the life of you, though lielpless here ? " 
 
 Clearly there was no telling such an one 
 
 How, when their monarch tried who loved him more 
 
 Than he loved them, and found they loved, as he. 
 
 Each man, himself, and held, no otherwise, 220 
 
 That, of all evils in the world, the worst 
 
 Was — being forced to die, whatever death gain : 
 
 How all this selfishness in him and them 
 
 Caused certain sorrow which they sang about, — 
 
 I think that Herakles, who held his life 225 
 
 Out on his hand, for any man to take — 
 
 I think his laugh had marred their threnody. 
 
260 BKOIVNING. 
 
 "He is in the house,'' they answered. After all. 
 
 They might have told the story, talked their best 
 
 About the inevitable sorrow here, 230 
 
 Nor changed nor checked the kindly nature, — no I 
 
 So long as men were merely weak, not bad. 
 
 He loved men: were they (Jods he used to help? 
 
 "Yea, Pheres" son is in-doors. Herakles." 
 
 . . " Look where comes the lord o" the land, himself. 235 
 Admetos, from the i>alace I " they outbroke 
 In some surprise, as well as much relief. 
 What had induced the king to wai\e his right 
 And luxury of woe in loneliness ? 
 
 Out he came quietly ; the hair was dipt, 240 
 
 And the garb sable ; else no outward sign 
 
 Of sorrow as he came and faced his friend. 
 
 Was truth fast terrifying tears awa\- 't 
 
 "Hail, child of Zeus, and sprung from Perseus tool" 
 
 The salutation ran without a fault. 245 
 
 " .\nd thou, Admetos, King of Thes.salv I " 
 
 " Would, as tliou wishest me, the grace miglit fall I 
 But my good-wisher, that thou art. I know." . 
 
 " /Vlas, Admetos — would we found thee gay, 
 Not grieving ! "' 
 
 "What as if about to do 250 
 
 Sul)joinest thou that comment ? " 
 
 " I shall seek 
 Another hearth, proceed to other hosts." 
 
 "Never, O king, shall that be! No such ill 
 Betide me." 
 
 ' Nay, to mourners should there come 
 A guest, he proves importunate!" 255 
 
 " The dead — 
 Dead are they : but go thou within my house ! " 
 
A TKAiVSCN/PT FROM EURIPIDES. 2(;i 
 
 '•'Tis base carousing beside friends who mourn." 
 
 " The guest-rooms, whither we sliall lead tiiee, lie 
 Apart from ours." 
 
 "Nay. let me go m\' way! 
 Ten-th()u;;andf()kl the favor 1 shall thank I " 260 
 
 •■ It ma_\' not be thou goest to the hearth 
 
 Of any man but me I " so made an end 
 
 Admetos. softly and decisively. 
 
 Of the altercation. Herakles forbore : 
 
 .\nd the king bade a servant lead the wav. 265 
 
 Open the guest-rooms ranged remote from view 
 
 O" the main hall, tell the functionaries, too. 
 
 They had to furnish forth a plenteous feast : 
 
 And then shut close the doors o' the hall, midway. 
 
 " Because it is not proper friends who feast 270 
 
 Should hear a groaning or be grieved." quoth he. 
 
 Whereat the hero, who was truth itself, 
 
 Let out the smile again, repressed awhile 
 
 Like fountain-brilliance one forbids to plav. 
 
 He did too many grandnesses, to note 275 
 
 Much in the meaner things aljout his path : 
 
 And stepping there, with face towards the sun. 
 
 Stopped seldom to pluck weeds or ask their names. 
 
 Therefore he took Admetos at the word : 
 
 This trouble must not hinder any more 280 
 
 -A true heart from good will and pleasant wavs. 
 
 And so, the great arm, which had slain the snake. 
 
 Strained his friend's head a moment in embrace 
 
 On that broad breast beneath the lion's hide. 
 
 Till the king's cheek winced at the thick rough gold; 285 
 
 And then strode off, with who had care of him, 
 
 To the remote guest-chamber : glad to give 
 
 Poor flesh and blood their respite and relief 
 
 In the interval "twixt fight and fight again — 
 
 All for the world's sake. Our eyes followed him, 290 
 
262 BROWNING. 
 
 Be sure, till those mid-doors shut us outside. 
 The king, too, watched great Herakles go off 
 All faith, love, and obedience to a friend. 
 
 [ When Herakles goes off to refresh himself, Admetos maintains to the chorus 
 that to have forced away a guest, even under the present sad circumstances, 
 would have been an. unpardonable breach of hospitality. Enter Pheres, 
 the. father of Admetos ; they fall into a furious quarrel, the son reproaching the 
 father for his selfishness in refusing to save his offspring by dying ; the father 
 declaring • • • ] 
 
 Never did I receive it as a law 
 
 Hereditary, no, nor Greek at all, 295 
 
 That sires in place of sons were bound to die. 
 
 [ W hen the torajigle dies out, the funeral procession of Alkestis moves off to the 
 tomb. Soon after this, Herakles learns from an ancient servant the real cause 
 of Admetos' grief, thus far carefully concealed by him from his guest. There- 
 upon Herakles breaks out . . . ] 
 
 '* But I divined it! seeing as I did. 
 
 His eye that ran with tears, his close-clipt hair. 
 
 His countenance ! Though he persuaded me. 
 
 Saying it was a stranger's funeral 300 
 
 He went with to the grave : against my wish. 
 
 He forced on me that I should enter doors. 
 
 Drink in the hall o' the hospitable man 
 
 Circumstanced so ! And do I revel yet 
 
 With wreath on head? But — thou to hold thy peace, 305 
 
 Nor tell me what a woe oppressed my friend ! 
 
 Where is he gone to bury her? Where am I 
 
 To go and find her? "" 
 
 • • By the road that leads 
 Straight to Larissa, thou wilt see the tomb. 
 Out of the suburb, a carved sepulchre." 310 
 
 So said he, and therewith dismissed himself 
 
 Inside to his lamenting: somewhat soothed, 
 
 However, that he had adroitly spoilt 
 
 The mirth of the great creature : oh, he marked 
 
 The movement of the mouth, how lip pressed lip, 315 
 
A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES. 263 
 
 And either eye forgot to shine, as, fast, 
 
 He plucked the chaplet from his forehead, dashed 
 
 The myrtle-sprays down, trod them underfoot ! 
 
 And all the joy and wonder of the wine 
 
 Witliered away, like fire from off a brand 320 
 
 The wind blows over — beacon though it be, 
 
 Whose merry ardor only meant to make 
 
 Somebody all the better for its blaze. 
 
 And save lost people in the dark : quenclied now ! 
 
 Not long quenched! As the flame, just hurried oft" 325 
 
 The brand's edge, suddenly renews its bite. 
 
 Tasting some richness caked i' the core o' the tree, — 
 
 Pine, with a blood that's oil, — and triumphs up 
 
 Pillar-wise to the sky and saves the world : 
 
 So, in a spasm and splendor of resolve, 330 
 
 All at once did the God surmount the man. 
 
 " O much-enduring heart and hand of mine ! 
 
 Now show what sort of son she bore to Zeus, 
 
 That daughter of Elektruon, Tiruns' child, 
 
 Alkmen6 ! for that son must needs save now 335 
 
 The just-dead lady : ay, established here 
 
 r the house again Alkestis, bring about 
 
 Comfort and succor to Admetos so ! 
 
 I will go lie in wait for Death, black-stoled 
 
 King of the corpses ! 1 shall find Iiim, sure, 340 
 
 Drinking, beside the tomb, o' the sacrifice : 
 
 And if I lie in ambuscade, and leap 
 
 (!)ut of my lair, and seize — encircle him 
 
 Till one hand join the other round about — 
 
 There lives not who shall pull him out from me, 345 
 
 Rib-mauled, before he let the woman go ! 
 
 But even say I miss tlie booty, — say, 
 
 Death comes not to the bokered blood, — why then, 
 
 Down go I, to the unsunned dwelling-place 
 
 Of Kor^ and the king there, — make demand, 350 
 
 Confident 1 shall bring Alkestis back. 
 
 So as to put her in the hands of him 
 
264 BROWNING. 
 
 My host, that housed me, never drove me off: 
 
 Though stricken with sore sorrow, hid the stroke, 
 
 Being a noble heart and honoring me ! 355 
 
 Who of Thessalians, more tlian this man, loves 
 
 The stranger? Who, that now inhabits Greece? 
 
 Wherefore he shall not say the man was vile 
 
 Whom he befriended, — native noble heart ! " 
 
 So, one look upward, as if Zeus might laugh 360 
 
 Approval of his human progeny, — 
 
 One summons of the whole magnific frame. 
 
 Each sinew to its service, — up he caught. 
 
 And over shoulder cast, the lion-shag. 
 
 Let the club go, — for had he not those hands? 365 
 
 And so went striding off, on that straight way 
 
 Leads to Larissa and the suburb tomb. 
 
 Gladness be with thee, Helper of our world ! 
 
 1 think this is the authentic sign and seal 
 
 Of Godship, that it ever waxes glad, 370 
 
 And more glad, until gladness blossoms, bursts 
 
 Into a rage to suffer for mankind. 
 
 And recommence at sorrow : drops like seed 
 
 After the blossom, ultimate of all. 
 
 Say, does the seed scorn earth and seek the sun? -i^ii 
 
 Surely it has no other end and aim 
 
 Than to drop, once more die into the ground. 
 
 Taste cold and darkness and oblivion there : 
 
 And thence rise, tree-like grow through pain to joy, 
 
 More joy and most joy, — do man good again. 380 
 
 So, to the struggle off strode Herakles. 
 
 When silence closed behind the lion-garb. 
 
 Back came our dull fact settling in its place. 
 
 Though heartiness and passion half-dispersed 
 
 The inevitable fate. And presently 385 
 
 In came the mourners from the funeral. 
 
 One after one, until we hoped the last 
 
 Would be Alkestis and so end our dream. 
 
 Could they have really left Alkestis lone 
 
 r the wayside sepulchre? Home, all save she? 390 
 
A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES. 265 
 
 And when Admetos felt that it was so, 
 
 By the stand-still : when he lifted head and face 
 
 From the two hiding hands and peplos' fold, 
 
 And looked forth, knew the jDalace, knew the hills. 
 
 Knew the plains, knew the friendly frequence there, 395 
 
 And no Alkestis any more again. 
 
 Why, the whole woe billow-like broke on him. 
 
 ' ' O hateful entry, hateful countenance 
 O' the widowed halls,"' — he moaned. What was to be? 
 Go there ? Stay here ? Speak, not speak .'' All was now 400 
 Mad and impossible alike ; one way 
 And only one was sane and safe — to die : 
 Now he was made aware how dear is death, 
 How lovable the dead are, how the heart 
 Yearns in us to go hide where they repose, 405 
 
 ' When we find sunbeams do no good to see. 
 Nor earth rests rightly where our footsteps fall. 
 His wife had been to him the very pledge. 
 Sun should be sun, earth — earth; the pledge was robbed. 
 Pact broken, and the world was left no world. 410 
 
 He stared at the impossible, mad life : 
 Stood, while they urged "Advance — advance! Go deep 
 Into the utter dark, thy palace-core ! " 
 
 They tried what they called comfort, — "touched the quick 
 Of the ulceration in his soul," he said, 415 
 
 With memories, — "once thy joy was thus and thus!" 
 True comfort were to let him fling himself 
 Into the hollow grave o' the tomb, and so 
 Let him lie dead along with all he loved. . 
 
 [ The chorus attempts consolation, but is interrupted by the return of Herakles?[ 
 
 Ay, he it was advancing ! In he strode, 420 
 
 And took his stand before Admetos, — turned 
 
 Now by despair to such a quietude. 
 
 He neither raised his face nor spoke, this time. 
 
 The while his friend surveyed him steadily. 
 
 That friend looked rough with fighting: had he strained 425 
 
 Worst brute to breast was ever strangled vet? 
 
266 BROWNING. 
 
 Somehow, a victory — for there stood the strength, 
 
 Happy, as always ; something grave, perhaps ; 
 
 The great vein-cordage on the fret-worked front. 
 
 Black-swollen, beaded yet with battle-dew 430 
 
 The yellow hair o' the hero ! — his big frame 
 
 A-quiver with each muscle sinking back 
 
 Into the sleepy smooth it leaped from late. 
 
 Under the great guard of one arm, there leant 
 
 A shrouded something, live and Avoman-like, 435 
 
 Propped by the heartbeats 'neath the lion-coat. 
 
 When he had finished his survey, it seemed, 
 
 The heavings of the heart began subside, 
 
 The helpful breath returned, and last the smile 
 
 Shone out, all Herakles was back again, 440 
 
 As the words followed the saluting hand. 
 
 "To friendly man, behoves we freely speak, 
 
 Admetos ! — nor keep buried, deep in breast. 
 
 Blame we leave silent. I assuredly 
 
 Judge myself proper, if I should approach 445 
 
 By accident calamities of thine. 
 
 To be demonstrably thy friend : but thou 
 
 Told'st me not of the corpse then claiming care. 
 
 That was thy wife's, but didst install me guest 
 
 V the house here, as though busied with a grief 450 
 
 Indeed, but then, mere grief beyond thy gate : 
 
 And so, I crowned my head, and to the Gods 
 
 Poured my libations in thy dwelling-place. 
 
 With such misfortune round me. And I blame — 
 
 Certainly blame thee, having suflfered thus! 455 
 
 But still I would not pain thee, pained enough : 
 
 So let it pass ! Wherefore I seek thee now. 
 
 Having turned back again though onward bound. 
 
 That I will tell thee. Take and keep for me 
 
 This woman, till I come thy way again, 460 
 
 Driving before me, having killed the king 
 
 O' the Bistones, that drove of Thrakian steeds : 
 
 In such case, give the woman back to me ! 
 
 But should I fare, — as fare I fain would not. 
 
A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES. 267 
 
 Seeing I hope to prosper and return, — 465 
 
 Then, I bequeath her as thy household slave. 
 
 She came into my hands with good hard toil ! 
 
 For, what find I, when started on my course. 
 
 But certain people, a whole country-side. 
 
 Holding a wrestling-bout? as good to me 470 
 
 As a new labor : whence 1 took, and here 
 
 Come keeping with me, this, the victor's prize. 
 
 For, such as conquered in the easy work. 
 
 Gained horses which they drove away : and such 
 
 As conquered in the harder, — those who boxed 475 
 
 And wrestled, — cattle ; and, to crown the prize, 
 
 A woman followed. Chancing as I did, 
 
 Base were it to forego this fame and gain ! 
 
 Well, as I said, I trust her to thy care : 
 
 No woman I have kidnapped, understand ! 480 
 
 But good hard toil has done it : here I come ! 
 
 Some day, who knows ? even thou wilt praise the feat ! " 
 
 Admetos raised his face and eyed the pair : 
 
 Then, hollowly and with submission, spoke. 
 
 And spoke again, and spoke time after time, 485 
 
 When he perceived the silence of his friend 
 
 Would not be broken by consenting word. 
 
 As a tired slave goes adding stone to stone 
 
 Until he stop some current that molests. 
 
 So poor Admetos piled up argument 490 
 
 Vainly against the purpose all too plain 
 
 In that great brow acquainted w^ith command. 
 
 "Nowise dishonoring, nor amid my foes 
 
 Ranking thee, did I hide my wife's ill fate ; 
 
 But it were grief superimposed on grief, 495 
 
 Shouldst thou have hastened to another home. 
 
 My own woe was enough for me to weep ! 
 
 But, for this woman, — if it so may be, — 
 
 Bid some Thessalian, — I entreat thee, king ! — 
 
 Keep her, — who has not suffered like myself! 500 
 
 Many of the Pheraioi welcome thee. 
 
 Be no reminder to me of my ills ! 
 
268 BROWNING. 
 
 I could not, if I saw her come to live, 
 
 Restrain the tear ! Inflict on me, diseased. 
 
 No new disease : woe bends me down enough ! 505 
 
 Then, where could she be sheltered in my liouse. 
 
 Female and young too? For that she is young, 
 
 The vesture and adornment prove. Reflect! 
 
 Should such an one inhabit the same roof 
 
 With men? And how, mixed up, a girl, with youths, 510 
 
 Shall she keep pure, in that case? No light task 
 
 To curb the May-day youngster, Herakles ! 
 
 I only speak because of care for thee. 
 
 ■Or must I, in avoidance of such harm. 
 
 Make her to enter, lead her life within 5 1 5 
 
 The chamber of the dead one, all apart ? 
 
 How shall I introduce tliis other, couch 
 
 This where Alkestis lay? A double blame 
 
 I apprehend : finst, from the citizens — 
 
 Lest some tongue of them taunt that 1 betray 520 
 
 My benefactress, fall into the snare 
 
 Of a new fresh face : then, the dead one's seK, — 
 
 Will she not blame me likewise ? Worthy, sure , 
 
 Of worship from me ! circumspect my ways, 
 
 And jealous of a fault, are bound to be. 525 
 
 But thou, — O woman, whosoe'er thou art, — 
 
 Know, thou liast all the form, art like as like 
 
 Alkestis, in the bodily shape ! Ah me ! 
 
 Take — by the Gods — this woman from my sight, 
 
 Le.st this undo me, the undone before! 530 
 
 Since I seem — seeing her — as if I saw 
 
 My own wife ! And confusions cloud my heart. 
 
 And from my eyes the springs break forth ! Ah me 
 
 Unhappy — how 1 taste for the first time 
 
 My misery in all iis bitterness!" 535 
 
 Whereat the friends conferred: The chance, in trutli, 
 
 Was an untoward one — none said otherwise. 
 
 Still, what a God comes giving, good or bad, 
 
 That, one should take and bear with. "Take her, then!" 
 
 Herakles — not unfastening his hold 540 
 
A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES. 2G9 
 
 On that same misery, beyond mistake 
 
 Hoarse in the words, convulsive in the face, — 
 
 " I would that I had such a power," said he, 
 
 "As to lead up into the light again 
 
 Thy very wife, and grant thee such a grace ! " 545 
 
 ' ' Well do I know thou wouldst : but where the hope ? 
 There is no bringing back the dead to light." 
 
 "Be not extravagant in grief, no less! 
 Bear it, by augury of ]:)etter things I " 
 
 " "Tis easier to advise "bear up,' than bear!" 550 
 
 "But how carve way i" the life that lies before, 
 If lient on groaning ever for the past?" 
 
 " I myself know that: but a certain love 
 Allures me to the choice I shall not change." 
 
 " Ay, but, still loving dead ones, still makes weep." 555 
 
 "And let it be so! She has ruined me. 
 And still more than I say: that answers all." 
 
 "Oh, thou hast lost a brave wife: who disputes?" 
 
 "So brave a one — that he whom thou behold'st 
 
 Will never more enjoy his life again!" 560 
 
 "Time will assuage! The evil yet is young!" 
 
 "Time, thou mayst say, will: if time mean — to die." 
 
 ' ' A wife — the longing for new marriage-joys 
 Will stop thy sorrow ! " 
 
 "Hush, friend, — hold thy peace! 
 What hast thou said ! 1 could not credit ear ! " 565 
 
 "How then? Thou wilt not marry, then, but keep 
 A widowed couch ? " 
 
 " There is not any one 
 Of womankind shall couch with whom thou seest ! " 
 
 "D'ost think to profit thus in any way 
 The dead one ? " 
 
270 BROWNING. 
 
 " Her, wherever she abide, 570 
 
 My duty is to honor." 
 
 ' ' And I praise — 
 Indeed I praise thee ! Still, thou hast to pay 
 The price of it, in being held a fool ! " 
 
 ' ' Fool call me — only one name call me not ! 
 Bridegroom ! " 
 
 "No: it was praise, I portioned thee, 575 
 Of being good true husband to thy wife ! " 
 
 "When I betray her, though she is no more. 
 May I die ! " 
 
 And the thing he said was true : 
 For out of Herakles a great glow broke. 
 
 There stood a victor worthy of a prize: 580 
 
 The violet-crown that withers on the brow 
 Of the half-hearted claimant. Oh, he knew 
 The signs of battle hard fought and well won. 
 This queller of the monsters! — knew his friend 
 Planted firm foot, now, on the loathly thing 585 
 
 That was Admetos late! "would die," he knew. 
 Ere let the reptile raise its crest again. 
 If that was trutli, why try the true friend more? 
 
 "Then, since thou canst be faithful to the death. 
 
 Take, deep into thy house, my dame ! " smiled he. 590 
 
 "Not so! — I pray, by thy Progenitor!" 
 
 "Thou wilt mistake in disobeying me!" 
 
 "Obeying thee, I have to break my heart!" 
 
 "Obey me! Who knows but the favor done 
 
 May fall into its place as duty too?" 595 
 
 So, he was humble, would decline no more 
 
 Bearing a burden: he just sighsd, "Alas! 
 
 Wouldst thou hadst never brought this prize from game ! " 
 
 " Yet, when I conquered there, thou conquercdst ! " 
 
A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES. 271 
 
 "All excellently urged! Yet — spite of all, 600 
 
 Bear with me ! let the woman " go away ! " 
 
 "She shall go. if needs must: but ere she go, 
 See if there is need ! ■" 
 
 "Need there is! At least. 
 Except I make thee angry with me, so ! " 
 
 "But I persist, because I liave my spice 605 
 
 Of intuition lilcewise : taivc the dame ! " 
 
 "Be thou the victor then! But certainly 
 Thou dost thy friend no pleasure in the act ! " 
 
 "Oh, time will come when thou shalt praise me! Now — 
 Only obey ! " 
 
 "Then, servants, since my house 610 
 
 Must needs receive this woman, take her there ! " 
 
 ' ' I shall not trust this woman to the care 
 Of servants." 
 
 "Why. conduct her in. thyself. 
 If that seem preferable ! '' 
 
 " I prefer. 
 With thy good leave, to place her in thy hands!" 615 
 
 "I would not touch her! Entry to the house — 
 That, I concede thee." 
 
 "To thy sole right hand 
 I mean to trust her ! " 
 
 "King! Thou wrenchest this 
 Out of me by main force, if I submit ! " 
 
 "Courage, friend! Come, stretch hand forth ! Good! Now 
 touch 620 
 
 The stranger-woman ! " 
 
 ' ' There ! A hand I stretch — 
 As though it meant to cut off Gorgon's head ! " 
 
 "Hast hold of her?" 
 
 " Fast hold." 
 
272 BROWNING. 
 
 "Why, then, hold fast 
 And have her ! and, one* day, asseverate 
 Thou wih, I think, thy friend, the son of Zeus, 625 
 
 He was the gentle guest to entertain ! 
 Look at her ! See if she, in any way. 
 Present thee with resemblance of thy wife ! "' 
 
 Ah, hut the tears come, find the words at fault I 
 
 There is no telling how the hero twitched 630 
 
 The veil off: and there stood, with such fixed eyes 
 
 And such slow smile, Alkestis' silent self! 
 
 It was the crowning grace of that great heart. 
 
 To keep back joy : procrastinate the truth 
 
 Until the wife, who had made proof and found 635 
 
 The husband wanting, might essay once more. 
 
 Hear, see, and feel him renovated now — 
 
 Able to do, now, all herself had done, 
 
 Risen to the height of her : so, hand in hand, 
 
 The two might go together, live and die. 640 
 
 Beside, when he found speech, you guess the speecli. 
 
 He could not think he saw his wife again : 
 
 It was some mocking God that used the bliss 
 
 To make him mad ! Till Herakles must help : 
 
 Assure him that no spectre mocked at all ; 645 
 
 He was embracing whom he buried once. 
 
 Still, — did he touch, might he address the true, — 
 
 True eye, true body of the true live wife? 
 
 And Herakles said, smiling, "All was tmth. 
 
 Spectre? Admetos had not made his guest 650 
 
 One who played ghost-invoker, or such cheat ! 
 
 Oh, he might speak and have response, in time ! 
 
 All heart could wish was gained now — life for deatii : 
 
 Only the rapture must not grow immense : 
 
 Take care, nor wake the envy of the Gods!" 655 
 
 "Oh thou, of greatest Zeus true son," — so spoke 
 Admetos when the closing word must come. 
 
A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES. 273 
 
 "Go ever in a glory of success, 
 
 And save, that sire, his offspring to the end ! 
 
 For thou hast — only thou — raised me and mine 660 
 
 Up again to this light and life ! " Then asked 
 
 Tremblingly, how was trod the perilous path 
 
 Out of the dark into the light and life : 
 
 How it happened with Alkestis there. 
 
 And Herakles said little, but enough — 665 
 
 How he engaged in combat with that king 
 
 O' the daemons : how the field of contest lay 
 
 By the tomb's self: how he sprung from ambuscade. 
 
 Captured Death, caught him in that pair of hands. 
 
 15ut all the time, Alkestis moved not once 670 
 
 Out of the set gaze and the silent smile ; 
 And a cold fear ran through Admetos'' frame : 
 "Why does she stand and front me, silent thus?" 
 
 Herakles solemnly replied, "Not yet 
 
 Is it allowable thou hear the things 675 
 
 She has to tell thee ; let evanish quite 
 
 That consecration to the lower Gods, 
 
 And on our upper world the third day rise ! 
 
 Lead her in, meanwhile ; good and true thou art. 
 
 Good, ti^ue, remain thou ! Practise piety 680 
 
 To stranger-guests the old way ! So. farewell ! 
 
 Since forth I fare, fulfil my urgent task 
 
 Set by the king, the son of Sthenelos." 
 
 Fain would Admetos keep that splendid smile 
 
 Ever to lighten him. "Stay with us, thou heart! 685 
 
 Remain our house-friend I " 
 
 " At some other day ! 
 Now, of necessity, I haste ! " smiled he. 
 
 " But mayst thou prosper, go forth on a foot 
 
 Sure to return ! Through all the tetrarchy. 
 
 Command my subjects that they institute 690 
 
274 BROWNING. 
 
 Thanksgiving-dances for the glad event, 
 
 And bid each altar smoke with sacrifice ! 
 
 For we are minded to begin a fresh 
 
 Existence, better than the life before ; 
 
 Seeing I own m_vself supremely blest." 695 
 
 Whereupon all the friendly moralists 
 
 Drew this conclusion : chirped, each beard to each : 
 
 "Manifold are thy shapings, Providence! 
 
 Many a hopeless matter Gods arrange. 
 
 What we expected never came to pass : 700 
 
 What we did not expect Gods brought to bear ; 
 
 So have things gone, this whole experience through ! " 
 
 Ah, but if you had seen the play itself! 
 
 They say, my poet failed to get the prize : 
 
 Sophokles got the prize, — great name! They say, 705 
 
 Sophokles also means to make a piece. 
 
 Model a new Admetos, a new wife : 
 
 Success to him ! One thing has many sides. 
 
 The great name ! But no good supplants a good, 
 
 Nor beauty undoes beauty. Sophokles 710 
 
 Will carve and carry a fresh cup, brimful 
 
 Of beauty and good, firm to the altar-foot. 
 
 And glorify the Dionusiac shrine : 
 
 Not clash against this crater in the place 
 
 Where the God put it when his mouth had drained, 7 1 5 
 
 To the last dregs, libation life-blood-like. 
 
 And praised Euripides forevermore — 
 
 The Human with his droppings of ivarni tears. 
 
TENNYSON. 
 
 OENONE. 
 
 There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
 Tlian all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
 The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen. 
 Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, 
 And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 5 
 
 The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 
 Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 
 The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine 
 In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
 
 Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 10 
 
 Stands up and takes the morning : but in front 
 The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
 Troas and Ilion's column''d citadel. 
 The crown of Troas. 
 
 Hither came at noon 
 Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 15 
 
 Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
 Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck 
 Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. 
 She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, 
 Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 20 
 
 Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. 
 
 " O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 For now the noonday quiet holds the hill : 
 The grasshopper is silent in the grass : 25 
 
 The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, 
 
 275 
 
276 TENNYSON. 
 
 Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. 
 
 The purple flower droops : the golden bee 
 
 Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. 
 
 My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love ; 3c 
 
 My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 
 
 And I am all aweary of my life. 
 
 " O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 
 Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves 35 
 
 That house tlie cold crown'd snake ! O mountain brooks, 
 I am the daughter of a River-God, 
 Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
 My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 
 Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 40 
 
 A cloud that gathered shape : for it may be 
 That, while I speak of it, a little while 
 My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 
 
 " O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 45 
 
 I waited underneath the dawning hills. 
 Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, 
 And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine : 
 Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
 
 Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved, 50 
 
 Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 
 
 " O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Far-off the torrent calPd me from the cleft : 
 Far up the solitary morning smote 
 
 The streaks of virgin snow. With downdropt eyes 55 
 
 I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 
 Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leojjard skin 
 Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair 
 Cluster'd about his temples like a God's, 
 And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow brightens 60 
 
 Wlien the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 
 Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. 
 
CENONE. 277 
 
 "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm 
 Disclosed a fniit of pure Hesperian gold, 65 
 
 That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd 
 And listened, the full-flowing river of speech 
 Came down upon my heart. 
 
 " ' My own CEnone, 
 Beautiful-brow'd CEnone, my own soul. 
 
 Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n 70 
 
 " For the most fair,"' would seem to award it thine, 
 As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
 The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
 Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' 
 
 " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 75 
 
 He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, 
 And added ' This was cast upon the board. 
 When all the full-faced presence of the Gods 
 Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon 
 Rose feud, with question unto whom \ were due : 80 
 
 But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve. 
 Delivering, that to me, by common voice, 
 Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, 
 Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
 
 This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 85 
 
 Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
 Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
 Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' 
 
 " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud 90 
 
 Had lost his way between the piney sides 
 Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, 
 Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, 
 And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 
 Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 95 
 
 Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose. 
 And overhead the wandering ivy and vine. 
 This way and that, in many a wild festoon 
 
278 TENNYSON. 
 
 Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
 
 With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. loo 
 
 " O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 
 And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd 
 Upon him, 'slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
 Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 105 
 
 Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows 
 Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
 Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
 Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
 
 Unquestioned, overflowing revenue iio 
 
 Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale 
 And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn. 
 Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore. 
 Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax, and toll. 
 From many an inland town and haven large, 1 1 5 
 
 Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel 
 In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 
 
 " O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 
 'Which in all action is the end of all; 120 
 
 Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred 
 And throned of wisdom — from all neighbor crowns 
 Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
 Fail from the sceptre-staff". Such boon from me, 
 From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, 125 
 A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born. 
 Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power. 
 Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 
 Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
 
 Above the thunder, with undying bliss 130 
 
 In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 
 
 " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 
 Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power 
 
CENONE. 279 
 
 Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood 135 
 
 Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
 
 O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
 
 Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
 
 The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
 
 Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 140 
 
 Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply, 
 
 " ' Self- reverence, self-knowledge, self-control. 
 These three alone lead life to sovereign power. 
 Yet not for power, (power of herself 
 
 Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, 145 
 
 Acting the law we live by without fear ; 
 And, because right is right, to follow riglit 
 Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' 
 
 "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts. 150 
 
 Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
 To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am. 
 So shalt thou find me fairest. 
 
 Yet, indeed. 
 If gazing on divinity disrobed 
 
 Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 155 
 
 Unbiassed by self profit, O, rest thee sure 
 That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee. 
 So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, 
 Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, 
 To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, 160 
 
 Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
 Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, 
 Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
 Commeasure perfect freedom.' 
 
 " Here she ceased, 
 And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O Paris, 165 
 
 Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not. 
 Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! 
 
 "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 
•2 so TENNYSON. 
 
 Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 170 
 
 Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells. 
 
 With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
 
 From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 
 
 Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
 
 And shoulder: from the violets her light foot 175 
 
 Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 
 
 Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 
 
 Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 
 
 " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 180 
 
 The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
 Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise thee 
 The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' 
 She spoke and laugh'd : 1 shut my sight for fear : 
 But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, 185 
 
 And I beheld great Here's angry eyes. 
 As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 
 And I was left alone within the bower; 
 And from that time to this I am alone, 
 And 1 shall be alone until I die. 190 
 
 "Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Fairest — why fairest wife? am I not fair? 
 My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
 Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday. 
 
 When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, J 95 
 
 Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail 
 Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? 
 Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 
 Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest 
 Close, close to thine in that quick-falling clew 200 
 
 Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
 Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 
 
 •' O mother, liear me yet before 1 die. 
 Thev came, they cut away my tallest pines, 
 My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 205 
 
(EN ONE. 281 
 
 High over the blue gorge, and all between 
 
 The snowv peak and snow-white cataract 
 
 Foster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath 
 
 Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn 
 
 The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat 210 
 
 Low in the valley. Never, never more 
 
 Shall lone O^none see the morning mist 
 
 Sweep thro' them ; never see them overlaid 
 
 With narrow moon-lit slits of silver cloud, 
 
 Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 215 
 
 " O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds. 
 Among the fragments tumbled from the glens. 
 Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her. 
 The Abominable, that uninvited came 220 
 
 Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall 
 And cast the golden fruit upon the board. 
 And bred this change ; that I might speak my mind. 
 And tell her to her face how much I hate 
 Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 225 
 
 "O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times. 
 In this green valley, under this green hill, 
 Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? 
 Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears? 230 
 
 O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
 O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? 
 O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? 
 
 death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, 
 
 There are enough unhappy on this earth, 235 
 
 Pass by the happy souls, that love to live : 
 
 1 pray thee, pass before my light of life. 
 And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
 Thou weighest heavy on the heart within. 
 
 Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die. 240 
 
 "O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 I will not die alone, for flery thoughts 
 
282 TENNYSON. 
 
 Do shape themselves within me, more and more, 
 
 Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
 
 Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, 245 
 
 Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
 
 Aly far-ofif doubtful purpose, as a mother 
 
 Conjectures of the features of iier child 
 
 Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes 
 
 Across me: never child be born of me, 250 
 
 Unhlest. to vex me with his father's eyes ! 
 
 •'O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone. 
 Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 
 Walking the cold and starless road of Death 255 
 
 Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
 With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 
 Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 
 Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
 A tire dances before her, and a sound 260 
 
 Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
 What this may be I know not, but I know- 
 That, wheresoe"er I am b\' night and day, 
 All earth and air seem only burning fire.''' 
 
 THH MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 I .SEE the wealthy niiiifr yet. 
 
 His double chin, his portly size. 
 And who that knew him could forget 
 
 The busy wrinkles round his eyes? 
 The slow wise smile that, round about 
 
 His dusty forehead dryly curl'd, 
 Seem'd half-within and half-without. 
 
 And full of dcalini^s with the world? 
 
THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 283 
 
 In yonder chair I see him sit. 
 
 Three fingers round the old silver cup — lo 
 
 I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 
 
 At his own jest — gi'ay eyes lit up 
 With summer lightnings of a soul 
 
 So full of summer warmth, so glad, 
 So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, 1 5 
 
 His memory scarce can make me sad. 
 
 Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : 
 
 My own sweet Alice, we must die. 
 There's somewhat in this world amiss 
 
 Shall be unriddled by and by. 20 
 
 There's somewhat flows to us in life. 
 
 But more is taken quite away. 
 Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife. 
 
 That we may die the self-same day. 
 
 Have I not found a happy earth? 25 
 
 I least should breathe a thought of pain. 
 Would God renew me from my birfh 
 
 rd almost live my life again. 
 So sweet it seems with thee to walk, 
 
 And once again to woo thee mine — 30 
 
 It seems in after-dinner talk 
 
 Across the walnuts and the wine — 
 
 To be the long and listless boy 
 
 Late-left an orphan of the squire. 
 Where this old mansion mounted high 35 
 
 Looks down upon the village spire : 
 For even here, where I and you 
 
 Have lived and loved alone so long. 
 Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 
 
 By some wild skylark's matin song. 40 
 
 And oft I heard the tender dove 
 
 In firry woodlands making moan; 
 But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 
 
 I had no motion of mv own. 
 
284 TENNYSON. 
 
 For scarce my life with fancy play'd 45 
 
 Bcfort' 1 (IrcainM thai jjleasant drcain — 
 
 Still liilliLT tliitliLT idly svvay'd 
 
 Like those Ioii<^ mosses in tlic stream. 
 
 Or frcjm tlir lirid^^c I IcauM to hear 
 
 The milldain nisliiii;^ down witli noise, 50 
 
 And see tiie minnows everywhere 
 
 In crystal eddies glance and jjoise, 
 The tall flaj^-ilowers when they sprnn<; 
 
 Below tlie ranu;e of stei)i)inii;-stones, 
 Oi' (hose tliree ciiestmils near, ihal Inmi;' 55 
 
 In masses thic:l< with milk\' coni's. 
 
 l)Ut, Alice, what an hour was that. 
 
 When alU'r roN'ini; in the woods 
 ('Twas April then), 1 eami' and sal 
 
 Below the ciiestnuts, when their hnds 60 
 
 Were ij;listeninjj; to the hi'eezy blue; 
 
 And on the slope, an alisent lool, 
 i east me down, noi' ihon^hl ol you. 
 
 But an,i;led in the higher pool. 
 
 l\ love-sonj; I had somewhere read, 65 
 
 An echo I'lom a measured strain, 
 Ijeat lime to nothing in ni\ head 
 
 l'i"om some odd corner ol tlu' luain. 
 ll haunted me, the morning; loni;. 
 
 With wear\ sameness in the rimes, 70 
 
 'l"he phantom of a silent soni;, 
 
 '{"hat wi-nt and canu- a thousand timi's. 
 
 'I'hen leapt a tidut. In la/.\ mood 
 
 I watcird Ihe little circles die : 
 They past iiUo the level (lood, 75 
 
 And there a vision cau!;lit my eye; 
 'I'he rellex of a beauteous form, 
 
 A ,nlo\\ini; arm, a t^K'amini^ neck. 
 As when a suuln'am wascrs warm 
 
 Within the daik and dimpled heck. 80 
 
THE Mll.l.l'.R'S DAUGirrER. 285 
 
 For you reiTicml)er, you liad set. 
 
 That nioniin^, on tlu; casc'im'iit-e(l<;c- 
 A Iniii; i^i'LTn 1)()\ of mis^noiicUc, 
 
 /\ii(l \()n were Iraniu;^ tVoni llic Icdi^i' : 
 And when I laiscd iiiv eyes, ahovt- 85 
 
 They met with two so full and luiuhl— ■ 
 Such eyes ! I swear to you, in\' love, 
 
 'I'lial lliese ha\'e never lost liicir li.i^hl. 
 
 I l()\('d, and l(i\r disprird the Icar 
 
 That I siionld die ,in va\\\ death: 90 
 
 Kor lovL' possess'd the atmosphere, 
 
 And liird the breast with [jnrer breath. 
 My mollur thought, what ails the boy? 
 
 l'"or 1 was altered, and b('i;an 
 To moN'e about the house with jo\ , 95 
 
 And with the certain step of man. 
 
 I l()\c(l the brinnniui;' wa\'e that swam 
 
 Thro" (|uii't meadows round llic mill, 
 'I'he sleepy pool above the d.ini, 
 
 The poo! beneath it never still, 100 
 
 The mealsacl<s on the whiten'd floor, 
 
 'l"lie dark idund (il the drip|)inL;- wheel, 
 The ver\- air about the door 
 
 Made mislv wilh the lloatini; meal. 
 
 .And oft in ramblin^s on the wold, 105 
 
 When April nights be.i^an to blow, 
 And April's crescent j^linuner'd cold, 
 
 1 saw the villa<j;e lights Ixdow ; 
 I knew your taper far awav. 
 
 And lull at heart ol trendiliuL; li()p(;, 1 10 
 
 l''roin oil" the wold 1 cam<\ and la\' 
 
 I'pon the freshly-llower'd slope. 
 
 The deep brook groan'd benealh the mill; 
 
 /\nd "by thai lamp,"' I thom;lit, "she sits!" 
 The white clialkMiuarrN- from llie hill 115 
 
 (deauTd to the lU'iii'' moon b\' tits. 
 
286 TENNYSON. 
 
 - ' O that I were beside her now ! 
 
 O, will she answer if I call? 
 O, would she give me vow for vow. 
 
 Sweet Alice, if I told her all ?" 120 
 
 Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; 
 
 And, in the pauses of the wind, 
 Sometimes I heard you sing within ; 
 
 Sometimes your shadow crossed the blind. 
 At last you rose and moved the light, 125 
 
 And the long shadow of the chair 
 Flitted across into the night. 
 
 And all the casement darken'd there. 
 
 But when at last I dared to speak. 
 
 The lanes, you know, were white with May, 130 
 
 Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek 
 
 Flush'd like the coming of the day ; 
 And so it was — half-sly, half-shy. 
 
 You would, and would not, little one ! 
 Although I pleaded tenderly, 135 
 
 And you and I were all alone. 
 
 And slowly was my mother brought 
 
 To yield consent to my desire : 
 She wish'd me happy, but she thought 
 
 I might have look'd a little higher; 140 
 
 And I was young — too young to wed: 
 
 "Yet must I love her for your sake; 
 (io fetch your Alice here," she said: 
 
 Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 
 
 And down 1 went to fetch my bride: 145 
 
 But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 
 This dress and that by turns you tried, 
 
 Too fearful that you should not please. 
 I loved you better for your fears, 
 
 1 knew you could not look but well; 150 
 
 And dews, that would have falFn in tears, 
 
 I kiss'd avvav before thev fell. 
 
THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 287 
 
 I watch'd the little flutterings, 
 
 The doubt my mother would not see ; 
 She spoke at large of many things, 155 
 
 And at the last she spoke of me ; 
 And turning look'd upon your face. 
 
 As near this door you sat apart, 
 And rose, and, with a silent grace 
 
 Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. 160 
 
 Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 
 
 1 gave you, Alice, on the day 
 When, arm in arm, we went along, 
 
 A pensive pair, and you were gay 
 With bridal flowers — that I may seem, 165 
 
 As in the nights of old, to lie 
 Beside the mill-wheel in the stream. 
 
 While those full chestnuts whisper by. 
 
 It is the miller's daughter. 
 
 And she is grown so dear, so dear, 170 
 
 That 1 would be the jewel 
 
 That trembles at her ear: 
 For hid in ringlets day and night, 
 I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 
 
 And I would be the girdle 175 
 
 About her dainty dainty waist. 
 And her heart would beat against me, 
 
 In sorrow and in rest : 
 And I should know if it beat right, 
 I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 180 
 
 And I would be the necklace. 
 
 And all day long to fall and rise 
 Upon her balmy bosom. 
 
 With her laughter or her sighs. 
 And I would lie so light, so light, 185 
 
 I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. 
 
288 TENNYSON. 
 
 A trifle, sweet! which true love spells — 
 
 True love interprets — right alone. 
 His light upon the letter dwells. 
 
 For all the spirit is his own. 190 
 
 So, if I waste words now, in truth 
 
 You must blame Love. His early rage 
 Had force to make me rime in youth, 
 
 And makes me talk too mucli in age. 
 
 And now those vivid hours are gone, 195 
 
 Like mine own life to me thou art. 
 Where Past and Present, wound in one, 
 
 Do make a garland for the heart : 
 So sing that other song I made, 
 
 Half-anger'd with my happy lot 200 
 
 The day, when in the chestnut shade 
 
 I found the blue Forget-me-not. 
 
 Love that hath us in the net. 
 Can he pass, and we forget? 
 Many suns arise and set. 
 Many a chance the years beget. 
 Love the gift is Love tiie debt. 
 
 Even so. 
 Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
 Love is made a vague regret. 
 Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
 Idle habit links us yet. 
 Wliat is love? for we forget: 
 Ah, no I no ! 
 
 Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, 215 
 
 Round my true heart thine arms entwine ; 
 My other dearer life in Hfe, 
 
 Look thro' my very soul with thine ! 
 Untouched with any shade of years. 
 
 May those kind eyes forever dwell ! 220 
 
 They have not shed a many tears. 
 
 Dear eves, since first 1 knew them well. 
 
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 289 
 
 Yet tears they shed : they had their part 
 
 Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, 
 The still affection of the heart 225 
 
 Became an outward breathing type, 
 That into stillness past again. 
 
 And left a want unknown before ; 
 Although the loss that brought us pain. 
 
 That loss but made us love the more, 230 
 
 With farther lookings on. The kiss, 
 
 The woven arms, seem but to be 
 Weak symbols of the settled bliss, 
 
 The comfort, I have found in thee : 
 But that (]od bless thee, dear — who wrought 235 
 
 Two spirits to one equal mind — 
 With blessings beyond hope or thought. 
 
 With blessings which no words can find. 
 
 Arise, and let us wander forth, 
 
 To yon old mill across the wolds ; 240 
 
 For look, the sunset, soutli and north, 
 
 Winds all the vale in rosy folds, 
 And fires your narrow casement glass, 
 
 Touching the sullen pool below : 
 On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 245 
 
 Is drv and dewless. Let us go. 
 
 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 
 
 That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, 
 First made and latest left of all the knights. 
 Told, when the man was no more than a voice 
 In the white winter of his age, to those 
 Witli whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds. 
 
 For on their march to westward, Bedivere, 
 Who slowly paced among the slumbering host. 
 Heard in his tent the moanings of the King: 
 
290 teniVysoa: 
 
 ' I found Him in the shining of the stars, 
 I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields, lo 
 
 But in His ways with men I find Him not. 
 I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. 
 O me ! for why is all around us here 
 As if some lesser god had made the world. 
 But had not force to shape it as he would, 15 
 
 Till the High God behold it from beyond. 
 And enter it, and make it beautiful? 
 Or else as if the world were wholly fair. 
 But that these eyes of men are dense and dim. 
 And have not power to see it as it is : 20 
 
 Perchance, because we see not to the close : — 
 For I, being simple, thought to work His will, 
 And have but stricken with the sword in vain ; 
 And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend 
 Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm 25 
 
 Reels back into the l3east, and is no more. 
 My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death : 
 Nay — God my Christ — I pass but shall not die.' 
 
 Then, ere that last weird battle in the west 
 
 There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill'd 30 
 
 In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown 
 
 Along a wandering wind, and past his ear 
 
 Went shrilling ' Hollow, hollow all delight ! 
 
 Hail, king ! to-morrow thou shalt pass away. 
 
 Farewell I there is an isle of rest for thee. 35 
 
 And I am blown along a wandering wind. 
 
 And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight." 
 
 And fainter onward, like wild birds tliat cliange 
 
 Their season in the night and wail their way 
 
 From cloud to cloud, down the long wind tlie dream 40 
 
 Shriird : but in going mingled with dim cries 
 
 Far in the moonlit haze among the hills. 
 
 As of some lonely city sack'd by night. 
 
 When all is lost, and wife and child with wail 
 
 Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke and call'd. 45 
 
 ' Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind. 
 
THE PASSING OF ARTflUR. 291 
 
 Thine, Gawain, was the voice — are these dim cries 
 Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild 
 Mourn, knowing it will go along with me ?' 
 
 This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake : 50 
 
 ♦ O me, my king, let pass whatever will, 
 Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field ; 
 But in their stead thy name and glory cling 
 To all high places like a golden cloud 
 
 For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass. 55 
 
 Light was Gawain in life, and light in death 
 Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man ; 
 And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise — 
 I hear the steps of Modred in the west, 
 
 And with him many of thy people and knights 60 
 
 Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown 
 Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee. 
 Right well in heart they know thee for the king. 
 Arise, go forth and conquer as of old." 
 
 Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 65 
 
 ' Far other is this battle in the west 
 Whereto we move, than when we strove in youtli. 
 And brake the petty Kings and fought with Romj 
 And thrust the heathen from the Roman wall. 
 And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mine 70 
 
 To war against my people and my knights. 
 The king who fights his people fights himself. 
 And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke 
 That strikes them dead is as my death to me. 
 Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way 75 
 
 Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I saw 
 One lying in the dust at Almesbury, 
 Hath folded in the passes of the world." 
 
 Then rose the king and moved his host by night. 
 And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league, 80 
 
 Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse — 
 A land of old upheaven from the abyss 
 
292 TENNYSON. 
 
 By fire, to sink into the abyss again ; 
 
 Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt, 
 
 And the long mountains ended in a coast 85 
 
 Of ever-shifting sand, and far away 
 
 The phantom circle of a moaning sea. 
 
 There the pursuer could pursue no more. 
 
 And he that fled no further fly the king : 
 
 And there, that day when the great light of hea\-cn 90 
 
 Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year. 
 
 On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed. 
 
 Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight 
 
 Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. 
 
 A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea : 95 
 
 Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew 
 
 Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold 
 
 With formless fear : and e\'n on Arthur fell 
 
 Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought. 
 
 For friend and foe were sliadows in the mist, 100 
 
 And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew ; 
 
 And some had visions out of golden youth, 
 
 And some beheld the faces of old ghosts 
 
 Look in upon the battle ; and in the mist 
 
 Was many a noble deed, many a base, 105 
 
 And chance and craft and strength in single fights. 
 
 And ever and anon with host to host 
 
 Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn 
 
 Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crasli 
 
 Of battle-axes on shattered helms, and shrieks iio 
 
 After the Christ, of those who falling down 
 
 Looked up for heaven, and only saw the mist : 
 
 And shouts of heathen and the traitor kniglits. 
 
 Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blaspliemies. 
 
 Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of the lungs 1 1 5 
 
 In that close mist, and cryings for the light. 
 
 Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead. 
 
 Last, as by some one deathbed after wail 
 Of sulTering, silence follows, or thro' death 
 Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore, 120 
 
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 2:)3 
 
 Save for some whisper of the seething seas, 
 
 A dead hush fell ; but when the dolorous da\- 
 
 Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came 
 
 A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew 
 
 The mist aside, and with that wind the tide 125 
 
 Rose, and the pale king glanced across the field 
 
 Of battle : but no man was moving there ; 
 
 Nor any cry of Clinstian heard thereon. 
 
 Nor yet of heathen ; only the wan wave 
 
 Brake in among dead faces, to and fro , 130 
 
 Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down 
 
 Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen. 
 
 And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome, 
 
 And rolling far along the gloomy shores 
 
 The voice of days of old and days to be. 135 
 
 Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, 
 And whiter than the mist that all dav long 
 Had held the field of battle was the King: 
 
 ' Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world. 
 And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move, 140 
 
 And beats upon the faces of the dead. 
 My dead, as tho" they had not died for me? — 
 O Bedivere, for on my heart hath falPn 
 Confusion, till 1 know not what I am. 
 
 Nor whence I am. nor whether I be king. 145 
 
 Behold, I seem but king among the dead.' 
 
 Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere : ' My King, 
 King everywhere ! and so the dead have kings. 
 There also will I worship thee as king. 
 
 Vet still thy life is whole, and still 1 live 150 
 
 Who love thee ; but who hates thee, he that brought 
 The heathen back among us, yonder stands, 
 Modred. unharm'd, the traitor of thine house.' 
 
 Then spake the King: ' My house hath been my doom. 
 But call not thou this traitor of my house s^SS 
 
294 TENNYSON. 
 
 Who hath bul dwelt beneath one roof with me. 
 
 My house are rather they who sware my vows, 
 
 Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me king. 
 
 And well for thee, saying in my dark hour, 
 
 When all the purport of my throne hath faiPd, 1 60 
 
 That quick or dead thou boldest me for king. 
 
 King am I, whatsoever be their cry; 
 
 And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see 
 
 Yet, ere I pass.' And uttering this the king 
 
 Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege 165 
 
 Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword 
 
 Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one blow. 
 
 Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, 
 
 Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell. 
 
 So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 170 
 
 Among the mountains by the winter sea : 
 Until King Arthur's Table, man by man, 
 Had fairn in Lyonnesse about their lord. 
 King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep. 
 The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 175 
 
 And bore him to a chapel nigh the tield, 
 A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
 That stood on a dark strait of barren land : 
 On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
 Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 180 
 
 Then spake King Arthur to .Sir Bedivere : 
 * The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
 The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
 Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
 They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 185 
 
 Shall never more, at any future time. 
 Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds. 
 Walking about the gardens and the halls 
 Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
 
 I perish by this people which 1 made, — 190 
 
 Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
 To rule once more ; but let what will be, be . 
 
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 295 
 
 I am so deeply smitten thro' the hehn 
 
 That without help I cannot last till morn. 
 
 Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 195 
 
 Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 
 
 In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
 
 Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. 
 
 Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
 
 Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 200 
 
 And took it, and have worn it, like a king; 
 
 And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
 
 In aftertime, this also shall be known: 
 
 But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
 
 And fling him far into the middle mere : 205 
 
 Watch what thou seest : and lightly bring me word.' 
 
 To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
 ' It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee thus. 
 Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm — 
 A little thing may harm a wounded man: 210 
 
 Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
 Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.' 
 
 So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept. 
 And in the moon athwart the place of tombs. 
 Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 215 
 
 Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
 Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
 By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock. 
 Came on the shining levels of the lake. 
 
 There drew he forth the brand Excalibur. 220 
 
 And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
 Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
 And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt ; 
 For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
 iVIyriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 225 
 
 Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long 
 That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood. 
 This wav and that dividing the swift mind. 
 
296 TENNYSON. 
 
 In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd 
 
 Better to leave Excalibur conceaPd 230 
 
 There in the many-knotted waterMags, 
 
 That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
 
 So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 
 
 Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
 ' Hast thou performed my mission which I gave? 235 
 
 What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' 
 
 And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
 ' I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
 And the wild water lapping on the crag.' 
 
 To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : 240 
 
 ' Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name. 
 Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
 Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
 For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, 
 Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 245 
 
 This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
 Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, 
 As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
 I bade thee ; watch, and lightly bring me word.' 
 
 Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 250 
 
 Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere. 
 Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; 
 But when lie saw the wonder of the hilt, 
 How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
 His palms together, and he cried aloud: 255 
 
 ' And if indeed 1 cast the brand away, 
 Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. 
 Should thus be lost for ever from the earth. 
 Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
 What good should follow this, if this were done? 260 
 
 What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey. 
 Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
 
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 297 
 
 Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
 
 An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
 
 The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 265 
 
 What record, or what relic of my lord 
 
 Should be to aftertime, but empty breatli 
 
 And rumors of a doubt? But were this kept. 
 
 Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings. 
 
 Some one might show it at a joust of arms, 270 
 
 Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
 
 Wrought by the lonely maiden of tlie Lake. 
 
 Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
 
 Upon tlie hidden bases of the hills.' 
 
 So might some old man speak in the aftertime 275 
 
 To all the people, winning reverence. 
 
 But now much honor and much fame were lost.' 
 
 .So spake he, clouded with his own conceit. 
 And hid Excalibur the second time. 
 
 And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 280 
 
 Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 
 'What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' 
 
 And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
 ' I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
 .And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 285 
 
 To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : 
 • Ah miserable and unkind, untrue, 
 Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
 Authority forgets a dying king. 
 
 Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 290 
 
 That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art. 
 For thou, the latest-left of all my knights 
 In whom should meet the offices of all. 
 Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
 Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 295 
 
 Valuing the giddy pleasures of the eyes. 
 Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
 And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : 
 But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
 I will arise and slay thee with my hands.' 300 
 
298 TEXXYSON. 
 
 Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. 
 And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
 Among the buliaish-beds, and clutched the sword, 
 And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand 
 Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, 305 
 
 And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, 
 Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
 Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
 By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
 So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur : 310 
 
 But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
 Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
 And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 
 Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
 And lightly went the other to the King. 315 
 
 Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : 
 ' Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
 Speak out: what is it thou hast heard or seen?' 
 
 And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
 ' Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 320 
 
 Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
 Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
 Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
 So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
 
 Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling liim : 325 
 
 But when I looked again, behold an arm, 
 Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, * 
 
 That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 
 Three times, and drew him under in the mere.' 
 
 And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 330 
 
 'My end draws nigh; "tis time that I were gone. 
 Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight. 
 And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
 .My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.' 
 
 So saying, from the ixuement he lialf rose, 335 
 
 Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
 
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 299 
 
 And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
 
 As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
 
 Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
 
 And would have spoken, but he found not words ; 340 
 
 Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee. 
 
 O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands. 
 
 And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 
 
 But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, 
 Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 345 
 
 When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
 Muttering and murmuring at his ear, ' Quick, quick ! 
 I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' 
 But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. 
 Clothed with his breath, and looking as he walk'd, 350 
 
 Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
 He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
 Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
 Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
 And barren chasms, and all to left and right 355 
 
 The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based 
 His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
 Sharp-smitten with the dint of arm^d heels — 
 And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. 
 And the long glories of the winter moon. 360 
 
 Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge. 
 Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
 Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 
 That all the decks were dense with stately forms, 
 Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 365 
 Three Queens with crowns of gold : and from them rose 
 A cry that shiverd to the tingling stars. 
 And, as it were one voice, an agony 
 Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
 
 All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 370 
 
 Or hath come, since the making of the world. 
 
 Then murmur'd Arthur, 'Place me in the barge;' 
 So to the barge tliev came. There those three Queens 
 
300 TENNYSON. 
 
 Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
 
 But she, that rose the tallest of them all 375 
 
 And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
 
 And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed liis hands. 
 
 And caird him by his name, complaining loud. 
 
 And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
 
 Striped with dark jjlood : for all liis face was whitf 380 
 
 And colorless, and like the withered moon 
 
 Smote by the fresh Ijeam of the springing east ; 
 
 And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with dro])s 
 
 Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls — 
 
 That made his forehead like a rising sun 385 
 
 High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust; 
 
 Or, clotted into i)oints and hanging loose, 
 
 Mix'd with the knightly growtli that fringed his lips. 
 
 So like a shattered column lay the King; 
 
 Not like that Arthur, who, with lance in rest, 390 
 
 From spur to plume a star of tournament. 
 
 Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged. 
 
 Before tlie eyes of ladies and of kings. 
 
 Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: 
 'Ah, my lord Arthur, whither shall 1 go? 395 
 
 Where shall 1 hide my forehead and my eyes? 
 For now I see the true old times are dead. 
 When every morning brought a noble chance. 
 And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
 Such times have been not since the light that led 400 
 
 The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
 But now the whole Round Table is dissolved 
 Which was an image of the mighty world; 
 And I, the last, go forth companionless. 
 And the days darken round me, and llie years, 405 
 
 Among new men, strange faces, other minds.' 
 
 And slowly answered Arthur from the barge : 
 ' The old order changeth, yielding place to new. 
 And (jod fulfils himself in many ways. 
 Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 410 
 
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 301 
 
 Comfort thyself: wliat comfort is in me? 
 
 1 have lived my life, and that wliich I have done 
 
 May He within himself make pure ! but thou. 
 
 If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
 
 Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 415 
 
 Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
 
 Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
 
 For what are men better than sheep or goats 
 
 That nourish a blind life within the l^rain. 
 
 If, knowing God, tiiey lift not hands of prayer 420 
 
 Both for themselves and those who call them friend? 
 
 For so the whole round earth is every way 
 
 Bound by gold chains about tlie feet of God. 
 
 But now farewell. 1 am going a long way 
 
 With these thou seest — if indeed I go 425 
 
 (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) — 
 
 To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
 
 Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
 
 Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
 
 Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 430 
 
 And b()wer\ hollows crown'd with summer .sea. 
 
 Where 1 will Ileal me of my grievous wound.' 
 
 So said he, and the barge with oar and .sail 
 Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 
 That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 435 
 
 Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
 With swartliy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
 Revolving many memories, till the hull 
 Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn. 
 And on the mere the wailing died away. 440 
 
 But when that moan had past for evermore. 
 The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn 
 Amazed him, and he groanVl, ' The King is gone.' 
 And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, 
 « From the great deep to the great deep he goes.' 445 
 
 Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly ciomb 
 The last hard footstep of that iron crag ; 
 
302 TENNYSON. 
 
 Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried, 
 
 ' He passes to be King among the dead. 
 
 And after healing of his grievous wound ^cq 
 
 He comes again ; but — if he come no more — 
 
 O me, be 3'on dark Queens in yon black boat, 
 
 Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed 
 
 On that high day, when, clothed with living light, 
 
 They stood before his throne in silence, friends 455 
 
 Of Arthur, who should help him at his need ? " 
 
 Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint 
 As from beyond the limit of the world. 
 Like the last echo born of a great cry. 
 
 Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice 4oo 
 
 Around a king returning fi"om his wars. 
 
 Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb 
 Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and .saw. 
 Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand. 
 Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, 465 
 
 Down that long water opening on the deep 
 Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go, 
 From less to less and vanish into light. 
 And the new sun rose bringing the new year. 
 
 THE SPLENDOR FALLS. 
 
 The splendor falls on castle walls 
 
 And snowy summits old in story: 
 The long light shakes across the lakes, 
 
 And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
 Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, 
 And thinner, clearer, farther going! 
 
HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD. 303 
 
 O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
 
 The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! lo 
 
 Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
 Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 O love, they die in yon rich sky. 
 
 They faint on hill or field or river : 
 Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 15 
 
 And grow for ever and for ever. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD. 
 
 Home they brought her warrior dead : 
 
 She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry : 
 All her maidens, watching, said, 
 
 ' She must weep or she will die." 
 
 Then they praised him, soft and low, 5 
 
 Caird him worthy to be loved. 
 Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
 
 Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 Stole a maiden from her place. 
 
 Lightly to the warrior stept, lO 
 
 Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
 
 \et she neither moved nor wept. 
 
 Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
 
 Set his child upon her knee — 
 Like summer tempest came her tears — 15 
 
 ' Sweet, my child, I live for thee.' 
 
304 TENNYSON. 
 
 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 O well for the fislierman's bov, 5 
 
 That he shouts with his sister at plav I 
 
 O well for the sailor lad. 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the bav I 
 
 And the stately siiips go on 
 
 To their haven under the hill; 10 
 
 lUit O for the touch of a vanishM hand. 
 
 And the sound of a voice that is still I 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 15 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 I COME from haunts of coot and hern. 
 
 I make a sudden sally 
 And sparkle out among the fern. 
 
 To bicker down a valley. 
 
 By thirty hills I hurry down. 
 Or slip between the ridges. 
 
 By twenty thorps, a little town, 
 And half a liundred bridges. 
 
THE BROOK. 305 
 
 Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, lo 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, 
 
 In little sharps and trebles, 
 I ])ubble into eddying bays, 1 5 
 
 I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret 
 
 By many a field and fallow, 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 
 With willow-weed and mallow. 20 
 
 I chatter chatter, as I' flow 
 
 To join the brimming river. 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I wind about, and in and out, 25 
 
 With here a blossom sailing. 
 And here and there a lusty trout. 
 
 And here and there a grayling, 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me, as 1 travel 3° 
 
 With many a silvery waterbreak 
 
 Above the golden gravel, 
 
 And draw them all along, and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river. 
 For men may come and men may go, 35 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy \AoX.%, 
 
 I slide by hazel covers ; 
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for hapjjy lovers. 4° 
 
306 TENNYSON. 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
 
 Among my skimming swallows ; 
 1 make the netted sunbeam dance 
 
 Against my sandy shallows. 
 
 1 murmur under moon and stars 45 
 
 In Ijrambly wildernesses; 
 1 linger by my shingly bars; 
 
 I loiter round my cresses ; 
 
 And out again I cur\'e and ilow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 50 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 
 But I ffo on for e\er. 
 
 CROSSING THE BAR. 
 
 Sunset and evening star. 
 
 And one clear call for me ! 
 And may there be no moaning of the bar, 
 
 When I put out to sea. 
 
 But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 5 
 
 Too full for sound and foam. 
 When that which drew from out the boundless deep 
 
 Turns again home. 
 
 Twilight and evening bell, 
 
 And after that the dark ! 10 
 
 And may there be no sadness of farewell 
 
 When 1 embark : 
 
 For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place, 
 
 Tlie flood may bear me far, 
 I hope to see my Pilot face to face 15 
 
 When I ha\e crost the bar. 
 
NOTES 
 
 FROM MILTON TO TENNYSON 
 
 MASTERPIECES OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 L. DUPONT SYLE, M.A. (yale) 
 
 Instructor in English in the University of California 
 
 \ 
 
 (Copyright, 1894, by L. D. Syle) 
 
 Boston 
 
 ALLYN AND BACON 
 1894 
 
CONTENTS OF THE NOTES. 
 
 List of Abbreviations 
 Milton- 
 Introduction TO Dryden and Pope 
 Dryden 
 Pope . 
 Thomson . 
 Johnson 
 Gray 
 Goldsmith 
 
 COWPER 
 
 Burns 
 
 The Revival of Romanti 
 
 Coleridge 
 
 Byron 
 
 Keats 
 
 Shelley . 
 
 WORDSWOR III 
 
 Macaulay 
 
 Clough 
 
 Matthew Arno 
 
 Browning . 
 
 Tennyson . 
 
 Some Attempts to Define Poeikv 
 
 3 
 24 
 
 25 
 35 
 51 
 56 
 63 
 69 
 75 
 78 
 87 
 88 
 
 95 
 107 
 
 "5 
 122 
 129 
 
 137 
 141 
 146 
 
 151 
 160 
 
 (0 
 
LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS. 
 
 Brewer = Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. 
 
 Cl. Myths = Gayley's Classic Myths in English Literature. 
 
 E. M. L. = English Men of Letters Series. 
 
 Gt. \Vr. = Great Writers Series. 
 
 Green — Green's Short History of the English People. 
 
 Rich = Rich's Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities. 
 
 Whitney = Whitney's Essentials of English Grammar. 
 
 (2) 
 
JOHN MILTON. 
 
 Born in London, 1608, nine years after the birth of Cromwell and eight years 
 before the death of Shakespeare. Took his Bachelor's degree in 1629 and his 
 Master's degree in 1632 at Christ's College, Cambridge ; Cromwell was at the 
 same University, 1616-17. Wrote his most famous minor poems at his father's 
 home at Horton in Buckinghamshire, 1632-8. Visited Italy, 1638-9. The next 
 twenty years were devoted chiefly to serving the Commonwealth. Lost his 
 eyesight about 1652. Paradise Lost did not appear till 1667. Milton died in 
 1674; two years later was produced Etheredge's The Man of Mode — the first 
 good English Comedy of Manners — and the transition from the Puritan to the 
 Restoration Period is complete. 
 
 Friends and Associates — Diodati, Cyriack Skinner, Marvell ; Vane, 
 Cromwell. 
 
 Other Contemporaries — Galileo, Mazarin, Bunyan, Dryden. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — Masson's Life of yohn Milton Narrated m Connection 
 ■with the Political, Ecclesiastical and Literary History of His Time. 6 vols. 
 (Macmillan). 
 
 For the advanced student this book is invaluable as a storehouse of mate- 
 rial. Better for the beginner are the shorter lives hy Pattison (E. M. L.) and 
 by Garnett (Gt. Wr.) The former is useful on the literary side ; the latter on 
 the political and religious. Green's 'Puritan England' (being the 8th chapter 
 of his Short History') may also be consulted with much profit. 
 
 Text. — Masson's (Macmillan). 
 
 Criticism. — Addison; Spectator, Nos. 267, 273, 279, 285, 291, 297, 303, 
 309, 315. 321, 327. 333. 339. 345. 3Si. 357. 363. 369- " • • • the fiiult 
 of Addison's Miltonic criticism, once so celebrated [is that] it rests almost 
 entirely upon convention." — Matthew Arnold. 
 
 Macau lay ; Essay on Milton. — Astonishing as a piece of rhetoric, but 
 extremely superficial as criticism. 
 
 DeQuincey ; Essay on Johnson's Life of Milton. Chiefly a correction of John- 
 son's prejudiced view. 
 
 Emerson; Essays from the North .4m. Rev.; John Milton. Dwells on the 
 heroic side of Milton's character. 
 
 Bafehot; Literary Studies, Vol. L; John Milton. Calls attention, not un- 
 justly, to Milton's unlovely side, but is also appreciative and sympathetic. 
 
NOTES TO MILTON. 
 
 Lcnuell ; Essay o/i Miltoti. Largely a criticism, in Lowell's inimitable style, 
 of Masson's mountainous book and defective literary method. Contains, also, 
 invaluable remarks on Milton's versification. 
 
 Matthe'ii) Arnold ; Essavs in Criticism, Second Series ; Milton. iWso, Mixed 
 Essavs ; .-i French Critic on Milton. The most sane and judicious estimate we 
 have. 
 
 Mark Fattison ; The Sonnets of John Milton. (Appleton). 
 
 L'ALLEGRO AND IL PENSEROSO. 
 
 Introduction. — These two poems were probably written at Horton 
 between 1632 and 1637. In them, Milton looks at Nature rather with the eyes 
 of an Elizabethan of the Ben ]onson type than with those of a Wordsworthian. 
 Man and the life of Man are what chiefly interest him ; Nature is secondary and 
 interesting onlv so far as it reflects the emotions of L' Allegro (The Cheerful 
 Man) z.r\A 11 Penseroso [Pensieroso] (The Thoughtful Man). The student, the 
 classical scholar, the solitary thinker, tlie poet whose generous soul is open to 
 every kind of beautiful impression — this is what we find here. We do not find 
 such close observation of Nature, such accurate recording of natural phenom- 
 ena and such spiritual interpretations of them as characterize a Shelley and a 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Each of the poems describes a period of about twelve hours. In the Allegro 
 it is from morn till evening; in the Penseroso from evening till morn. The stu- 
 dent should notice the frequent and studied contrasts of thought and expres- 
 sion ; after a careful comparative study of the two poems, let him ask himself 
 which of them aftbrds the deeper and truer insight into the soul of the man, 
 John Milton. And why ? 
 
 L'ALLEGRO. 
 
 1-4. Notice the omission of the verb, the idea of action being 
 implied in the adverb. Cerberus; the three-headed dog who 
 
 guarded the entrance to the Underworld. Stygian; dark or 
 
 gloomy, frotn Styx, one of the rivers bounding the Underworld; CI. 
 Myths, § 48. The storv here referred to is not found in tlie Greek 
 juythology. 
 
 5-10. uncouth; literally ' unknown,' hence foreign, strange, bar- 
 barous, brooding; wrapt in gloomy thought. What is the 
 literal meaning.? Of what is Darkness jealous.? low-browed; 
 compare Milton's peculiar use of ' brow,' as a verb, in Comus, 531-2 ; 
 
 . . . hard by the hilly crofts 
 That brow this bottom glade. 
 
 Cimmerian. Is tlie epithet 'dark' tautological.? The fainous lines 
 in Odyssey XL tell us of the mythical Cimmerii that, " Never on 
 them does the shining sun look down . . . but deadly night is 
 
VALLEGRO. 
 
 spread abroad over these hapless men." Thej were fabled to dwell 
 bv the Ocean-stream, at the limits of the earth. 
 
 11-16. yclept; the _r in this word is derived from ^t", regularly 
 used in Old English as a prefix of the past participle and still so 
 used in German. Compare ypoiiitiiig, in Milton's lines On Shake- 
 speare (p. 15), where the v is incorrecth' prefixed to the present par- 
 ticiple. Euphrosyne (f i' <^iniv) ; from the Greek <?«, well or 
 easv, and J^/irt'it, the mind. Venus (Aphrodite); the goddess 
 of love and beauty; CI. Myths, §40. two sister Graces; Aglaia 
 (The Bright One), and Thalia (The Blooming One). The Graces 
 presided over social pleasures. Bacchus (Dionysus) ; the god 
 of wine; CI. Myths, § 46. 
 
 17-24. Some sager; i.e., the poet himself. Notice Milton's 
 characteristic (Puritan) preference for calling Mirth the daughter 
 of the West Wind and the Dawn — fresh and pure influences of 
 Nature — ^ rather than of Bacchus and Venus (Wine and Love). 
 Zephyr; the west wind. Aurora (Eos); goddess of the dawn. 
 
 a-Maying; the 'a' hero is a corruption of 'on,' as in ashore, afloat, 
 aboard. buxom; iilerall\ 'easily bent,' hence 'pliant,' 'obe- 
 
 dient.' As obedience (in woman) was long considered a cardinal 
 virtue (by man) the word may in this way have acquired the mean- 
 ings of ' charming,' ' comely,' ' cheerful and health^-.' 
 
 25-32. Notice the light and rapid effect of the trochaic measure. 
 thee; reflexive object, as ' me' in 
 
 I look and long, then haste me home 
 Still master of my secret rare. 
 
 Lowell. ^ The Foot-Path. 13-14. 
 
 cranks; turns or twists (of speech). Hebe; cup-bearer of the 
 
 gods. 
 
 33-36. trip it. Notice the curious use of an intransitive verb 
 with a kind of impersonal object, the pronoun probably representing 
 a cognate noun-object; Whitney, §362,0. Mountain-nymph. 
 
 Your historical reading may suggest to you the reason for this 
 epithet applied to Liberty. 
 
 37-52. The three infinitives in this passage ma\' depend upon 
 admit, or the second may depend upon the first and the third upon 
 the second. If we take lark as the subject of to come (45), we are 
 committed to the absurdity of the soaring lark coming to a window ; 
 if we take me as the subject, we are puzzled to know to whom the 
 poet bids good morrow. Bonus dormitai Homcrus. twisted 
 
 eglantine; the eglantine is not twisted and is the same as the sweet 
 briar. Milton may have mistaken it for the honeysuckle. be- 
 
 fore. Is this an ad\crb or a preposition.? 
 
NOTES TO MILTON. 
 
 53-68. listening (53) and walking (57) are grammatically con- 
 nected with lines 38-9. liveries; in Middle English ' ly verey ' 
 (from the Middle Latin (res) libcnxta, a thing delivered) signified a 
 regular allowance of food or clothes, delivered to the servants of a 
 household. dight ; ' arrayed,' from the Middle English ' dighten,' 
 to set in order, arrange. This is cognate with the modern German 
 word DicJitcr meaning Poet : he who sets in order and arranges 
 (verses). tells his tale, not ' makes love,' but (literally) 
 ' counts his number,' that is, numbers his flock. The original 
 meaning of 'tell' is 'count,' preserved in the expression 'She tells 
 her beads ; ' tale in the sense of ' number' or ' sum ' is very common 
 in the 161 1 version of the Bible and is so used by George Eliot, 
 Mill on the Floss, VI. 13. 
 
 6g-8o. lawns; open spaces between woods. In Par. Lost, IV. 
 252, we have, 'Betwixt them lawns or level downs.' daisies 
 
 pied; this is evidentlv a reminiscence of Shakespeare's 
 
 When daisies pied and violets blue 
 And lady-smocks all silver white, 
 And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue 
 Do paint the meadows with delight — 
 
 Love's Labor's Lost, v. 2. (near the end). Lines 77-8 were 
 
 probably suggested by Windsor Castle, which is not far from Hor- 
 ton. lies. In Othello iii. 4. Desdemona uses this word and in- 
 
 terprets it for the clown as lodges, which is the meaning here. 
 Cynosure ; a word whose figurati\e meaning is extraordinarily 
 different from the literal one. With the aid of the dictionary trace 
 the process by which the Greek kiinostira (Kvvuaovixi), dog's-tail, has 
 come to be a possible epithet for " some beauty." 
 
 81-90. Corydon and Thyrsis; Vergilian names for shepherds; 
 Eclogue VII. 2. met; notice the condensation in this construc- 
 
 tion : expand it. Phillis ; Thestylis ; common names in the 
 
 Greek poets, for rustic maidens. bower = inner room. In 
 
 Chaucer's Nonne Prestes Tale we find that the poor widow had only 
 two rooms in her house, a ' halle' and a ' hour.' 
 
 91-103. rebecks; the rebeck was a musical instrument with a 
 pear-shaped body and two or three strings. It is supposed to be of 
 Moorish origin. Faery Mab ; see Mercutio's famous lines in 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, i. 4. Feat; eat. As late as Pope 'ea'was 
 
 doubtless pi-onoimccd like a in 'fate.' 
 
 Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, 
 Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes tea. 
 
 Rape of the Lock, III. 7-8. 
 
r ALLEGRO. 
 
 She was pinched and pulled ; lazy servant girls, according to the 
 story, were so punished by Robin Good Fellow (Puck). There are 
 innumerable references to this in English Literature, the best known 
 of course being in the Midsummer Night's Dream, ii. i. In 
 Butler's Hudibras, III. i. line 1407 et seq. we have another: 
 
 Thou art some paltry, blackguard sprite 
 Condemned to drudgery in the night; 
 
 You dare not be so troublesome 
 
 To pinch the slatterns black and blue 
 
 For leaving you their work to do. 
 
 104-116. Some commentators, who seem to regard mythology as 
 an exact science, are greatly distressed over the ' confusion ' which 
 Milton has here introduced into the fairy world. Since mythology 
 in general is the creation of the poetic mind of primitive peoples, and 
 since fairy mythology in particular is "fantasy . . . thin of 
 substance as the air," let us not share the grief of Drvasdust at the 
 poet's ' error.' Those who would be learned in these matters may 
 consult Keightley's Fairy M\thology, where they will find given 
 the exact difference between Friar Rush, the house-spirit, and Will 
 o' the Wisp, the field-spirit. the drudging goblin; see the quo- 
 
 tation from Hudibras, above. lubber = awkward. This old 
 
 word is now seldom heard except in the conversation of sailors, 
 where ' land-lubber' and ' lubber' s-hole ' have well understood mean- 
 ings. Consult the Diet. chimney, in its original sense of 
 kcartli. What is the syntax of length ? crop-full = with 
 full stomach. Crop signifies originally ' a rounded, projecting 
 mass, a protuberance ' (Cent. Diet.); from this are derived its nu- 
 merous other meanings. 
 
 1 17-124. Weeds = garments. This, the original meaning of the 
 Old English xvaed, survives in the expression "widow's weeds." 
 In Chaucer's Knight's Tale (147-9) it is used (as here) of men's 
 attire : 
 
 To ransack in the tas of bodyes dede 
 Hem for to strepe of barneys and of wede 
 The pilours diden bisynesse and cure. 
 
 store, literalh' ' that which is provided or furnished for use as 
 needed,' hence, an abundance. rain influence; an allusion to 
 
 the astrological belief that the radiation of power from the stars 
 affects the fate of men ; compare ' influenza.' 
 
 126-134. Hymen; the god of marriage. He is represented as 
 carrying, in the bridal procession, the bridal veil (saffron robe) and 
 a torch. The symbolic meanings of the saffron and of the torch 
 
8 NOTES TO MILTON. 
 
 must have been lost in pre-historic times, for the explanations of 
 the Latin writers themselves seem to be pure conjectures. Na- 
 tions differ curiousl_v in their choice of wedding colors; in China 
 the bride wears red; in Japan and among ourselves, white, doubt- 
 less as an emblem of purity. Why orange-blossoms also.' If theie 
 is any connection with the saffron of the Romans, it has not yet 
 been traced. Masks were a popular form of entertainment 
 
 at the time the Allegro was written. Ben Jonson (line 132) wrote 
 inanv; Milton himself wrote two, Arcades and Comus ; Shake- 
 speare has introduced one with beautiful effect in the 4th Act of 
 the Tempest. Jonson; the friend of Shakespeare and after him, 
 
 with the possible exception of Fletcher, the greatest of Elizabethan 
 dramatists. His extensive know ledge of the classics led him to form 
 his plays upon classic models. His best acting comedy (Epicoene 
 or The Silent Woman) is not inferior to some of Shakespeare's. 
 Sock; the actors in classic comedy wore a low shoe or slipper 
 called by the Romans soccnsi hence, by metonymy, sock stands for 
 comedy. wood-notes wild ; the romantic drama of Shake- 
 
 speare, with his little Latin and less Greek, did not altogether suit 
 the taste of such learned men as Ben Jonson and Milton. Yet they 
 both loved and admired him. See Milton's lines On Shakespeare 
 (p. 15) and Jonson's verses printed imder the portrait of Shake- 
 speare in the folio of 1623. 
 
 This Figure, that thou here seest put, 
 It was for gentle Shakespeare cut ; 
 Wherein the Grauer had a strife 
 With Nature to out-doo the life; 
 O, could he but have drawne his wit 
 As well in brasse, as he hath hit 
 His face; the Print would then surpasse 
 All, that was ever writ in brasse. 
 But, since he cannot, Reader, looke 
 Not on his Picture, but his Booke. 
 
 135-152. Lydian; the Greeks divided their scale according to three 
 recognized modes, which they called respectively the Dorian, the 
 Phrygian and the Lydian. They believed that each mode had some 
 peculiar aesthetic and ethical value ; the province of Lydia in Asia 
 Minor was famous for its wealth and luxury : hence this Lydian 
 mode may have become associated with the idea of voluptuousness 
 in music. Musicians will find an elaborate discussion of this topic 
 in the Cent. Die, article, Mode (7). soul (138); is this sub- 
 
 ject or object.' The syntax of lines 13S-142 needs careful study. 
 Explain the paradoxical epithets in line 141. Orpheus, Pluto, 
 
IL PENSEROSO. 
 
 Eurydice ; this beaulitul story, beautifully told, will be found in 
 CI. Myths, § 107: it is too long to be quoted here. Elysian ; 
 
 Elysium was the bright land to ^vhich the souls of the just departed 
 after death — in the case of favored heroes, without death. Here 
 they lived happy, each following what had been his favorite occu- 
 pation on earth. CI. Myths, pages Si-Sj. The Parisians retain 
 the word as a place-name in Champs-Elysees, the beautifullv wooded 
 avenue that stretches from the Place de la Concorde to the Arc de 
 Triomphe. 
 
 A poet of the first rank seldom employs an adjeetive without a good reason ; 
 uneducated people employ adjectives constantly and with very little reason. 
 You will find it interesting to look back over this poem and study Milton's use 
 of adjectives, determining in each case the propriety of the use. 
 
 IL PENSEROSO. [PENSIEROSO]. 
 
 The opening of the Penseroso seems to have been suggested by Beaumont's 
 (?) song beginning 
 
 Hence all you vain delights 
 As short as are the nights 
 Wherein you spent vour folly! 
 
 This song was first printed in Fletcher's play of The Nice Valour (1647) but 
 was quite possibly in circulation long before. The Allegro and the Penseroso 
 themselves were not printed till some eight or ten years after they were written. 
 
 i-io. bested = assist, help. What is the force of the prefix here.' 
 What is the force in behead? fond = foolish ; the regular 
 
 meaning in Old English and still retained in poetry ; very coinmon 
 in Chaucer and in Shakespeare. "I do wonder, thou naughty 
 gaoler, that thou art so fond. To come abroad with him at his re- 
 quest." Merch. of Ven. iii. 3. pensioners = dependents, atten- 
 dants. In rude and early times money was weighed out ( peiidcrc) ; 
 the person receiving the money was pcnsionarius. Morpheus, 
 god of dreams and son of Sleep. His name signifies the Moulder 
 or Fashioner (of dreams). 
 
 11-21. To hit = to suit, to fit. Prince Memnon's Sister; 
 
 another example of Milton's independent mythologizing. The 
 meaning is perfectly clear : beautiful as must be the Sister of Mem- 
 non " the proud son of the bright Dawn " (Odys. IV. iSS), an Ethio- 
 pian ally of the Trojans. queen; for the story of Cassiopea, 
 Andromeda and Perseus see CI. Myths, § 137; also Kingslej^'s 
 Andromeda (one of the few good hexaineter poems in English). 
 
 22-30. Vesta (Hestia), goddess of the Hearth. CI. Myths, § 42. 
 Saturn; CI. Myths, § 56 (i). A divinity of the Romans. Confused 
 
10 NOTES TO MILTON. 
 
 by them with the Greek Cronus. For the story of his dethronement 
 bj his son Jove, and for the explanation of the epithet soHtary, see 
 CI. Myths, § i8. Melancholy is here made the daughter of Fire- 
 side Musings (Vesta) and of Solitude (Saturn). Compare note on 
 L' Allegro, 17. 
 
 31-44. grain; the little insects of the genus Cor«<.< when dried 
 look like grains and yield a red-colored dye ; hence grain = a red or 
 purplish d\-e. stole; probably = hood, here, as lines 33-4 seem 
 
 to have already described a garment similar to the classic stola. 
 cypress; derived not from Cv^r^.s' but probably from the Old French 
 crcspe, Latin crispus, curled. lawn; after many conjectures as 
 
 to the origin of this word, etymologists seemed to have settled 
 upon Skeats' explanation that it is from Laon, a town some 80 miles 
 northeast of Paris. Compare ' Bayonet ' from ' Bayonne.' de- 
 
 cent = comely. commercing; notice the accent as shown by tlu- 
 
 rhythm. still. What two meanings are possible here.' fix; 
 
 a form of the Subjunctive, a Mood almost obsolete in English ; 
 found today only in a few expressions, as ' If I were you,' ' If he 
 be not wortliy." We have the same construction in lines 122, 173. 
 
 45-60. Muses; nine in number: for their names and attributes 
 see CI. Myths, § 43 (4). the fiery-wheeled throne; Milton 
 
 himself supplied the illustration for this line in Par. Lost, VI. 749- 
 
 759- 
 
 Forth rushed with whirlwind sound 
 
 The chariot of Paternal Deity, 
 
 Flashing thick flames, wheel within wheel ; undrawn, 
 
 Itself instinct with spirit, but convoyed 
 
 By four cherubic Shapes. Four faces each 
 
 Had wondrous ; as with stars, their bodies all 
 
 And wings were set with eyes ; with eyes the wheels 
 
 Of beryl, and careering fires between ; 
 
 Over their heads a crystal firmament. 
 
 Whereon a sapphire throne, inlaid with pure 
 
 Amber and colours of the showery arch. 
 
 In what consists the superiority of this description to that in Eze- 
 kiel X. ? Philomela, daughter of King Pandion of Attica. For 
 
 crime committed, the gods changed her into a nightingale. CI. 
 Myths, § 151. Cynthia; an epithet for Diana (Artemis) from her 
 birthplace, Mt. Cynthus in the island of Delos. CI. Myths, § 39. 
 
 61-73. ' The song of the nightingale ceases about the time the 
 grass is mown.' Peacock, quoted in Garnett's Milton, Chapter 
 II. wandering moon; there is poetry in the etymologies of 
 
 the words moon and planet ; look for it. 
 
 74-84. curfew, from coiivrir and feu. • In the _\ear after King 
 
IL PENSEROSO. \\ 
 
 Henry's death, in a Synod held at Caen [ 1061 ] by the Duke's author- 
 ity, and attended by Bishops, Abbots and Barons, it was ordered 
 that a bell should be rung every evening, at hearing of which prayer 
 should be offered, and all people should get within their houses and 
 shut their doors. This odd mixture of piety and police seems to be 
 the origin of the famous and misrepresented curfew. Whatever 
 was its object, it was at least not ordained as any special hardship 
 on William's English subjects.' Freeman's Norman Conquest, III. 
 1S5. bellman; when clocks were luxuries, it was customary to 
 
 employ a bellman to call the hours of the night and the state of the 
 weather. Our ancestors seem to have been deficient in humor 
 though, for when they metamorphosed the bellman into a night- 
 watchman, they forgot to take away his bell. The cricket on the 
 hearth. Dickens and Joseph Jefferson have immortalized this 
 phrase. 
 
 85-96. the Bear = the constellation Ursa Major or the Great 
 Bear, commonly known in the United States as the Dipper: in the 
 English poets often referred to as Charles' Wain, or the Churl's 
 (Peasant's) Wagon. See i Henry, IV. ii. i. ' Charles' Wain is over 
 the new chimney.' You can easily distinguish the Great Bear and 
 the Little Bear (containing the pole-star) on a clear night. 
 Hermes; the Greeks identified their divinity Hermes with the 
 Egyptian Thot, the inventor of Arts and Sciences. Read Long- 
 fellow's poem of Hermes Trismegistus for a beautiful version of this 
 legend. We have space for only one verse. 
 
 Where are now the many hundred 
 
 Thousand books he wrote ? 
 By the Thaumaturgists plundered 
 
 Lost in lands remote ; 
 In oblivion sunk forever 
 
 As when o'er the land 
 Blows a storm wind, in the river 
 
 Sinks the scattered sand. 
 
 Plato; in the Phsedo of Plato, Socrates, on the day he is con- 
 demned to die, tranquilly discusses with his friends the question of 
 the immortality of the soul. consent = agreement, harmonv. 
 
 planet; element. A belief in astrology lasted beyond the age of 
 Milton and is not dead today ; witness the amusing character of 
 Foresight the astrologer in Congreve's comedy of Love for Love 
 (1695) and the continued publication of Ayer's Almanac. 
 
 97-102. sceptered, may be taken in the sense of ' regal ' as in 
 Rich. II. ii. I. 40, 'This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle; ' 
 or sceptered pall may = ' with sceptre and with pall.' The express- 
 
12 NOTES TO .VI L TON. 
 
 ing of one thing by two — which would be the reverse of the con- 
 struction here — is common in the Greek and Latin poets and has 
 a specific name, Hendiadys (One-Through-Tvvo). Thebes; CI. 
 
 Myths, Chap. XXII. ' Pelops ; CI. Myths, § no; also Table F 
 on page 444. You must follow up the references gi\en in that 
 table to imderstand the \arious misfortunes of the house of 
 Pelops. Troy; CI. Myths, Chapters XXIV. -XXVI. .-Eschyhis, 
 
 Sophocles and Euripides based many of their tragedies on the three 
 cycles of stories here referred to. Trov is called 'divine' because 
 its walls were built by Neptune. buskined; tlie actor in tragedy- 
 
 wore a high-heeled boot (^co//inr?iux) to make his stature appear of 
 heroic size. See note on L'Allegro, 126-134. 
 
 103-108. Musaeus; CI. Myths, § 11. (2). Orpheus; see note 
 
 on L'Allegro, 135-152. 
 
 109-115. A reference to Chaucer's (unfinished) Squire's Tale. 
 In Cambuscan Milton does not follow Chaucer's accentuation, 
 which is invariably Cambyskan. 
 
 116-120. i\.n exact description of Spenser's allegor^• of The 
 Faerie Qiieene ; perhaps Milton was thinking also of Tasso's Jeru- 
 salem Delivered, (1575). 
 
 121-130. Attic boy = Cephalus ; CI. Myths, § 112. his = 
 
 modern English ' its.' In Milton's youth ' its ' was hardly estab- 
 lished in the language, being recorded in print for the first time in 
 1598. He uses it only three times in his poetry (Hymn on the 
 Nativity, 106; Par. Lost, I. 254 and IV. 814); Shakespeare but ten 
 times. In Old English the personal pronouns were highly- inflected ; 
 in the 31x1 person the Nominatixe and Possessixe cases ^vere 
 
 Miisculine. Feminine. Neuter. 
 
 Nom. he bed hit 
 
 Poss. his hire his 
 
 The confusion arising from 'his' having to serve for both Masc. 
 and Neuter led to the gradual substitution of ' its,' formed from the 
 Nom. Neuter by dropping the aspirate and adding ' s.' minute ; 
 
 the rhythm (to say nothing of the sense) will show _\ou whether this 
 is mtiiitte or minute. 
 
 131-146. Sylvan; CI. Myths, § 56, (8). Monumental; 
 
 "... suggesting to the imagination the historic oak of park 
 or chase, up to the knees in fern, which has outlasted ten gen- 
 erations of men ; has been the mute witness of the scenes of love, 
 treachery or violence enacted in the baronial hall which it shad- 
 ows and protects ; and has been so associated with man that it is 
 now rather a column and memorial obelisk than a tree of the forest." 
 Pattison's Milton, Chapter II. profane = too profane. This use 
 
L YCIDAS. 13 
 
 of the comparative is a Latinism ; see Allen and Greenough's Latin 
 Grammar, ^ 93. a. sing. In what sense is the bee said to 
 
 'sing'? sleep; CI. Mvths, § 51. (4), and § 113 (The Cave of 
 
 Sleep). In ancient works of art the god Somnus is represented with 
 wings. dewy-feathered. \'ergil tells ns that the god Sleep, 
 
 unable to lure from the helm the ti^usty pilot Palinin-us, shook 
 above his head 'a brancli dripping with Lethican dew.' (.-Eneid \'. 
 
 8.S4)- 
 
 147-150. Could we read zvith for at, we should get a tolerable 
 meaning out of these lines ; could we omit at, we should get a bet- 
 ter meaning; as they stand, his wings must refer to the wings of 
 Sleep, and at must be taken in the sense of ' near.' 
 
 151-166. good = kind, as in ' Give me a good word." Gen- 
 
 ius of the wood. In Milton's Arcades, the principal character is 
 'The Genius of the Wood." pale; the adjective is from the 
 
 Latin fallidtis, pallid; pah\ the noun, is from the Latin falus, a 
 stake. Which is this.'' Massy-proof = massively proof (against 
 
 the thrust of the roof) ; compare ' water-proof,' ' fire-proof." ec- 
 
 stacies; from the Greek (tf«Truv«<) r/", 'out,' and //istcnnii. 'place, 
 set; " a state in which the spirit is placed outside of or exalted from 
 the body. 
 
 167-176. spell of — to disco\er by careful study. 
 
 Read again the Introduction (p. 4) to L'Allegro and II Penseroso and try 
 to follow out the advice there given you. In the whole range of English Litera- 
 ture you will hardly find a diction more felicitous or a harmony more exquisite 
 than Milton displays in these poems. You will appreciate the full force of this 
 only when you have accustomed yourself to reading the poems aloud and when 
 you have committed to memory such passages as your teacher may select for 
 you. 
 
 LYCIDAS. 
 
 Introduction. — Edward King, the fellow-collegian whom Milton bewails 
 in this Elegy, is perhaps the most obscure mortal ever immortalized by a great 
 poet. None of his English poems are e.xtant ; the quality of his Latin verses 
 easily reconciles us to the loss. Though of slender abilities, he must have been 
 of pure and kindly nature to have inspired with affection such a man as Milton. 
 The back-ground of this poem is evidently intended to be classic-pastoral ; but 
 it must be confessed that the figure of St. Peter (109) appears somewhat out of 
 place in such scenery, nor can the mixture of Keltic, Christian and Hellenic 
 imagery {160-164) be extolled as an example of poetic taste. It must be re- 
 membered, though, that what would be critically condemned in this nineteenth 
 century of accurate scholarship and nice discrimination would pass almost un- 
 noticed in a simpler and less fastidious age, — an age when Shakespeare's 
 Romans wore doublets and when part of the audience sat upon the stage. 
 
14 NOTES TO MILTON. 
 
 Moreover, what is lost in poetic effect by the introduction of lines 108-131 is 
 partly compensated for by the interesting light they throw upon Milton's atti- 
 tude toward the burning political and theological questions of the day. 
 
 1-14. The laurel of Apollo, the myrtle of \'enus and the ivy of 
 Bacchus appear to symbolize poetry. The meaning of these lines, 
 then, must be that the writer feels himself not yet prepared to 
 undertake another poem and gives tis these verses only under the 
 sad compulsion of his friend's death. If this interpretation be cor- 
 rect, ' the mellowing year ' is the time of poetic ripeness. dear = 
 grievous. Compare Hamlet's 'Would I had met my dearest foe 
 in Heaven.' ' Restive' is another word that has two exactly oppo- 
 site meanings. Shatter is another form of 'scatter.' rime; 
 commonly misspelled 'rhyme' through a mistaken identification 
 with ' rhythm ' (Gk. pvOuor). ' Rime ' is from the Old English rlw, 
 ' number.' 
 
 15-22. Sisters of the Sacred Well; imitated from the opening of 
 Ilesiod'sTheogony : " With the Muses of Helicon let us begin to sing, 
 who haunt the divine and spacious mount of Helicon, who with deli- 
 cate feet dance around the violet-colored fountain and altar of the 
 mighty son of Cronus." Aganippe and Hippocrene, the fountains 
 of the Muses, are on Mount Helicon in Bceotia. Muse must 
 
 mean ' poet ; ' hardly an elegant use of the word, though found in 
 Shakespeare (Sonnet XXI. i.) and in Spenser (Prothalamion, 159). 
 lucky words; i.e. with words of good omen, such as the Si'f Ttbi 
 Terra Levi's ( May the Earth Lie Lightly O'er Thee I) of the moui-ner 
 as he thrice casts earth on the body of his friend. urn; cre- 
 
 mation was customary among the Romans of the later Republic and 
 of the Empire; the ashes were preserved in an i:rn. In earlier days, 
 interment was the regular means of disposing of the body. See 
 Rich, articles ' Hiunatio,' ' Sepulchrinn,' ' Urna ' (2). 
 
 23-31. lawns; see note on L'Allegro, 68-80. afield; see 
 
 note on L'Allegro, 17-24. gray-fly; the ' trumpet-fly which 
 
 buzzes around busily in the hot part of the day. battering; 
 
 here transitive; more commonly intransitive, as in Hamlet iii. 4, 
 
 Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed 
 And batten on this moor ? 
 
 bright, is belter connected (adverbially) with 'had sloped' than 
 with ' e\ening.' Nothing more beautiful than these nine lines 
 (23-31) is to be found in the Greek and Latin pastoral poets. 
 Had Milton only given us more verses like these, we could 
 cheerfully have spared some of the harsh Puritan invective, lines 
 "3-131- 
 
LYCIDAS. 15 
 
 32-36. oaten; in primitive times, simple musical instruments 
 were made from reeds. Satyrs; (Greek) halt-man, half-goat. 
 
 Thev were the traditional attendants of Bacchus, at whose orgies 
 they danced and plaved. CI. Myths, § 47 (3), 102, 117. Fauns; 
 
 (Latin), rustic divinities, of gentler nature than the Satyrs, but often 
 confused with them. CI. M_vths, § 56 (7). See also Hawthorne's 
 psychical romance. The Marble Faun. Damcetas; possihlv 
 
 Chappell, Tutor at Christ's College when Milton studied there. 
 The name Dama'tas occurs in the Sixth Idyll of Theocritus. 
 
 37-49. wardrobe, by metonymy = apparel. When first, etc.; 
 
 this seems to be a reminiscence of Midsiuiimer Night's Dream, i. i, 
 
 183-5- 
 
 . . . your tongue's sweet air 
 
 More tunable than lark to shepherd's ear 
 
 When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. 
 
 50-63. the steep; this description would answer to many moun- 
 tains in Wales. Druids ; by a false etymology this word was long- 
 derived from the Greek ((V'i'c) drtis, an oak, because the Druids wor- 
 shipped in oak-groves. The word is really from the Old Keltic dnii, 
 meaning ' magician.' Mona = Anglesey, once a famous strong- 
 
 hold of the Druids. Deva = the Dee, once a part of the boundary 
 line between England and Wales. There are many Keltic legends 
 connected with it, hence the epithet ' wizard.' fondly = fool- 
 
 ishly, the muse = Calliope. For the death of Orpheus, see 
 
 CI. Myths, pages 1S7-S. Orpheus seems to be a favorite subject with 
 Milton; this is the third reference we have had to him. Where are 
 the other two ? In Par. Lost, VII. 34-3S, we have a fourth : 
 
 — that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard 
 In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears, 
 To rapture, till the savage clamour drowned 
 Both harp and voice; nor could the Muse defend 
 Her son. 
 
 swift Hebrus ; the Hebrus is not swift, but slow ; Milton's phrase is a 
 literal translation of Vergil's ' volucrem Hebrum ' (^neid I. 316). 
 See note on that line in Allen & Greenough's Vergil. 
 
 64-84. A digression upon Fame : an answer to the Cui Bono 
 that comes to every earnest man at some time in his career. You 
 will notice that the classical imagery is adinirably sustained 
 throughout this passage, though there must have been a great temp- 
 tation to break off into a Hebraistic strain such as characterizes 
 lines 10S-131. What boots it? = What profits it.' Boots is 
 
 from the Old English hof. ' advantage.' It has no etymological con- 
 nection with boot in the sense of foot-wear, which is from the 
 
16 NOTES TO MILTON. 
 
 French bottc. meditate the thankless Muse; a transcript from 
 
 Vergil, Eclogue I. :; : ' Silvestrcm toiiii AInsam mediiaris avcria : ' 
 Thou dost practise rustic \erse on the thin reed, use = are accus- 
 tomed. Tlie pi-cteritc ot "use" i-elains this meaning. Ama- 
 ryllis; Neaera ; names ot girls in N'ei-gil's Eclogues. Tlie names 
 occm- again in an elegv ot George Buchanan's with wliich this 
 passage shows Milton to ha\e been familiar. Lovelace has closelv 
 followed the phraseolog\' ot line 69 in the first \erse of his beautiful 
 song, 'To i\lthea from Prison.' ( Palgi-ave's Golden Treasury, 
 
 Song 99). 
 
 When Love with unconfined wings 
 
 Hovers within my gates, 
 And my divine Aitliea brings 
 
 To whisper at the grates ; 
 When I lie tangled in her hair 
 
 And felter'd to her eye, 
 The birds that wanton in the air 
 Know no such hberty. 
 
 clear = pure, irreproachable, as in The Merchant of \'enice, ii. 9, 
 
 40- J. 
 
 ' O that estates, degrees and ottices 
 Were not derived corruptly; and that clear honor 
 Were purchased by the merit of the wearer.' 
 
 blaze = the light of fame. Par. Regained, III. 25-4S, forms an inter- 
 esting comment on this passage. Fury; the Furies (Erinyes or 
 P2umenides) were Alecto (The Lnplacable), Tisiphone (The Aven- 
 ger of Murder) and Megsera (The Envying One). Thev personified 
 Remorse; CI. Myths, § 51 (2). In the Hellenic Mythology, it is 
 not one of the Furies but one of the Fates ( Atropos, The Inflexible), 
 that cuts the thread of life. The other Fates were Clotho (The 
 Spinner) and Lachesis (Tlie Allotter) : CI. Myths, §43, (6): also 
 pp. 279-So. Phcebus, or Phcebus Apollo, the god of Poetry 
 and Music, CI. Myths, § 38. Lines 76-7 are imitated from Vergil, 
 Eclogue VI. 3-4 ; ' When I would sing of kings and wars, Cynthius 
 plucked \w\ ear and reminded me — .' The seat of memory was 
 supposed to be in the eai'. foil (Latin folium^ whence ' foliage ') ; 
 in jewelry, a thin sheet of metal often put under a poor stone to add 
 luster by reflection. ' So diamonds owe a luster to their foil.' 
 (Pope.) With this meaning for 'foil" the interpretation will be: 
 Fame is not like a cheap jewel displayed to the world with mere- 
 triciously heightened eftect. but — . 
 
 85-102. fountain Arethuse; in the little island of Ortygia lying 
 in the harbor of Syracuse. For the story of Arethusa and Alpheus 
 see CI. Myths, § 88, and Shelley's Arethusa, there quoted. Min- 
 
Z YCrDAS. 17 
 
 cius, a little i-iver in Northern Ital\', near Mantua, the birthplace of 
 \'eri4il. It is often mentioned in his writings. In what consists 
 the appropriateness of these Sicilian and Italian allusions? Her- 
 
 ald of the sea = Triton, CI. Mvths, § 54 (i); also the sonnet from 
 Wordsworth quoted on p. 87 ot that book. in Neptune's plea = in 
 
 defense of Neptune. of rugged wings, seems best taken as an 
 
 adjecti\'e phrase Axith gust. beaked promontory; this metaphor 
 
 shows a re\ersal of the usual process. What is that.' Hippo- 
 
 tades. See the opening of Odvsse\ .\. : " Soon we drew near the 
 island of .Eolia, \\here .Eolus, the son of IHppotas, clear to immor- 
 tal gods, dwelt on a tloating island. .\11 around it is a wall of 
 bronze, not to be broken through, and smooth and steep rises the 
 rock_\- shore." The suffixes — adcs, — ides (Masculine) and — as, — 
 /.<, — c/\< (Feminine) when added to proper names from Patronymics, 
 indicating descent or relationship: thus (as above) Ilippot-ades, 
 son of IHppotas; Tyndar-is, daughter of Tyndarus. See x\.. & G. 
 Latin Grammar, § 164 (b). dungeon; there is a tine descriji- 
 
 tion of the cave of the winds in the .Eneid, I. 50-63. Panope 
 
 (The All-Seeing One) and her forty-nine sisters were sea-nymphs, 
 daughters of Nereus and Doris. eclipse ; eclipses were long 
 
 believed to be signs of di\ ine displeasure. Compare the still-com- 
 mon superstition about the moon's phases aiiecting the weather. 
 
 103-7. Camus; the divinity of the sluggish Cam. mantle 
 
 hairy, etc. River-sponge and sedge grow luxuriantly in the Cam 
 today. The ' figui-es dim " may refer to cm-ious streaks that show on 
 the sedge when dried. Sanguine flower; the hxacfnth. For 
 
 the legend, see CI. Myths, § 74. pledge (like the Latin /Z^- 
 
 )iiis) = offspring. 
 
 108-131. Consult \oLU- English History for the memorable 
 events of this exciting \ear, 1637. Pilot; See Matthew IV. 18-19. 
 
 Keys; Matthew XVI. 19. amain = with force. The prefix here 
 
 is merely intensive (as in a-wake, a-rouse) and signified originalh- 
 'out of,' 'up.' climb into the fold; compare the sonnet tc 
 
 Cromwell, p. 16. mouths; a strong metonymy for ' gluttons.' 
 
 Ruskin has an elaborate comment on this passage in Sesame and 
 Lilies, Lecture I. Milton's phraseology throughout is forcible, if 
 not elegant. sped. Two interpretations are possible. 1°, 
 
 Mercutio when wounded exclaims, ' I am sped,' where the meaning 
 is evidently 'despatched,' 'done for.' (Romeo and Juliet, iii. i.). 
 2°, sped may have its original meaning of ' prospered.' list, 
 
 originally like 'please 'an impersonal verb used with a dative ob- 
 ject: very common in Chaucer. flashy = insipid : obsolete in 
 this sense. scrannel = scrawnx , thin. This word is found in 
 
18 NOTES TO MILTON. 
 
 no other classic author, and nowhere in Milton save here. Like 
 many other old words, it has survived in a dialect (Lancashire 
 ' scrannel ' = a lean fellow) while it has disappeared from polite 
 speech. The grim wolf, has never been satisfactorily explained. 
 
 The following conjectures worthy of notice have been put forward. 
 1°, Archbishop Laud ; J°, the De\il ; 3°, the ' grievous a\ olves ' of 
 Acts XX. 29; 4"^, Con\ersion to Roman Catholicism, common at this 
 time. Nothing said. The interpretation of this depends upon 
 
 which of the foin- conjectures just mentioned you adopt. two- 
 
 handed engine. This is as great a crux as the ' grim wolf.' Sug- 
 gested interpretations are, 1°, The two Houses of Parliament; 2°, 
 Death ; 3°, The sword of the Archangel Michael ; 4°, The sharp two- 
 edged sword of Revelation, I. 16; 5°, 'The axe . . . laid unto 
 the root of the trees,' in Luke IIL 9: 6°, 'The sword of the spirit,' 
 in Ephesians VL 17. Read this passage (108-131) again. Do you 
 think the poem would be improved by removing it .' Does the fact 
 that King was a clergyman justify the introduction of St. Peter as 
 representing the Christian Church.^ 
 
 132-141. Alpheus. See notes on S5-102. use — are accustomed 
 
 (to dwell) = haunt. Compare line 67. of shades, depends upon 
 'whispers.' Swart-star = Sirius. In Greece and southern Italy its 
 rising coincides with the time of greatest heat, and was popularly 
 supposed to be the cause thereof, hence swart-star = the star that 
 browns or tans. It shines with a bright, white light, and is easily 
 found by prolonging to the left the line of Orion's belt. Why is it 
 sometimes called the Dog-Star.' Has this epithet any real connec- 
 tion with 'dog days'.' quaint; not 'curious,' but probably 
 merely = '-pretty,' as in Margaret's description of Hero's wedding- 
 gown as of ' a fine, quaint, graceful fashion' (Much Ado, iii. 4. 20). 
 
 142-151. Ruskin has an elaborate and somewhat far-fetched criti- 
 cism on this passage in Modern Painters, Part III. Sec. II. Chap. 
 III. It may suffice for your purpose if you acquire a clear conception 
 of the nature and appearance of each flower mentioned. Some of 
 them you can see in conservatories or in gardens; for others you 
 must trust to the descriptions in jour Botany. A little reflection will 
 show you that in nearly every case there is appropriateness in the 
 introduction of the flower in this connection. Read for comparison 
 the passage in the Winter's Tale (iv. 3) beginning 
 
 O Proserpina, 
 For the flowers now that, frighted, thou let'st fall — . 
 
 hearse ; not a ' carriage ' but a ' bier.' Another and an older 
 meaning is a canopy (set over the bier) to hold candles. 
 
L YCIDAS. 19 
 
 152-164. monstrous world. 
 
 Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; 
 A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon ; 
 Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 
 Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, 
 All scattered in the bottom of the sea. 
 
 Rich. III. i. 4. 24-8. 
 
 Bellerus; a Cornish giant of Milton's invention. He coined the 
 word from Bolerium, the Roman name for Land's End. vision. 
 
 On St. Michael's Mount, near Penzance, ther^was formerly a monas- 
 tery of Benedictine monks. Thej' had a tradition that the Archan- 
 gel Michael had once appeared here to some of their order ; on the 
 spot where he was seen they erected a stone lantern. guarded, 
 
 may refer to the ruins of a fortress that once occupied the Moimt or 
 to the guard kept by the angel. Namancos ; Bayona; given 
 
 in Mercator's Atlases (1623 and 1636) as towns near Cape Finisterre 
 in Galicia. There was an old tradition that Finisterre could be 
 seen from Land's End. dolphins; consult the Classical Dic- 
 
 tionary, article Arion ; see also George Eliot's poem, Arion. 
 165-171. watery floor; 
 
 Look how the floor of Heaven 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. 
 
 Merch. of Venice, v. i. 57-8. 
 
 the day-star = the sun. tricks; compare II Penseroso, 123. The 
 
 simile in lines 16S-171 lias been used by innumerable poets; it must 
 be confessed also that Milton's treatment, though very beautiful, is 
 somewhat conventional. Notice Browning's more original and 
 striking application of the same figure, at the close of his Waring. 
 
 Oh, never star 
 Was lost here but it rose afar ! 
 Look east, where whole new thousands are ! 
 In Vishnu-land what Avatar? 
 
 172-181. The imagery of this passage is drawn chietlv from the 
 description of the New Jerusalem, Revelation XXI. and XXII. Is 
 such imagery appropriately introduced in a poem of this kind.' 
 nectar. This is certainly an inappropriate word in this passage, asso- 
 ciated as it is with suggestions of Oh'mpian revelry. unexpres- 
 sive = inexpressible, that is, too sweet for expression. Orlando 
 describes his mistress as ' The fair, the chaste, the unexpressive 
 she.' (As You Like It, iii. 2. 10). 
 
 182-185. Genius of the shore; compare II Penseroso, 154. See 
 also the stoi\\' of Leucothea and Palajmon, CI. Myths, § 129. 
 
20 NOTES TO MILTON. 
 
 186-191. These eight lines are in ottava rima, a favorite form of 
 versification with Byron. uncouth swain = the poet himself, — 
 
 a depreciatory touch. Perhaps also in various and eager we have a 
 half-apolog_>' for the mixture of styles in this poem. Doric lay; 
 
 Theocritus wrote in the Doric dialect. See note on ' Lydian airs,' 
 L'Allegro, 135-152. blue; the conventional coloi- for a shep- 
 
 herd's dress. The last line is interpreted by some to mean that 
 Milton intended to write no more occasional verse but to return to 
 his serious studies. Others see in it a reference to his approaching 
 iournev to Italy. 
 
 Perhaps you have found this a difficult poem. Has it convinced you that he 
 who would become a thorough scholar in the department of English Litera- 
 ture, must base his studies upon a broad foundation of Greek and Latin Lit- 
 erature ? Would a knowledge of Old English serve your purpose as well ? 
 
 ON SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 This little poem with commendatory verses by other hands, was prefixed to 
 the 1632 folio of Shakespeare. It is there called 'An Epitaph on the Admir- 
 able Dramatick Poet, W. Shakespeare.' It is certainly an astonishing perform- 
 ance for a young man of twenty-two and contains at least one immortal line. 
 Which is that ? 
 
 1-6. What; for this use of -v/iat compare, Tennyson's Passing of 
 Arthur, 41S and 4J0 (p. 301 of this book) : 
 
 For what are men better than sheep or goats . . . 
 If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer? 
 
 star-ypointing ; see notes on L'Allegro, 11-16. 
 
 7-16. unvalued = not to be valued, inestimable. Delphic = 
 
 inspired. At Delphi, in Phocis, was a famous oracle of Apollo. CI. 
 Myths, p. 420. In lines 13-14, the metaphor is so far-fetched that it 
 may fairly be called a conceit. The interpretation seems to be that 
 Shakespeare, by the power and beauty of his thought {coticei'vitiff) 
 exalts us to a state of wrapt and silent attention wherein the crea- 
 tions of the imagination {fancy) become realities to us. Such con- 
 ceits were popular when Milton wrote these lines; they aboimd in 
 the works of Donne (d. 1631) who was actually considered a great 
 poet in his day. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE SONNETS. 
 
 The Sonnet is an Italian form of versification that appeared for the first time 
 in England in Tottel's Miscellany, 1557. The poems there called Sonnets are 
 extremely crude in construction ; the so-called ' Sonnets ' of Shakespeare are 
 
TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. 21 
 
 strictly speaking not Sonnets at all ; Milton is the first English writer in whom 
 the form of the Sonnet approaches the type set by the best Italian writers. The 
 following are the principal Rules of the Sonnet deduced from their usage. 
 
 1°, The Sonnet must contain fourteen lines of five accents each. 
 
 qS>, Lines i-8 must form two quatrains with only two rimes, arranged accord- 
 ing to the following scheme : a, b, b, a, a, b, b, a. 
 
 3°, Lines 9-14 must contain two tercets with either two rimes or three. The 
 tercets must not reproduce the rimes of the quatrains. 
 
 40, The two last lines must not rime. (This rule is not strictly observed by 
 Milton or by Wordsworth). 
 
 These rules, in spite of their appearance of artificiality, are really grounded 
 upon common sense. The following brief suggestions may start you along a 
 line of thought that you can profitably follow up for yourself. 
 
 1°, " The limit of the Sonnet is imposed by the average duration of an emo- 
 tional mood." (Pattison). 
 
 2° & 30, The division into quatrains and tercets is based upon the law of 
 effect by contrast. 
 
 4°, The Sonnet as a whole being intended to express one thought or feeling 
 must adopt a metrical form that will carry the thought smoothly and continu- 
 ously to the end. If the two last lines rime, they seen\ to stand out separated 
 from the body of the poem. Notice this in the Sonnet to Cromwell, (p. 16) ; 
 how inferior is the effect of this ending to that in Keats' Sonnet on Homer 
 (p. 171) or to that in Wordsworth's Sonnet to Milton (p. 210) ! 
 
 ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF 
 
 TWENTY-THREE. 
 
 This Sonnet was sent to a friend who had urged Milton to lead a more ' prac- 
 tical ■ life and become a clergyman at once. But Milton was wiser than his 
 friend. He felt that the will of Heaven had destined him to be a poet. Through 
 long years of distracting conflict he never abandoned this purpose ; the result 
 was Paradise Lost. 
 
 sheweth. This is not a faulty rime, since this word, though now 
 commonl\' spelled and pronounced s/iozv, in Milton's day was com- 
 monly spelled and pronounced as here. Both forms occur in his 
 poems, but s/iezv much oftener than s/wzv. The etymology (Mid- 
 dle English ' shewen') decides that s/iezv is the older form. my 
 semblance; Milton had a remarkably beautiful and youthful face. 
 At college he was nick-named ' The Lady of Christ's.' 
 
 TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. 
 
 The 'certain ministers' were John Owen and other Independents who desired 
 State-support for the clergy. The 'Committee for Propagation of the Gospel' 
 was a Committee of the Rump Parliament who had charge of ecclesiastical af- 
 fairs. Milton's lines are both a general plea for religious freedom and a 
 special appeal to Cromwell to ' Save us from our friends ! ' This the Lord 
 General did very effectively ten months later by calling in his troopers to expel 
 
22 NOTES TO MILTON. 
 
 the Rump. The members departed so little regretted, he declares, that not 
 even a dog barked as they left the place. 
 
 the neck of crowned Fortune. A biblical metaphor; Genesis 
 XLIX. S. trophies; a word with an interesting etymology. 
 
 What do you think of trophies reared on a neck? Darwen 
 
 stream; near Preston in Lancashire where Cromwell defeated the 
 Scotch imder the Duke of Hamilton, August, 164S. Dunbar; 
 
 Worcester; Cromwellian yictories, Sept. 3, 1650, and Sept. 3, 165 1. 
 For a yivid picture of Dunbar fight see Carlyle's Cromwell, Let- 
 ters 139-146; for Worcester, Letters 1S2-1S3. new foes; Owen 
 and his associates, as distinguished from the old foes, Presbyterians, 
 who had been long committed to the policy of an established church. 
 
 What is the famous line in this Sonnet? 
 
 ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. 
 
 In 1655 the Duke of Savoy had attempted by force to convert some of his 
 Protestant subjects to Catholicism. As Latin Secretary to the Commonwealth 
 it was Milton's duty to draft the letter of remonstrance sent to the Duke on this 
 occasion by Cromwell. In that document, diplomatic courtesy restrained him 
 from giving vent to the grievous indignation which, in this Sonnet, bursts forth 
 like a bright and consuming fire. The leading thought in this Sonnet is 
 
 as old as Tertullian, the imagery is trite, the diction is of the utmost sim- 
 plicity; yet so great was this man's soul and so deep the passion he has put 
 into these few lines, that after the lapse of nearly two centuries and a half he 
 makes us feel the shock of strong emotion that swept over him when he heard 
 of the cruel deeds of the "bloody Piedmontese." 
 
 Consult your English History for the parts played by Cromwell and Mazarin 
 in this affair. 
 
 Alpine mountains cold. This phrase is from Fairfax's Tasso, 
 
 XIII. 60. 
 
 Into the valleys greene 
 
 Distilled from tops of Alpine mountains cold. 
 of old. The form of Christianity professed by the Waldenses ante- 
 dated the 1 6th Century Reformation. stocks and stones. The 
 Puritans regarded Roman Catholicism as a species of idolatry. The 
 incident referred to in lines 7-8 is illustrated by a cut in a book pub- 
 lished in 165S by Sir William Morcland, Cromwell's Agent at Geneva. 
 The triple tyrant, meaning the Pope, so called from his tiara or triple 
 crown. See Brewer, article 'Tiara.' Babylonian woe. Rome 
 was looked upon by the Puritans as the Babylon of Revelation 
 XVII. and XVIII. 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
 The year in which Milton became totally blind is not known with certainty. 
 It was probably about 1652, since in that year he was allowed an Assistant 
 
TO CYRIACK SK INNER. 23 
 
 Secretary. As he explains in the next Sonnet, loss of eyesight was hastened by 
 his labor upon his Defense of the English People against Salmasius. 
 
 talent; Matthew XXV. 14-30. thousands at his bidding speed. 
 We ha\e the same thought in Par. Lost. 1\'. 677-S. 
 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep. 
 
 Compare also the Te Deiim, 2-3. 
 
 All the earth doth worship thee. . . . 
 
 To thee all Angels cry aloud; the Heavens and all the Powers therein. 
 
 post. This word is a bit of fossil history ; it will repay you to dig 
 it out. They also serve who only stand and wait; a beautiful 
 
 expression of a beautiful thought that has brought consolation to 
 thousands of weary souls. 
 
 TO CVRIACK SKINNER. 
 
 Skinner had been a pupil of Milton's and at the date of this Son- 
 net (probably 1655) was a lawyer of some prominence. this 
 three years' day. We have a similar phrase in 2 Henry VI. ii. i ; 
 'these seven years' day.' rings; the Cambridge MS. reads 
 'talks' which is so much feebler, that Pattison is almost the only 
 editor who retains it. With the magnificent courage of this Sonnet 
 compare the pathetic resignation of 
 
 Thus with the year 
 Seasons return ; but not to me returns 
 Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
 Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; 
 But cloud instead and ever-during dark 
 Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 
 Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair. 
 Presented with a universal blank 
 Of Nature's works, to me expunged and rased, 
 And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 
 
 Par. Lost, III. 40-50. 
 
 Of the six short poems of Milton here given, you will do well to 
 commit to memory the lines On Shakespeare, On His Having 
 Arrived at the Age of Twenty-Three, and either the Sonnet On His 
 Blindness or To Cyriack Skinner. From these, you cannot fail to 
 learn that Nobility of Thought goes hand-in-hand with Simplicity 
 of Expression and that the highest poetic effects are based upon 
 Sincerity. 
 
24 NOTES TO DRYDEN. 
 
 NTRODUCTION TO DRYDEN AND POPE. 
 
 During the thirty-eight years which elapsed between Milton's Sonnet to 
 Skinner and Dryden's Epistle to Congreve, a great change came over the spirit 
 of English literature. Even before the outbreak of the Civil War (1642) it 
 was evident that the Romantic movement had almost spent its force, running 
 off into such absurdities and extravagancies that even the prosy Waller was 
 welcomed with relief as the herald of a new age. During the time of Puritan 
 ascendancy (1649-1660), with the exception of an occasional Sonnet from 
 Milton, Literature, suffering in silence, hid her diminished head. When she 
 emerged at the Restoration, she found herself in a new world ; a world of 
 Realism to which Idealism was dead, a world on whose map the Forest 
 of Ardennes is undiscoverable, but on which the Mall and the Coffee House 
 are printed in large letters. 
 
 It has been seriously maintained that the poets of this age — such great 
 literary artists as Dryden and Pope — are not poets at all. But surely they dwell 
 in a Poetry Land of narrow dimensions who cannot find room in it for the author 
 of the Absalom and Achitophel and of the Epistle to Augustus. Was ever 
 dictum more absurd than the following, advanced by a critic of some repute ; l 
 ' Dryden is perhaps the only great writer — he is certainly the only English poet 
 of high rank — who appears to be wholly destitute of the gift of observation.'( !) 
 Observation of what? Surely there is power of observing Human Nature in 
 him who etched Zimri, in lines as clear-cut today as they were two hundred 
 years ago. And is not Human Nature as worthy an object of study as Inani- 
 mate Nature? Does not its delineation call for as high poetic powers? ' The 
 proper study of mankind is man.' Was there ever a truer line than this hack- 
 neyed one of Pope's — hackneyed because so true? 
 
 The eighteenth century poets then (and with them Dryden belongs) are the 
 poets of Human Nature, or, more specifically, of Man in Society; they confine 
 themselves almost exclusively to this topic ; they love the ' sweet shady side of 
 Pall Mall; ' caring almost nothing for Inanimate Nature, they have their limits, 
 but within these limits they are unexcelled for keen observation and for apho- 
 ristic expression. The form which this expression takes is almost invariably 
 the heroic couplet, an instrument that Dryden forged out of crude materials, =* 
 and that Pope polished until it became smooth and shining as a Venetian 
 dagger of glass. Let us not quarrel with them, as did Wordsworth, because 
 
 1 Gosse; History of iSth Century Literature, p. 379. 
 
 2 The Chaucerian ' couplet ' is a different thing. For illustrations, see Notes on 
 Drvden's Character of a Good Parson, pp. 31-32. 
 
LIFE AND BIBLIOGRAPHY. 25 
 
 they contain few ' images from Nature,' but rather let us study them sympa- 
 thetically, remembering Dryden's saying : Poetry, which is an image of Nature, 
 must generally please, but 'tis not to be understood that all parts of it must 
 please every man. 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN. 
 
 Born in Northamptonshire in 1631. He came of a Puritan family, and 
 accordingly was sent to Cambridge, where he took his degree in 1654. The 
 political and religious tendencies of his later years estranged him completely 
 from his University, causing him even to write, 
 
 Oxford to him :i dearer name shall he 
 Than his own mother University. 
 
 After the Restoration (1660) he took to the writing of plays, — almost the 
 only means by which a professional author could then make a living. But his 
 genius was not dramatic, and few of his many attempts in this line are now read, 
 except as literary curiosities. He was appointed Poet Laureate in 1670. He 
 did not find his true vein until 168 1, when he published the Absalom and 
 Achitophel, the greatest of English satires in verse. Macflecknoe (1682) is 
 hardly inferior. At the Revolution (^1688) he was deprived of his position 
 as Poet Laureate, and was compelled to return to the uncongenial task of play- 
 writing. To many of his plays he prefixed introductions in which, for the first 
 time in England, the laws of dramatic criticism were stated and discussed clearly 
 and acutely. The prose style of these prefaces is clean-cut and modern, and 
 entitles Dryden to the distinction of being the first to break away from the 
 cumbersome periods in which English prose had heretofore obscured itself. 
 His later years were spent upon his translation of Vergil and his Fables. His 
 mind was always quick to welcome new ideas, and the work of his declining 
 years, though in a lighter vein, shows no falling-off from the high standard 
 of his prime. He died in 1700. 
 
 Contemporaries — Milton, Charles H., Cowley, Addison, Swift, Pope. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — The complete works of Dryden are to be found in 
 Samtsbiuy's edition of 18 vols., published by Paterson, of Edinburgh. This 
 edition is a revision of Scott's ; it is expensive, and hardly to be found, except 
 in a large city or university library. As a partial substitute may be used (i) 
 Saintsburys Life in the E.M.I>., a model short biography; (2) Christie's 
 excellent edition of the Poems ; {3) T. Arnold's edition of the Essay on Dramatic 
 Poetry (Macmillan). Af alone' s edition of the prose works is not easy to pro- 
 cure, nor is Tonson' s edition of the plays. 
 
 Text.— Christie's (Macmillan). 
 
26 NOTES TO DRYDEN. 
 
 Criticism. — yohnson ; Lives of the Poets. In the Dryden and the Pope the 
 Doctor is at liis best. 
 
 Macatilay ; Essay on Dryden. Though written only three years after the 
 Alilton, this shows a great advance in critical judgment. 
 
 Loiuell ; Essay on Dryden. The most satisfactory estimate, but fragmentary, 
 like so much of Lowell's prose work. Dryden's best performances — the 
 Absalom and Achitophel and the Fables — are barely touched on. 
 
 On the whole, few poets have been more fortunate in their critics than Dryden. 
 The three Essays mentioned above make a high average. Much less pleasing 
 is JMattlieia Arnold, \\\\o in his Introduction to Ward' s English Poets delivers 
 himself of an extraordinary ex cathedra judgment on Dryden and Pope. See 
 this judgment neatly disposed of in a reductio ad absurdum by Courthope in 
 the Ehvin and Courthope Pope, V. i6. 
 
 EPISTLE TO CONGREVE. 
 
 William Congreve was the first comedy writer of his day. The best short 
 account of him is by Swinburne in the Encyclopedia Britannica, article Con- 
 greve. See also Thackeray's Congreve and Addison, in his English Humorists. 
 
 Congreve's first play, the Old Bachelor (1693) made a great hit. The Double 
 Dealer, brought out the same year, scored only a succes d'estime. 
 
 i-io. Strong were our sires; a reference to the Elizabethan 
 dramatists, the last of whom (Shirley) lived until Dryden was a 
 man of thirty-five. when Charles returned; Charles IL 1660. 
 
 He was the last English king with any literai-\- pretensions, and the 
 praise Dryden awards him seems not undeserved. His native wit, 
 his long residence in France, and his acquaintance with the come- 
 dies of Moliere made him a critic of no mean ability. Janus, 
 according to one legend, assisted Saturn to civilize the early inhabi- 
 tants of Italy. 
 
 ii-ig. Vitruvius. A famous Roman architect, a contemporary 
 of Augustus. For Doric columns, see a picture of the Parthenon ; 
 for Corinthian, of the Madeleine ; for Ionic, of the Temple of Wing- 
 less Victory on the Acropolis. 
 
 20-27. Fletcher; the friend of Shakespeare, with whom he is 
 supposed to have written T/ic Tzvo Noble Kinsmen. Many of his 
 plays were written with Beaumont; of these. The Knight of the 
 Burning Pestle for humor and Philaster for pathos, are not unworthy 
 of Shakespeare himself. Jonson; see notes on L' Allegro, 126- 
 
 134. The magnificent compliment in lines 26-7 owes something to 
 the partiality of friendship. 
 
 28-34. Etherege ; a friend of Dryden's; the earliest and not the 
 least of the Restoration comedy writers. There has been preserved 
 a letter in verse which Dryden wrote him when he was minister at 
 
EPISTLE TO CONG R EVE. 27 
 
 Hamburg or Ratisbon. Southern ; an indiffei^ent plaj-writer 
 
 and a protege of Drjden's. 
 
 35-40. Fabius; Scipio; Hannibal. Consult a History of Rome 
 under the years 206-205 B.C. Raphael, the great Italian painter, 
 
 died 1520. " Sweet poetry and music and tender hymns drop from 
 liim ; he lifts his pencil and something gracious falls from it on the 
 paper. How noble his mind must have been ! It seems but to 
 receive and his eye seems only to rest on what is great and generous 
 and lovely." Thackeray, Newcomes, Chapter xxxv. 
 
 41-48. Edward. In 1327, Parliament deposed the weak and in- 
 competent Edward II. and declaimed his son, Edward of Windsor, 
 successor. If we exclude Oliver Cromwell, Edward III. is probably 
 the ablest Englishman that has ever sat upon the English throne. 
 Tom the First. Dryden was succeeded in the position of Poet Lau- 
 reate and Historiographer Royal by Thomas Shadvvell, an indifferent 
 Whig poet whom he had mercilessly satirized as Macflecknoe. 
 Tom the Second must be Thomas Rymer, who was made Histo- 
 riographer Royal on Shadwell's death in 1692, Nahum Tate be- 
 coming Poet Laureate. 
 
 49-63. wear (54); this infinitive must be connected with line 
 51. first attempt; Congreve's comedy The Old Bachelor, 
 
 regular, as explained by the next line, refers to the Unities of Time, 
 Place, and Action, which the French critics derived (or thought they 
 derived) from the Poetics of Aristotle and the usage of the Attic 
 dramatists. The Lenities require that the events in a play shall be 
 only such as could happen within one revolution of the sun ; that 
 the scene must not be shifted from one place to another and that 
 nothing shall be introduced that does not further the development 
 of the main plot. The success of the Shakesperian drama, in which 
 the first two Unities are disregarded, shows that with the exception 
 of the last they are of little importance now, whatever value they 
 may have had in forming critical opinion in the past. (For a brief 
 but admirably philosophic discussion of the Unities, see Coleridge's 
 Lecture on The Progress of the Drama.) Shakespeare; this 
 
 coupling of Congreve with Shakespeare seems humorous to us, 
 though it probably did not impress Congreve in that way. 
 
 64-77. 'tis impossible you should proceed. Dryden was mis- 
 taken here. In 1695 Congreve produced his best comedy, Love for 
 Love. For keen wit and brilliant dialogue nothing was written in 
 England to equal this until Sheridan's School for Scandal (1777). 
 th' ungrateful stage. In the j'ear previous to this, Dryden's twenty- 
 sixth play, Cleomenes, had proved almost a failure. defend . . . 
 your departed friend. Congreve, in one of the few respectable acts 
 
28 NOTES TO DRYDEN. 
 
 of his life, proved himself worthy the appeal here made him, bv 
 bringing out a tine edition of Drvden's plays 
 
 After allowing a little for the equation of personal friendship, you will find in 
 this poem acute criticism, fine feeling, strong and harmonious versification 
 What other excellencies can you point out ? 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 
 
 The legend of Saint Cecilia's martyrdom has been told by Chaucer, with true 
 mediaeval crudeness, in The Seconde Nonnes Tale. She is not there spoken 
 of as the patron saint of music, nor is it clear that in the Golden Legend (thir- 
 teenth century), upon which Chaucer's tale is based, her musical powers are 
 even referred to. A misunderstanding of ' cantantibus organls ilia in corde suo 
 soli Domino cantabat' (' While the organs were playing she was singing in her 
 heart to God alone '), seems responsible for her fame as a musician and as the 
 inventress of the organ. The 22d of November is her day, and was celebrated 
 by musical societies in London. Dryden wrote the Ode in 1687 as well as in 
 1697 ; Pope in 1708. 
 
 1-19. Persia won. Consult a History of Greece under the year 
 331 B.C. Their brows with roses, etc. You can see illustra- 
 
 tions of this in many of the Alma-Tadema pictures. 
 
 20-46. Timotheus, the Theban, of whom nothing is known save 
 that he was a musician at the court of Alexander. The more famous 
 Timotheus of Miletus died in 357 B.C. quire ; of the two spell- 
 
 ings 'quire' and 'clioir" (both from the Latin chorni)^ the former 
 is inuch the older in English. seats = abodes ; scdca is used 
 
 in this sense by Vergil and Horace. belied = disguised. 
 
 sublime ; here used in its literal sense. Olympia ; more cor- 
 
 rectly Olympias, the mother of Alexander. Lines 39-41 are imi- 
 tated from the Iliad, i. 52S-30 : 
 
 He spoke and awful bends his sable brows, 
 Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod. 
 The stamp of fate and sanction of the god : 
 High heaven with trembling the dread signal took 
 And all Olympus to the centre shook. 
 
 (Pope.) 
 
 Phidias is said to have patterned his Olympian Jove upon the de- 
 scription in these lines of Homer. For a cut of this figure, see CI. 
 Myths, p. 54. 
 
 47-65. With the magnificent vigor of this stanza compare the 
 more romantic and delicate treatment of the same theme by Keats 
 in the fourth book of Endymion : 
 
ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 29 
 
 . . . over the light-blue hills 
 
 There came a noise of revellers : the rills 
 
 Into the wide stream came of purple hue — 
 
 'Twas Bacchus and his crew ! 
 The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills 
 From kissing cymbals made a merry din — 
 
 'Twas Bacchus and his kin ! 
 Like to a moving vintage down they came, 
 Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame ; 
 All madly dancing through the pleasant valley, 
 
 To scare thee, Melancholy ! 
 
 honest = Latin ' honestiis." in its poetical meaning of 'fair-seem- 
 ing,' ' handsome.' hautboys, a corruption of the French ' haut' 
 (high) and ' bois ' (wood) ; the \vood instrument of high pitch or 
 tone. The Italian form, Oboe, is now common in English. 
 
 66-92. Lines 70-73 illustrate the po\ert\- of modern English in 
 pronominal forms. His and he in 70 and 71 must refer to Alex- 
 ander; the first his in 72 to Timothetis, the second his to Alexander. 
 He in 73 takes us back to Timotheus again. Muse = song, 
 
 strain. Compare the use of this word in Lycidas 19. welter- 
 
 ing; compare Lycidas 12. Darius; see note on Persia won, 
 
 line I. Lines 77-8 are perhaps an eclio from Par. Lost, \ii. 
 25-6. 
 
 . . . though fallen on evil days, 
 On evil days though fallen . . . 
 
 93-122. Lydian measures ; compare L'Allegro 136. toil and 
 
 trouble; from tlie Witches' Refrain in Macbeth iv. i. 
 
 Double, double toil and trouble; 
 Fire burn, and caldron bubble. 
 
 Honour but an empty bubble; might serve as text for Falstaff's 
 Sermon in L Fly. iv. 5. i. Sheridan has the same thought ad- 
 mirably expressed through the medium of Low Comed\-; The 
 Rivals, iv. i. "-David. . . . Look'ee, master, this honom- 
 seems to me to be a marvellous false friend; av, trulv, a very 
 courtier-like servant. — Put the case, I was a gentleman (wiiich. 
 thank God, no one can say of me): well — my honour makes me 
 quarrel with another gentleman of my acquaintance. — So — -we 
 fight. (Pleasant enough that!) Boh! — I kill him — ^(the more's 
 my luck!) now, pray who gets the profit of it.' — Wh\-, m^' honour. 
 But put the case that he kills me! — by the mass! I go to the 
 worms, and mv honom- whips over to m\' encmv. Acres. No, 
 David ^ — in that case! — Odds crowns and laurels! \our honour 
 follows you to the grave. David. Now, that's just the place 
 
30 NOTES TO DRYDEN. 
 
 where I could make a shift to do without it." at once = at the 
 
 same time, simultaneously. 
 
 123-154. Furies; see notes on Fury in Lycidas, 75. ghastly; 
 
 usage seems to have firmly established this form, which is really a 
 mis-spelling for ' gastly,' from the Middle English •gastly' = 
 terrible. 'Gastly' seems to have no etymological connection with 
 ' ghost,' which is from the Old English giist = spirit, breath ; 
 German, ' geist.' unburied; notice that not the heroes are 
 
 ' inglorious," but their ' ghosts,' and they are 'inglorious' because 
 ' unburied.' Tliere seems to be no doubt that ancestor-worship was 
 a very early form of belief among the Greeks. The spirit of the 
 departed was supposed to live underground with the body. 
 Clothing and arms Avere placed in the grave, slaves and horses 
 were slain upon it, that they might serve the departed as in this 
 life. ' From this primitive belief came the necessity of burial. In 
 order that the soul might be confined to this subterranean abode, 
 which was suited to its second life, it was necessary that tlie IxkIn- 
 to which it remained attached should be covered with earth. The 
 soul that had no tomb had no dwelling-place. It was a wandering 
 spirit. In vain it sought the repose which it would naturally desire 
 after the agitations and labor of this life; it must wander forever 
 under the form of a larva, or phantom, without ever stopping, 
 without ever receiving the offerings and the food which it had need 
 of. UnforJ;unately, it soon became a malevolent spirit; it tormented 
 the living; it brought diseases upon them, ravaged their harvests, 
 and frightened them by gloomy apparitions, to warn them to give 
 sepulture to its body and to itself. From this came the belief in 
 ghosts. All antiquity was persuaded that without burial the soul 
 was miserable, and that by burial it became forever happy. It was 
 not to display their grief that they performed the funeral ceremony, 
 it was for the rest and happiness of the dead.' — Coulanges, The 
 Ancient City, B'k i. Cap. i. Verify these statements by reading 
 the appeal of Elpenor's ghost to Ulysses, near the opening of 
 Odyssey xi. ; see also the interview between .Eneas and the ghost 
 of Palinurus in /Eneid VI. 337-383. Thais. This story of 
 
 Thais rests upon very doubtful authority ; it is probably as 
 authentic as that of King Alfred and the Cakes or of George 
 Washington and the Cherry Tree. Helen. You know that 
 
 Helen did not literally set fire to Troy. What does Dryden mean, 
 then .> 
 
 155-180. She drew an angel down. In the Pinacoteca of Bologna 
 there is a beautiful painting by Raphael, of St. Cecilia listening to 
 the singing of six angels. She is the central figure of a group, the 
 
THE CHARACTER OE A GOOD PARSON. 31 
 
 other members of which are St. Paul, St. John, St. Augustnie and 
 Mary Magdalene. 
 
 Some of the echoes from Shakespeare and Milton in this poem have been 
 pointed out. Perhaps you can find others. Notice also the many instances of 
 effective alliteration and repetition. Had Dryden's plays been as dramatic as 
 this ode, they would still be acted. 
 
 THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON. 
 
 So exacting a critic as Saintsbury calls Dryden's Fables ' the most brilliantly 
 successful of all his poetical experiments.' ' Professor Lounsbury, in an elabo- 
 rate comparison between Chaucer and Dryden,* declares of the latter: 'His 
 versions of the ancient poet take the first rank in order of merit as well as in 
 order of time." Of the five 'Translations from Chaucer' in Dryden's book, the 
 one here given is the shortest, and if not the best is certainly inferior to none. 
 You will find it interesting to compare Dryden's treatment with the original, 
 which runs as follows : 
 
 vV good inun was ther of rcligioun, 
 And was a povre Persoun of a toun ; 
 But richc he was of holy thoght and werk. 
 He was also a Icrned man, a clerk. 
 That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche ; 
 His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. 
 Beiiigne he was, and wonder diligent, 
 And in adversitce fid pacient; 
 And swich he was y-preved ofte sythes. 
 Ful loolh were hini to cursen for his tylhes. 
 But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, 
 Un-to his povre parisshens ahoute 
 Of his olTring, and eek of his substaunce. 
 He coude in litel thing han suffisaunce. 
 Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a-sonder, 
 But he ne lafte nat, for reyn ne thonder, 
 In siknes nor in nieschief, to visyte 
 The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lyte, 
 Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf. 
 This noble ensaniple to his sheep he yat, 
 That first he wroghtc, and afterward he taughte; 
 Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte ; 
 And this figure he added eek ther-to. 
 That if gold ruste, what shal iren do? 
 For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste, 
 No wonder is a lewd man to ruste; 
 And shame it is, if a preest take keep, 
 A [dirty] shepherde and a clene sheep. 
 Wei oghte a preest ensample for to yive, 
 By his clennesse, how that his sheep shold live. 
 
 1 Saintsbury's Dryden, Cap. viii. 
 
 2 Studies in Chaucer, vol. iii., pj). 156-179. 
 
32 NOTES TO DRYDEN. 
 
 He settc nat his benefice to hyre, 
 And led his sheep encombred in the iiiyrc, 
 And ran to London, un-to seynt Poules, 
 To selcen hiin a chaunterye ior soules, 
 Or with a bretherheed to been withholde; 
 But dwelte at hooni, and kepte wel his folde, 
 So that the wolf ne made it nat niiscarie; 
 lie was a sliepherde and no inercenarie. 
 And though he holy were, and vertuous. 
 He was to sinful man nat despitous, 
 Ne of his speche daungerous ne dig-ne, 
 But in his teching discreet and benigne. 
 To drawen folk to heven by fairnesse 
 By good ensainple, was his hisinesse: 
 But it were anj' person obstinat, 
 What-so he were, of heigh or lowe estat, 
 Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nones. 
 A bettre jireest, I trowe that nowher noon is. 
 He wayted after no pompe and reverence, 
 Ne maked him a spyced conscience, 
 But Christcs lore, and his apostles twelve. 
 He taughte, and first hu folwed it him-selve. 
 
 In Dryden's versification (and in Pope's) you will notice how the thought is 
 almost invariably completed within the couplet : in Chaucer the thought com- 
 monly runs over into the third line, and sometimes continues even further. 
 
 i-ii. As —as if. too fast; in a yood sense, as explained bv 
 
 lines lo and 1 1. 
 
 12-24. nothing of severe; a Latinism, 'nihil severi.' his 
 
 action free; ' action ' seems to be a n'ieton_\my for ' oratorw' the 
 golden chain. The idea of a golden cliain binding Heaven to Earth 
 seems to have originated in Homer, Iliad viii. 19-27, where' Zeus 
 declares : ' Fasten ve a rope of gold from heaven, and all ye gods \'a\ 
 hold thereof and all goddesses ; yet could ye not drag from heaven 
 to earth Zeus, counsellor supreme, not though ye toiled sore. But 
 once I likewise were minded to draw with all my heart, then should 
 I draw you up with very earth and sea withal. Thereafter would I 
 bind the rope about a pinnacle of Olympus, and so should all these 
 things be himg in air. 1>_\' so miicli am I beyond gods and beyond 
 men.' Chaucer (folhjwing Boethius) in the Knight's Tale (-133-5) 
 says, 
 
 . . . with that fair cheyne of love he bond 
 The fyr, the eyr, the water and the lend 
 In certeyn boundes, that they may nat flee. 
 
 This is rendered b\- Drydcn in bis I'alanion and Arcite, iii. 
 102S-9. 
 
 Fire, flood and earth and air by this were bound, 
 
 And Love, the common link, the new creation crowned. 
 
THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON. 33 
 
 Compare Jeremy Taylor's ' Faith is the golden chain to link the 
 penitent sinner unto God.' music [of] the spheres, dates back, 
 
 to Pythagoras (about 600 B.C.). We have a beautiful expression 
 of this thought in The Merchant of Venice, v. i. 
 
 Look, liow the floor of Heaven 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; 
 There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim : 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; — 
 
 Lines 21-4 are supposed to refer to Bishop Ken, the Non-Juror, 
 the author of Morning and Evening Hymns. See comment on 
 lines 98- 1 40. 
 
 25-41. exhales = ' draws forth,' ' causes to flow,' as in 
 
 . . . thy presence that exhales this blood 
 From cold and empty veins. . . . 
 
 Rich. iii. I. 2, 58-9. 
 
 The imagery in lines 34-7 is evidently from the old ^Esop's Fable, 
 The Sun, The Wind and The Traveler. 
 
 For 3S-41 see L Kings, xix. 9-13. harbinger. This beautiful 
 
 Old English word is seldom met with today in prose, but has been 
 preserved for us by the poets. It originally designated a king's offi- 
 cer who, when the Court travelled, went one day ahead to provide 
 lodging and entertainment. 
 
 42-49. tithes, literally ' tenths: ' the tenth part of the produce of 
 the land, paid to the clergy. bell and book. See Brewer, article 
 
 ' Cursing by Bell, Book, and Candle.' In Barhain's Jackdaw of 
 Rheims Ave have a ciu'se of this kind gi\en in picturesque detail : 
 
 The Cardinal rose with a dignified look. 
 
 He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! 
 
 In holy anger and pious grief 
 
 He solemnly cursed that rascally thief ! 
 
 He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed ; 
 
 From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; 
 
 He cursed him m sleeping, that every night 
 
 He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright ; 
 
 He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, 
 
 He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; 
 
 He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; 
 
 He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying; 
 
 He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying! 
 
 Never was heard such a terrible curse ! 
 
 50-59. For the sentiment of these beautiful lines compare Hugo's 
 Les Miserables, ii. 3, ' The Bishop, who was sitting near hini [the 
 
34 NOTES TO DRYDEN. 
 
 convict], gently touched his hand. "... This is not my house; it 
 is the house of Jesus Christ. This door does not demand of him 
 who enters whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You 
 suffer, you are hungry and thirsty ; you are welcome. And do not 
 thank me; do not say that I receive you in my house. No one is 
 at home here except the man that needs a refuge. I say to you who 
 are passing by, that you are much more at home here than I myself. 
 Everything here is yoiu's." 
 
 60-74. Paul's, means St. Paul's Cathedral and Churchyard in 
 London. In Chaucer we are told that the Parson did not run to St. 
 Paul's to seek him a chantry for souls. In Dryden the application 
 of the term Paul's is wider, and contains an allusion to the traffic 
 carried on in the churchyard of the Cathedral. Streets and shops 
 have gradually encroached upon this yard, and bookstores here do 
 largely congregate. This is the explanation of the ' Published by 
 
 , St. Paul's Churchyard,' which you see on the title pages of 
 
 some English books. 
 
 75-97. For line 90, see Joiin xix. 36: for line 94, John xix. 2; 
 for line 95, Matthew xxvii. 28. sons . . . Zebedee. See Mat- 
 
 thew XX. 20-28; iv. 20-21. 
 
 There is nothing in Chaucer to correspond with lines 98-140. Dryden in- 
 serted this passage to express his admiration for the Non-Jurors — some three 
 hundred or four hundred Church of England clergymen who had refused to 
 take the oaths of supremacy and allegiance to William and Mary, and who 
 were therefore deprived of their benefices (1690). The most illustrious of these 
 was Ken. An elaborate account of this movement will be found in Macaulay's 
 History, Chapter xiv. The reference in Dryden is thinly disguised by throwing 
 back the scene to the last year but one of Chaucer's life — the year 1399, when 
 Richard 11. was deposed by Henry IV. 
 
 98-105. Reflecting, Moses-like, See Exodus xxxiv, 29-35. For 
 line 105 see Genesis ii. 3. 
 
 106-122. The tempter; fol) i. 9-12; ii. 4-6. Near though he 
 
 was. William of Orange was the nephew of the deposed James II. ; 
 Henry of Bolingbroke was the cousin of Richard II. The next 
 
 of blood to James II. was his infant son James Edward, afterwards 
 known as the Old Pretender; the next of blood to Richard II. was 
 Edmund, Earl of March. For the political events referred to in 
 
 lines 1 15-122, consult a History of England under the years 1688-9. 
 
 123-140. The rest in orders. When a man becomes a clergyman 
 in the Church of England he is said to 'take orders.' The rest 
 
 in orders, then, are the clergy who consented to take the oaths of 
 supremacy and allegiance. Notice the clever inuendo [innuendo] 
 in these lines. For the metaphor in the Alexandrine that ends 
 
 the song, see note on ' foil ' in Lycidas, 79. 
 
LIFE AXD BIBLIOGRAPHY. 35 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 Alexander Pope, ' the most brilliant of all wits who have at any period 
 applied themselves to the poetic treatment of human manners," i was born in 
 1688 — the year of the Revolution. Being a Roman Catholic, he was excluded 
 by his religion from the benefits of a University training. Though an omniv- 
 orous reader, his education in the classics was desultory and superficial. The 
 result of this is painfully apparent in his Paraphrase (sometimes called a Trans- 
 lation) of Homer, whereof Bentley said with equal truth and wit, ' Very pretty 
 poetry, Mr. Pope, but pray don't call it Homer.' The first volume of this 
 appeared in 1715, when Pope was only twenty-seven; chiefly through the disin- 
 terested exertions of Swift, the list of subscribers grew to such dimensions that 
 Pope was assured of a modest competency for life. Tlie Rape of the Lock 
 (completed in 171-1) stands to-day as the best mock-heroic poem in English, 
 while the Eloisa to Abelard (17 17) shows that Pope is not deficient in the third 
 requirement of the Miltonic canon — Passion. Immortal lines are to be found 
 scattered through Pope's attempts at literary criticism {Essay on Criticism) and 
 at philosophy {Essay on Man), nor can we deny to the former the merit of 
 having done much to develope sound critical principles in England. The work 
 of his maturer years is to be found in the Epistles and Satires ; when you 
 have studied the specimens given in this book, you will have at least some 
 data upon which you can form an independent judgment that may or may 
 not agree with that of De Quincey, quoted at the beginning of this article. 
 To the deformity of Pope's body may be attributed some of the irascibility 
 of his temper. He was engaged in perpetual quarrels ; sometimes with men 
 of character and ability who would have been his best friends ; oftener with 
 denizens of Grub Street quite beneath his notice. His nature seemed to 
 crave the excitement of a continual literary hawking-party ; among the larger 
 game at whom he flew his birds were George II. (see the Epistle to Augustus), 
 the Duchess of Marlborough, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Gibber, Defoe, 
 Tickell, Addison and Bentley. He was not perfectly sincere with even his 
 most intimate friends, Bolingbroke and Swift : to the latter, this melancholy 
 revelation was spared; to the former it was disclosed only after Pope's death 
 in 1744. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. For the advanced student and the teacher, all former 
 editions of Pope have been superseded by that of Elwm and Courthope in ten 
 volumes (London, 1871-89). (To this edition the editor of this book is under 
 
 1 De Qiiiiicey. 
 
36 NOTES TO POPE. 
 
 constant obligation.) It seems as if the diligence of these editors had left little 
 for future generations to glean. The work is extremely uneven in quality. 
 For Vols. i. ii. vi. vii. viii. Elvvin is responsible; in addition to much useful 
 information, they contain a tirade of abuse against Pope, which shows the editor 
 to have been lacking in the first essential of a good biographer — sympathy 
 with his subject. For Vols. iii. iv. v. ix. x. Courthope is responsible: while 
 quite as scholarly as the others, they are marked by sympathetic treatment and 
 delightful literary finish. Vol. v. contains the Life of Pope; in this, the six- 
 teenth chapter, on The Place of Pope in Literature, is especially valuable and 
 contains the refutation of Matthew Arnold's judgment on Dryden and Pope 
 referred to on p. 26 of these notes. 
 
 Teachers who cannot get access to Courthope's Life should consult Leslie 
 Stephen's admirable little book on Pope in the English Men of Letters Series. 
 For the social life of the times see Thackeray's masterpiece, Henry Esmond; 
 also his George I. and George II. in The Four Georges. For the History, see 
 Green, Chapter IX. Sec. 9-10. 
 
 Text: Elwin and Courthope, as a.ho\-e\ or IFar^^ (MacMillan). 
 
 Criticism. Addison, Spectator, j\o. z^j. Thoroughly commonplace and 
 interesting only as a contemporary view. 
 
 Macaulay ; Essay on Addison. Contains a rather one-sided account of the 
 quarrel between Addison and Pope, in which Addison (as a good Whig) is all 
 white and Pope (as a bad Tory) is all black. For the other side, see 
 
 Thackeray s Prior, Gay and Pope m his Eiiglisk Humorists. 
 
 yohnson's Pope, in his Lives of the Poets, contains the famous parallel 
 between Dryden and Pope. 
 
 De Quincey ; Three Essays. (1) Alexander Pope. Sympathetic and pene- 
 trating. Contains, however, one 'prodigious oversight' in the false psycho- 
 logical analysis of Pope's Atticus. (2) On 7 he Poetry of Pope. Contains an 
 elaborate examination of Pope's 'correctness.' (3) Lord Carlisle on Pope. 
 Deals with Pope's philosophy and his theory of French Influences in English 
 Literature. 
 
 Lowell ; Essay on Pope. A very brief treatment that adds little to our pre- 
 vious knowledge. 
 
 Montcgut; Revue des deux Mondes, iii. 86, 274. Interesting as showing 
 the high opinion of Pope entertained by a cultured Frenchman. 
 
 Gosse : from Shake>:peare to Pope. Has a good account of the rise of ' class- 
 ical' poetry in England. 
 
 EPISTLE TO MR. JERVAS. 
 
 This epistle was published in 1717. Jervas had given Pope lessons in 
 painting, and after the death of Kneller in 1723, became the most distinguished 
 portrait-painter of the day. His abundant self-esteem caused him to do and 
 sav many ridiculous things ; the best remembered of these is the anecdote of 
 his copying a Titian, and then exclaiming, as he compared his own work with 
 the original, 'Poor little Til, lio>v he would stare!" Fresnoy ox Dufresnoy 
 (d. 16.' 3), a French painter, whose Latin poem De Arte Graphica is here 
 referred to. 
 
EPISTLE TO MR. y EAT. IS. 37 
 
 I-I2. Muse; compare Lycidas 19. strike . . . blend; 
 
 notice tlie use of the subjunctive in the dependent clauses. close 
 
 Art. See lines 39-40 and notes there. regular. Pope appears 
 
 never to have known exactly what he meant by ' regular'; he seems 
 to use it as a loose synonym for ' polished,' ' finished,' ' in good 
 taste.' rage = poetic inspiration, enthusiasm. This use of 
 
 ' rage' is in imitation of the ' divina rabies' (divine madness) of the 
 Latin poets. Among the ancients, insanity was often looked upon 
 as a sign of inspiration. Compare the well-known story of Cas- 
 sandra; also Vergil's description of the Sybil in ^neid vi. 46-51. 
 Her colour changed, her face was not the same, 
 And hollow groans from her deep spiiit came. 
 Her hair stood up, convulsive rage possessed 
 Her trembling limbs, and heaved her labouring breast 
 Greater than human kind she seemed to look, 
 And with an accent more tlian mortal spoke. 
 Her staring eyes with sparkling fury roll, 
 When all the god came rushing on her soul. 
 
 (Dryden.) 
 
 13-22. unite . . . contract. What parts of the verb.' both, 
 
 is of course tautological. You have here an example of a defect 
 inherent in tlie heroic couplet; in order to make the thought fill up 
 twentv syllables, it is sometimes necessary to expand and weaken it 
 by the introduction of unnecessary words. slovi^ly-growing 
 
 works. Is this subject or object.'' 
 
 23-38. Raphael's Monument. Raphael is buried in a vault 
 behind the high altar of the Pantheon at Rome. See note on 
 Raphael in the comment on line 39 of Dryden's Epistle to Con- 
 greve. Maro = Publius Vergilius Maro, shortened and Angli- 
 
 cized to ' \'ergil." He was buried by his own request near Naples; 
 tradition still points out the spot. Tully = Marcus Tullius 
 
 Cicero, the famous Roman orator, killed at Formiae by order of 
 Antony in 43 B.C. builds imaginary Rome anew; meaning, ' in 
 
 imagination builds Rome anew.' Guido = Guido Reni wlio 
 
 died in 1642 ; best known by his beautiful Aurora and by the 
 Beatrice Cenci commonly attributed to him. Caracci; there 
 
 were several Italian painters of this name, the most distinguished 
 of w-hom was Annibale Caracci, d. 1609. Correggio (Antonio 
 
 Allegri) so called from his birthplace (now Reggio), a little town 
 near Modena. His pictures are famous for their delicate treatment 
 of light and shade, — or, to use the artist's word, their chiaroscuro. 
 He died in 1534. Paulo; (Paul Cagliari), best known in English 
 
 as Paul Veronese, or Paul of Verona (d. 1588). His paintings are 
 crowded with anachronisms which we must forget in order to enjoy 
 
38 NOTES TO POPE. 
 
 the brilliancy and harmony of his coloring. In his most famous 
 picture, The Marriage of Cana, the characters wear gorgeous 
 sixteenth century costumes; The Virgin, The Twelve Apostles, 
 Venetian Senators, Mediieval Friars and Poets are all here ; among 
 the musicians at the feast we have portraits of Tintoretto, of Titian 
 and of Paulo himself. Titian (Tiziano Vecellio), the greatest 
 
 of portrait painters and of colorists, was a native of Venice. He 
 lived to the extraordinary age of 99, with his intellectual powers 
 unimpaired. It is interesting to notice that the three great painters 
 of the world — Michael Angelo, Titian and Raphael — were all 
 Italians; that they were born within nine years of each other and 
 that thev were all producing immortal work during the first twenty 
 years of the sixteenth century. 
 
 39-54. illustrious toil. Frcsnoy is said to have spent twenty 
 years on his poem. strike, in the sense of ' impress,' as in the 
 
 colloquial ' How does this strike you?' Bridgewater; Elizabeth, 
 
 Countess of Bridgewater, tiiird daughter of the Duke of Marl- 
 borough. She was a famous beauty and Jervas imagined himself 
 in love with her. She died in 1714 when only twenty-seven. 
 
 55-62. engage = attract and fix. Churchill's race; Lady 
 
 Bridgewater, mentioned above, and lier three sisters, Lady Godol- 
 phin. Lady Sunderland and Lad\- Mf)ntagu. Their portraits are 
 still to be seen at Blenheim. \A^orsley : in the original edition 
 
 this read 'Wortley' and referred to Lady Mar}' Wortley Montagu, 
 whom Pope at this time greatly admired. After his famous quarrel 
 with her, he deprived her of the compliment by changing / to 5. 
 Lady Worsley's e^-es seem to have made a deep impression on Swift 
 as well as on Pope. (See Swift's letter to her of April 19, 1730.) 
 Blount; Martha Blount was the younger of two comely sisters who 
 played an important part in Pope's life. With Teresa Blount he 
 quarrelled; for Martha his admiration — perhaps his love — re- 
 mained constant. Dying, he bequeathed her the greater part of 
 his personal property. Belinda; Miss Arabella Fermor, the 
 
 heroine of Pope's Rape of the Lock. 
 
 63-78. Graces; see note on L'Allegro 15. Muses; sec CI. 
 
 Myths, § 43 (4). Zeuxis, the most famous of Greek painters, 
 
 is supposed to have flourished about 400 B.C. His masterpiece was 
 the picture of Helen here referred to, painted for the city of Croton. 
 Mira, was the Countess of Newburgh, a beauty whom George Gran- 
 ville (Lord Lansdowne) celebrated in some very feeble verses. 
 
 In this little Epistle you will notice a vein of pathos not common in Pope. 
 What is there in the subject to induce this feeling ? How are the pathetic 
 touches introduced ? Is the concluding couplet in harmony with the rest of the 
 poem ? Give reasons for your answer to this last question. 
 
EPISTLE TO LORD BURLINGTON. 39 
 
 EPISTLE TO RICHARD BOYLE, EARL OF 
 BURLINGTON. 
 
 The Earl of Burlington was a munificent patron of the Arts, and himself a 
 landscape gardener and architect of some pretensions. This epistle, lirst pub- 
 lished in 1731, and afterwards much amended, was originally entitled False 
 Taste. It is intended to enforce a favorite maxim of Pope's, — that all Art is 
 founded on common sense : 
 
 Still follow Sense, of ev'ry Art tlie Soul. 
 
 You will have little difficulty in following the thought if you study carefully the 
 following 
 
 "AKGU.MEXT OF THE USE OF KICIIES. 
 
 The Vanity of Expence in People of Wealth and Qj.ialitv. The 
 abuse of the word Taste, v. 13. That the first principle and founda- 
 tion, in this as in everjtliing else, is Good Sense, v. 40. The chief 
 proof of it is to follow Nature even in works of mere Luxury and 
 Elegance. Instanced in Architecture and Gardening, where all 
 must be adapted to the Genius and Use of the Place, and the Beau- 
 ties not forced into it, but resulting from it, v. 50. How men are 
 disappointed in their most expensive undertakings, for want of this 
 true Foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all ; 
 and the best Examples and Rules will but be perverted into some- 
 thing burdensome or ridiculous, v. 65, etc., to 92. A description of 
 the false Taste of Magnificence; the first grand Error of which is 
 to imagine that Greatness consists in the Size and Dimension, in- 
 stead of the Proportion and Ilannony of the whole, v. 97, and the 
 second, either in joining together Parts incoherent, or too minutely 
 resembling, or in the Repetition of the same too frequently, v. 105, 
 etc. A word or two of false Taste in Books, in Music, in Painting, 
 even in Preaching and Prayer, and lastly in Entertainments, v. 133, 
 etc. Yet Providence is justified in giving Wealth to be squandered 
 in this manner, since it is dispersed to the Poor and Laborious part 
 of mankind, v. 169 [recurring to what is laid down in the first book, 
 Ep. II. and in the Epistle preceding this, v. 159, etc.]. What are 
 the proper Objects of Magnificence, and a proper field for the Ex- 
 pence of Great Men, v. 177, etc., and finally, the Great and Public 
 Works which become a Prince, v. 191, to the end." 
 
 i-io. Topham. ' A gentleman famous for a judicious collection 
 of drawings.' — Pope. Pembroke; probably the Earl of Pem- 
 
 broke, whose county seat of ^\Mllon was celebrated for its woi-ks of 
 art. Hearne ; a well-known antiquary. Mead ; Sloane ; two 
 
 prominent physicians : the one famous for his library, the other 
 
40 NOTES ro POPE. 
 
 for his collection of natural curiosities, now in the British 
 Museum. 
 
 13-22. Sir Visto ; Sir Robert \V'alpole, for twenty' years Whig 
 Prime Minister of England. He made a large fortune in politics, 
 and lavished much of it on his magnificent house and gardens at 
 Houghton. Pojie detested him, and never lost a chance to satirize 
 him. Ripley was an architect, a henchman of Walpole's, and 
 
 built the house at Houghton. Bubo, in Latin, means ' Owl.' 
 
 Here it stands for Bubb Doddington (Lord Melcombe), a close 
 friend of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and a favorite object for 
 Pope's satire. 
 
 23-38. You show us Rome was glorious. • The Earl of Burlington 
 was then publishing the Designs of Inigo Jones and the Antiquities 
 of Rome by Palladio." — Pope. Palladian. Andrea Palladio 
 
 was an Italian architect who died in 15S0. He introduced a tawdry 
 style of architecture, in which the Roman orders are used not for 
 constructive, but for decorative, purposes. Do any of the public 
 buildings you are familiar with answer to Pope's description in 
 these lines.' How about those in your own town? 
 
 39-46. the seven. The Schoolmen's list of the Seven Sciences 
 is Grammar, Logic, Rhetoric, Music, Arithmetic, Geometry, As- 
 tronomy. Jones; Inigo Jones (d. 1653), the most famous 
 English architect of his day. Le Notre (d. 1700), the favorite 
 landscape gard.ener of Louis XIV. He laid out the grounds at A'ei- 
 sailles; also St. James' and Greenwich Parks. 
 
 47-64. ' All the three rules of gardening are reducible to three 
 heads : the contrasts, the management of surprises, and the conceal- 
 ment of the bounds.' — Pope. 
 
 65-70. Stowe; Lord Cobham's country seat in Buckinghamshire. 
 ' Though some of the buildings . . . are far from beautiful, 
 yet the rich landscapes occasioned by the multiplicity of temples 
 and obelisks and the various pictures that present themselves as 
 Ave shift our situation occasion surprise and pleasure, sometimes 
 recalling Albano's landscapes to our mind, and oftener to our fancy 
 the idolatrous and luxuriant vales of Daphne and Tempe.' — 
 Horace Walpole. 
 
 71-78. Versailles; see note on ' Le N6tre," line 46. Nero's 
 
 terraces; see Brewer, article 'Golden House.' Cobham ; see 
 
 note on ' Stowe,' line 70. cut wide views. ' This was done in 
 
 Hertfordshire by a wealthy citizen at the expense of above £5,000, 
 by which means (merely to overlook a dead plain) he let in the 
 north Avind upon his house and pasture, which were before adorned 
 and defended by beautiful woods.' — Pope. Samuel Clarke, D.D., 
 
EPISTLE ro LORD BURLINGTON. 41 
 
 was a favorite of Queen Caroline's, who made him one of her 
 chaplains, and after his death (1729) had his bust placed in the 
 Hermitage. This was a famous grotto which the Qiieen had 
 constructed in Richmond Gardens in the summer of 1735. She 
 called it "Merlin's Cave," and filled it with figures of the wizard 
 and his votaries, copied from members of her court. Pope here 
 implies that there was a grotesque incongruity between a grotto 
 and the likeness of an assiduous courtier like Dr. Clarke. 
 
 79-88. quincunx; espaliers; parterres. All these words have 
 interesting etymologies. supports; 'here used in the technical 
 sense, signifying the art by which objects are made in a picture to 
 assume their proper relative proportions.' — E. and C.'s Pope, 
 iii. 178. 
 
 89-98. Dryads; CI. Myths, § 47 (2) and § 121. In line 95 the 
 construction is elliptical : ' Having destroyed his father's work, he 
 views,' etc. The boundless Green is condemned as monotonous : 
 the flourished Carpet as cramped and stiff in design. In the parks 
 of some of our large cities you can see these ' flourished carpets.' 
 
 99-112. Timon. Pope's enemies declared that he had once received 
 a present of £500 from the Duke of Chandos, and that in Timon 
 he held up his benefactor to ridicule. Both these charges Pope 
 hotly and — as the evidence shows — truthfully denied. Pope's 
 note on lines 99-168 explains that ' This description is intended to 
 comprise the principles of a false taste of [for] magnificence, and 
 to exemplify what was said before, that nothing but good sense can 
 attain it.' Brobdignag; the land of giants : familiar to readers 
 
 of Gulliver's Travels, which was published five years before the first 
 edition of this Epistle. 
 
 113-126. Amphitrite ; CI. Myths, § 52. Notice how the ludicrous 
 effects in this famous passage are produced by the juxtaposition of 
 things incongruous. 
 
 127-140. Aldus; Aldo Manuzio (whence Aldine), a famous 
 Venetian printer of the i6th Centuiw. De Sueil; a Parisian 
 
 binder. Locke. His famous Essay on the Human Understand- 
 
 ing had been published some forty years when this Epistle came 
 out. 
 
 141-150. ' Verrio (Antonio) painted many ceilings, etc., at Wind- 
 sor, Hampton Court, etc., and Laguerre at Blenheim Castle and 
 other places.' — Pope. 
 
 151-168. Tritons. See note on ' Herald of the Sea,' Lycidas 89. 
 Sancho's dread doctor. See Don Qiiixote, Part ii. Book iii. Chap- 
 ter 47. God Bless the King. The English National Air, often 
 played at the close of musical and theatrical entertainments. 
 
42 NOTES TO POPE. 
 
 169-180. Ceres. CI. Myths, § 45. Bathurst. Allen Apsley, 
 Lord Bathurst, 'a man of learning, courtesy and feeling' (Sterne), 
 to whom Pope addressed his Third Epistle. 
 
 181-204. Jones; see line 46 and note. Palladio; see note on 
 
 ' Palladian," line 37. Vitruvius; see note on Dr\den's Epistle to 
 Congreve, line 15. It would be difficult to imagine 
 
 a more artistic conclusion to an Epistle of this nature, or one that 
 holds up a more admirable ideal. It is not unworthy to be compared 
 with those noble lines in which Vergil interprets the destiny of Rome : 
 
 Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento ; 
 Hae tibi erunt artes ; pacisque imponere morem, 
 Parcere subiectis, et debellare superbos. 
 
 .'Eneid vi. 851-853. 
 
 Drvden's rendering of this has evidently suggested Pope's con- 
 cluding line. 
 
 But Rome, 'tis thine alone with awful sway, 
 To rule mankind and make the world obey, 
 Disposing peace and war thy own majestic way. 
 To tame the proud, the fettered slave to free — 
 These are imperial arts and worthy thee! 
 
 EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. 
 
 This Epistle (first published in 1737) is imitated from Horace's Epistles 
 ii. I. This you should read, if not in the original at least in Conington's 
 translation. The King's name was George Augustus. Physical bravery 
 seems to have been his only redeeming virtue; in all other respects he was 
 a thoroughly contemptible creature, as you may read in Thackeray's Four 
 Georges. The portions of the Epistle addressed directly to him are couched in 
 a vein of subtle irony. Warton says that the irony was so artfully concealed 
 that ' some of the highest rank in the Court ' mistook it for serious praise ( !) ; 
 but this seems hardly credible. 
 
 1-6. open all the Main, seems to be used in a double sense : 
 (i) You open all the sea to English trade; (2) you leave the sea 
 open to the Spaniards. In the year this epistle was published, there 
 was great excitement in England over the ' right of search ' which 
 Spain claimed to exercise and did exercise over English vessels. 
 When Spain declined and when England became the leading naval 
 power of the world, she claimed for herself this same ' right of 
 search' against which she had formerly so vigorously protested. 
 The connection between this claim and the war of 1S12 is too w^ell 
 known to need elaboration here. chief in Arms, abroad defend; 
 
 referring to the King's desire to command the army in person and to 
 his repeated absences in his beloved Hanover. Morals, Arts and 
 
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. 43 
 
 Laws. George II. had no morals, he cared nothing for what he called 
 ' Bainting and Boetrv,' and he exercised no influence on legislation. 
 
 7-22. Edward = Edward III. Henry = Henry V. Alfred = 
 
 Alfred the Great. to find, etc. = at finding how unwilling are 
 
 base mankind to be grateful. Alcides = Hercules, the grand- 
 
 son of Alcitus. CI. Myths, § 139-143. Tlie diction and the im- 
 agery of lines 19-22 could hardly be improved. 
 
 23-42. Skelton; died in 1529. He was a favorite of King Henry 
 VIII. Erasmus thought better of him than Pope did, and was cer- 
 tainly a more competent judge. Heads of Houses. At Oxford 
 and Cambridge, what we would call the President of a College is 
 sometimes denominated the Head of a House. He is generally a 
 clergyman. Christ's Kirk o' the Green; a liallad of low life by 
 King James I. of Scotland. the Devil. ' The Devil Tavern, 
 where Ben Jonson held his jioetical Club." — Pope. Lines 37-42 
 are in illustration of 35 and 36. From this point to the end of 138, 
 the argument is intended to ridicule that unreasoning public taste 
 which belittles the literature of its own day while it extols that of 
 the past. Perhaps Pope ' felt in his bones " tliat the literary sceptre 
 which he had received from Dryden, and which he had so long 
 swayed, was about to pass from him to a school of Romantic poets 
 whose precursor was Thomson. If this be so, while we may not 
 sympathize with his regret, we cannot help admiring the sharpness 
 of his sarcasm, the brilliancy of iiis wit and the extraordinary acute- 
 ness of his literary judgments. 
 
 43-68. Courtesy of England ; a legal phrase, applied to the 
 tenure b\ whicli a widower holds the property of his deceased wife. 
 The application here will be : ' We will allow that such a poet as 
 you describe may, by courtesy, pass for a classic, though he has 
 not a full right to do so.' the rule that made the Horse-tail 
 
 bare. The word 'rule" in this expression seems based upon a mis- 
 interpretation of lines 45-46 of the Horatian Epistle from which this 
 Epistle is imitated. In Horace, the plucking out single hairs from 
 a horse's tail is used for illustration just as Pope uses it in line 64 ; 
 Pope's ' rule' is Horace's ' ratione mentis acervi' (mentioned in his 
 line 47), a logical puzzle better known under its Greek name of 
 Sorites. For etymology and explanation of this, consult an un- 
 abridged dictionary. Stowe ; author of ' Annals of This King- 
 dom from the Time of the Ancient Britons to His Own' [1600]. 
 
 69-78. Shakespear. ' Shakespear and Ben Jonson may truly be 
 said not much to have thought \_sic'\ of this Immortality, the one 
 in many pieces composed in haste for the stage : the other in his 
 latter works in general, which Dryden called his Dotages.' — Pope. 
 
44 NOTES TO POPE. 
 
 Cowley, who died the year Paradise Lost was published, was consid- 
 ered by his contemporaries the greatest poet of his day. His Pindaric 
 Odes do not remind one of Pindar in any way, and his Epic (the 
 Davideis) would hardly be considered a compliment by so good a 
 poet as David. Pope has an imitation of Cowley called The Garden. 
 
 79-88. ' . . . the whole paragraph has a mixture of Iron\-, and 
 must not altogether be taken for Horace's own judgment, only the 
 common chat of the pretenders to criticism ; in somethings right, 
 in others wrong. . . .' — Pope. Beaumont's judgment. Of 
 
 the fifty-two plays attributed to Beaumont and Fletcher, less than 
 one-third are known to show traces of Beaumont's hand. See note 
 on Fletcher in the Epistle to Congreve, line 20. Shadwell hasty. 
 
 Warburton tells us that this line (from Wilmot, Earl of Rochester) 
 refers not to the differing abilities of Shadwell and of Wycherley, but 
 to the rate at which they produced plays. For Shadwell, see note 
 on Epistle to Congreve, line 48. Southern; Rowe ; dramatists, 
 
 contemporary with Pope. Heywood ; John Heywood died the 
 
 year after Shakespeare was born. His ' Interludes ' show the transi- 
 tion from the Moralities to the regular play. Gibber; Colley 
 Cibber, actor, play-wright, Poet Laureate; immortalized in 1743, 
 when formally proclaimed by Pope as the hero of the Dunciud. 
 
 89-106. Gammer Gurton's Needle (1575) was supposed, in the 
 time of Pope, to be the oldest English comedy. It is now known 
 that Ralph Roister Doister goes back as far as 1566. the 
 
 Careless Husband (1704). Though Gibber's masterpiece, this is 
 certainly a dull play, lacking action and distinctness of charac- 
 terization. Spenser, Sydney, Milton. As your acquaintance with 
 these writers grows more extended you will recognize the justness 
 of Pope's strictures. Bentley (d. 1742), the great Greek scholar, 
 
 made the mistake of tiwing to edit Milton on the same critical prin- 
 ciples that he had so successfully applied to the Epistles of Phalaris. 
 He included within brackets [hooks] all lines that seemed to him 
 spurious. The result was an edition of Milton scarcely less deplor- 
 able than Sir Isaac Newton's edition of the Prophecies of Daniel, 
 or than Professor Tyndall's discourses on Irish Politics. Ne sufoi- 
 supra crepidam. th' affected fool; Lord Hervev, the friend of 
 
 Qvieen Caroline. This sarcasm is based upon his lines ; 
 
 All that I learned from Dr. Friend at school 
 By Gradus, Lexicon, or Grammar-rule 
 Has quite deserted this poor John-Trot-head, 
 And left plain native English in its stead. 
 107-118. Sprat; 'A worse Cowley.' — Pope {apiid Spence). 
 Carew ; Sedley ; each a man of one song. To the former belongs 
 
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. 45 
 
 •He that loves a i-osy cheek ; ' to the latter, 'Ah, Chloris, could I 
 now but sit, As unconcern'd. . . . ' 
 
 119-138. If I but ask, etc. Pope's Edition of Shakespeare (173 1) 
 had been severely criticised by Theobald. Betterton (d. 1710) 
 
 was for many years the leading actor of the English stage, — and 
 this in spite of his clumsy figure. Booth; see line 334. A 
 
 muster roll of names. ' An absurd custom of several actors, to 
 pronounce with emphasis the mere proper names of Greeks and 
 Romans, which (as they call it) fill the mouth of the player.' — 
 Pope. Merlin ; 
 
 Him the most famous man of all those times, 
 Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, 
 Had built the King his havens, ships and halls, 
 Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens ; 
 The people called him Wizard. . . . 
 
 Tennyson. Merlin and Vivian, 22-26. 
 
 139-154- These lines sketch the growth of taste in England from 
 the time of Charles restored (1660). Even in Horace's Epistle the 
 connection between the different parts of the argument (if so it may 
 be called) is extremely loose; in Pope this connection is often con- 
 spicuous onl}' by absence. All, by the King's example, etc. ' K 
 verse of the Lord Lansdowne.' — Pope. Newmarket (near Cam- 
 bridge) ; famous for its horse-i"aces. It was a favorite place of 
 resort for Charles the Second. Lely ; Sir Peter Lely (d. 1680) 
 painted many of the Court beauties. they taught the note to 
 pant. ' The Siege of Rhodes by Sir William Davenant, the first 
 opera sung in England [1656].' — Pope. 
 
 155-160. These lines have no logical connection either with what 
 precedes or with what follows. 
 
 161-180. The good old times, when nobody wrote, contrasted 
 with these degenerate days, when everybody writes. 
 
 181-188. Everybody — except the would-be author — realizes that 
 he must learn his trade before he can practise it. Ward. ' A 
 
 famous empiric, whose pill and drops had several surprising effects, 
 and were one of the principal subjects of writing and conversation 
 at that time.' — Pope. Radcliff's Doctors. The Radcliff 
 
 (Medical) Scholarship at Oxford permits the holders to spend half 
 their time in study ' in parts beyond sea.' Ripley. See note on 
 
 Epistle to the Earl of Burlington, line iS. 
 
 189-200. In spite of his mania for writing, the author is a harm- 
 less creature. the Folly; that is the folly of writing. Peter; 
 Peter Walter (according to Bowles) who cheated Mr. George Pitt 
 when collecting his rents. 
 
46 NOTES TO POPE. 
 
 201-240. A commendation of poets as useful members of society. 
 Roscommon. The Earl of Roscommon (d. 1684) was a friend of 
 Urjdcn's. He translated the Ars Poetica of Horace and \vrotc an 
 Essay on Translated \'erse. Pope speaks of him in the Essav on 
 Criticism (725-728) as 
 
 . . . not more learned than good, 
 With manners gen'rous as his noble blood ; 
 To him the Art of Greece and Rome was known, 
 And every author's merit but his own. 
 
 Swift. See Brewer, articles ' Drapier's Letters,' ' Wood's Half- 
 pence.' Swift's life in Dublin was worthy the splendid eulogium 
 his friend here bestows upon it. Hopkins and Sternhold. The 
 
 Hopkins and Sternhold version of the Psalms was published with 
 the Book of Common Prayer in 1562. The mention of them as poets 
 is a joke that can be appreciated only by him whose youthful spirit 
 has been tried by the attempts of these worthy creatures to improve 
 upon the Hebrew bards. Campbell admirably says of them that, 
 ' with the best intentions and worse taste [they] degraded the spirit 
 of Hebrew psalmody by flat and homely phraseology, and, mistak- 
 ing vulgarity for simplicity, turned into bathos what they found 
 sublime.' 
 
 241-262. This account of the origin and growth of satiric verse 
 is historically true of Rome, but not of England. English satire is 
 not, like Latin satire, indigenous, but is formed upon foreign 
 models. The literary ancestor of Dryden is Juvenal. 
 
 263-266. England conquered and made France captive but once 
 — under Henry V. in 1420 (Treaty of Troves). This conquest had 
 no such effect on English literature as is here described. If Pope 
 refers to the victories of Marlborough (1702-9), he places too late 
 the date at which Erench influences began to affect English litera- 
 ture ; such influences are easily visible during the first decade after 
 the Restoration (1660). 
 
 267-281. The Progress of Englisli Poetry. Waller (d. 16S7) 
 
 enjoyed a I'cputation among his contemporaries that posterity has 
 failed to endorse. He was the first 17th Century poet to em- 
 ploy the heroic couplet as his ordinary means of expression; 
 Dryden acknowledges that he learned rnuch of the art of versifica- 
 tion from him. correctness. De Qiiincey's elaborate exami- 
 nation into Pope's ' correctness,' seems to follow a false scent and 
 to lead to no satisfactory .results. A modern scholar who studies 
 Pope carefully and sympathetically, can hardly fail to agree with 
 Mr. Courthope that the 'correctness' at which Pope aimed was 
 ' accuracy of expression, propriety of design and justice of 
 
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. 47 
 
 thought and taste.' Racine (d. 1699), the greatest of French 
 
 tragic writers. Pope's exact is not an exact characterization. 
 ' Realistic ' is probably what he means. Of this Realism wc have 
 good examples in Racine's Iphigenie and in his Pheciro. Cor- 
 
 neille (d. 1684), the father of French tragedy; his noble fire burns 
 brightest in his Cinna and in his Horace. Otway (d. 16S5), 
 
 the only great tragic writer of tlie Restoration period. Ilis Venice 
 Preserved is hardly inferior in pathos to Othello. fluent 
 
 Shakespear. ' I remember the players have often mentioned it as 
 an honor to Shakespear, that, in his writing, whatsoever he penned, 
 he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, " Would he had 
 blotted out a thousand!"'- — ^ Ben Jonsoh. Copious Dryden. Of 
 Dryden's twenty-seven plays, twenty could easily be spared. 
 
 282-303. Judgments on the Comedy-Writers of Pope's day. 
 Congreve ; see notes on Dryden's Epistle to Congreve. If you 
 compare Witwoud in Congreve's Way of the World with Touch- 
 stone in As You Like It, or with the Clown in Twelfth Night, you 
 will see the difference between a Fool who merely displays the 
 author's wit and one who is as thoroughly human as any other 
 character in the play. pert, low dialogue. This criticism does 
 
 injustice to the sprightly and often not unrefined dialogue of 
 Farquhar's later and better work — The Recruiting Officer (1706) 
 and The Beaux" Stratagem (1707). Pope's only play. Three Hours 
 After Marriage, failed dismally; from that fatal hour he seldom 
 missed a chance to sneer at the dramatists of his own day. Van = 
 Sir John Vanbrugh, architect of Blenheim, and author of ten come- 
 dies. The phrase 'wants grace' seems to condemn, not unjustly, 
 his lack of moral fibre. Some of Vanbrugh's plays are admirably 
 constructed, so far as plot and situation go. His best work 
 (The Confederacy), adapted from the French, has a double motif 
 quite as diverting as that in the Comedy of Errors, and pos- 
 sesses much more verisimilitude. Astraea; Mrs. Aphra Behn, 
 author of seventeen indifferent plays ; the first Englishwoman who 
 made a living by her pen. Gibber; see note on The Careless 
 Husband, line 92. the laws = tlie laws of comedy. poor 
 Pinkey ; William Penkethman, a comic actor. In the Tatlei", N'o. 
 1S8, we read, ' . . . Mr. Bullock has the more agreeable squall, 
 and Mr. Penkethman the more graceful shrug ; Penkethman devours 
 a cold chick with great applause; Bullock's talent lies chiefly in 
 asparagus.' See also The Spectator, No. 370, for a description of 
 Penkethman in the character of Don Choleric Snap Shorto de Testy. 
 
 304-307. Condemnation of the public rage for farces and spec- 
 tacular plays. With this passage compare Spectator, No. 31. 
 
48 NOTES TO POPE. 
 
 pit. The pit was originally an inclosed space where dog-fights and 
 bear-fights took place. As the bear-garden was metamorphosed 
 into the theatre, the name ' pit ' was retained for the floor of the 
 house ; admission to this was cheap, and this made it the favorite 
 resort of the rabble. As late as twenty years ago the ' pit ' was 
 common in London theatres ; now it has almost disappeared, the 
 space formerly reserved for it being occupied by what we call the 
 parquet. the Black-joke; a popular tune of the day. From 
 
 heads to ears and now from ears to eyes; ' From plavs to operas 
 and from operas to pantomimes." — Warburton. Old Edward's 
 
 Armour. ' The coronation of Henry VHI. and G^ueen Ann Boleyn, 
 in which the play-houses vied with each other to represent all the 
 pomp of a coronation. In this noble contention the armour of one 
 of the kings of England was borrowed from the Tower to dress the 
 champion." — Pope. Democritus, according to the legend, 
 
 never went abroad without laughing at the follies of mankind; 
 Heraclitus, without weeping at the same follies. Orcas. ' The 
 
 farthest northern promontory of Scotland, opposite to the Orcades.' 
 — Pope. Quin. After the death of Betterton, in 1710, Qiiin and 
 
 Booth became the leading actors of the day. Booth retained his 
 popularity until his death in 1733; Qiiin lived many years after he 
 was superseded by Garrick, whose first appearance in London, in 
 1742, stamped him as the greatest actor England has ever seen. 
 Oldfield; Mrs. Oldfield, the comic actress, d. 1730. a birthday 
 
 suit ; suit worn at a Court-ball in honor of the King's birthday. 
 
 338-347. This fine passage excels the original, thus rendered by 
 Conington : 
 
 But lest you think this niggard praise I fling 
 
 To bards who soar where I n'er stretched a wing, 
 
 That man I hold true master of his art 
 
 Who with fictitious woes can wring my heart ; 
 
 Can rouse me, soothe me, pierce me with the thrill 
 
 Of vain alarm, and, as by magic skill 
 
 Bear me to Thebes, to Athens, where he will. 
 
 348-355. Or who, etc., i.e.. If you do not patronize us, how can we 
 write .^ the Muses . . . mountain. See note on Lycidas, 15- 
 
 22. Merlin's Cave. See note on 'Clark' in the Epistle to 
 
 Lord Burlington, line 78. Pope is fond of making fun of the 
 Qiieen's choice of books. In his Imitations of Horace's Epistles, 
 ii. 2, he writes ; 
 
 Lord! how we strut through Merlin's Cave, to see 
 No poets there but Stephen, you and me ! 
 
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. 49 
 
 356-375. if we will recite. Poets used to recite before Augustus, 
 never before George II. Through following his original too 
 closely, Pope misses his point. The indifference of George II. to 
 literature was founded upon sheer stupidity, — that stupidity against 
 which the gods themselves, as Schiller says, fight in vain, 
 dubb'd Historians. Tlie office of Historiographer Royal was 
 sometimes combined with that of Poet Laureate. See note on 
 Dryden's Epistle to Congreve, 41-4S. Louis = Louis XIV. 
 
 Boileau (d. 171 1), the French critic whose Art of Poetry strongly 
 influenced Pope's Essay on Criticism. Racine; see note on 
 
 line 274. 
 
 376-379. Some minister of grace ; a hit at Walpole, who made 
 Gibber laureate in 1730. The phrase is from Hamlet i. 4, 39: 
 
 Angels and ministers of grace, defend us ! 
 
 380-389. Charles = Charles I. Bernini (d. 16S0) ; an Italian 
 
 architect and sculptor; his best known work is the colonnade in 
 front of St. Peter's at Rome. Nassau = William III. Kneller 
 
 was court-painter to all the English sovereigns from Charles II. to 
 George I. See first note on Pope's Epistle to Jervas. Blackmore ; 
 Sir Richard Blackmore, physician to William III., was knighted in 
 1697. He seems to have been a very good physician, but was certainly 
 a very poor poet. Quarles. ' The enormous popularity of Fran- 
 
 cis Qiiarles' Emblems and Enchiridion, a popularity which has not 
 entirely ceased up to the present day, accounts to some extent for 
 the very unjust ridicule which has been lavished on him by men 
 of letters of his own and later times. . . . the silly antithesis of 
 Pope, a writer who, great as he was, was almost as ignorant of 
 literary history as his model Boileau, ought to prejudice no one, 
 and it is strictly true that Qiiarles' enormous volume hides, to some 
 extent, his merits.' — Saintsbury ; History of Elizabethan Literature, 
 377. No Lord's anointed, but a Russian bear. There is no 
 
 evidence other than Pope's to show that Jonson and Dennis ever 
 made use of such an expression. Perhaps it is merely intended as 
 a paraphrase of Horace's ' Boeotum in crasso . . . aere natum ' 
 (' . . . born and nurtured in Boeotian air '). Dennis; John 
 
 Dennis the critic had many a literary encounter with Pope, in which 
 the poet not seldom came out second best. 
 
 390-403. The corresponding lines in Horace recount with loyal 
 pride the great deeds of Augustus ; notice with what admirable 
 irony Pope adapts them to the ignoble reign of George II. 
 Maeonian = Homeric. Maeonia was the ancient name for Lydia, 
 and according to one legend was the birth-place of Homer. 
 
50 NOTES TO POPE. 
 
 404-419. Eusden; Poet Laureate from 1718-1730. He has the 
 honor of appearing among the city poets in the Dunciad, I. 104. 
 PhiUips; Ambrose Phillips (d. 1749) sometimes known as Nambj'- 
 Pamby Phillips, appears several times in the Dunciad. He was a 
 good Whig; this seems to be the only explanation of the fact that 
 Addison and Steele considered him a good poet. Settle; El- 
 
 kanah Settle (d. 1723) wrote Odes on the Lord Mayor's Day. 
 Dryden has pilloried him in Absalom and Achitophel, ii. 412-456 : 
 
 Doeg, though without knowing how or why, 
 Made still a blundering kind of melody; — 
 
 The Third Book of the Dunciad is largely devoted to him. 
 Bedlam; a well-known lunatic asylum in London. During the 
 1 8th Century, second-hand bookstores were numerous in the vicin- 
 ity of Bedlam. Soho = '01d Soho, [which] had already begun 
 to acquire a connection with old curiosities.' — E. and C.'s Pope, 
 iii- 373- 
 
LIFE OF THOMSON. 51 
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 James Thomson was born at Ednam, in the county of Roxburgh, in 1700 — 
 the year of Dryden's death. He studied at the University of Edinburgh in a 
 somewhat desultory fashion, and in 1725 went to seel< his fortune in London. 
 Thanks to influential friends and to good letters of introduction, Thomson, 
 though sometimes pressed for money, seems to have escaped the starveling 
 period incident to poets. In 1726 he published the Winter. Sir Spencer 
 Compton, Speaker of the House of Commons, to whom it was dedicated, gave 
 Thomson twenty guineas ; the friendly exertions of Aaron Hill, once manager 
 of Drury Lane Theatre, and a favorable notice by Spence in his Essay on the 
 Odyssey, assisted to bring Thomson's work prominently before the public. The 
 popularity which he then attained he has never lost ; his occasional Latinisms, 
 his ponderosities and his mannerisms are easily forgotten in the delight we feel 
 in his keen observation of Nature, in his sympathy with all that is charming in 
 her sights and sounds, in his power of putting together a landscape and bring- 
 ing it vividly before us, and in the melodious roll of his easy blank verse. The 
 Winter was published when Pope was at the height of his fame ; a greater con- 
 trast than that between him and Thomson it would be hard to imagine, or a 
 more striking proof of the intellectual versatility of an age that could appre- 
 ciate them both. In his Suimner, Spriytg and Autumn, Thomson never quite 
 reached the level he attained in the Winter; his Ode o?t Liberty and his plays 
 are distressing performances. In the first canto of the Ca<:tle 0/ Indolence 
 (1746), written with a sincere love of the subject, he is at his best again; its 
 dreamy gorgeousness reminds us of Spenser and foreshadows Keats. 
 
 Personally, Thomson was a good-natured, lazy creature, of indifferent morals, 
 with a fondness for a lord that would have entitled him to the distinction of a 
 long chapter in Thackeray's Book of Snobs. Before his death (1748) he had 
 had the pleasure of seeing his character happily idealized in this flattering 
 stanza by his friend, Lord Lytteiton : 
 
 A bard here dwelt more f;it than bard beseems ; 
 
 Who, void of envy, g'uile, and hist of gani, 
 On virtue still, and nature's pleasing- themes, 
 
 Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain; 
 
 The world forsaking with a calm disdain. 
 Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat; 
 
 Here quaft'd, encircled with the joyous train. 
 Oft moralizing sage: his ditty sweet 
 He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat. 
 
 Castle of Indolence, I. f>S- 
 
52 NOTES TO THOMSON. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — A conscientious and thoroughly dull Life of Thomson 
 by Sir Harris Nicholas will be found prefixed to Little, Brown & Co.'s edition of 
 Thomson (Boston, 1865). For further references, see Bibliography on Pope. 
 
 Text. — Child's, in the edition above referred to. 
 
 Criticism. — Johnson, in his Lives of the Poets, is almost the earliest critic 
 of Thomson, and there have been few better. 
 
 Hazlitt, in his Thomson and Cowper (Lectures on the English Poets), has 
 some acute remarks put in his own dogmatic way. 
 
 Christopher North, in .1 Feiv Words on Thomson, lets his sympathy run into 
 enthusiasm, sometimes into over-praise, of a fellow-countryman. Incidentally 
 he shows up the absurdity of Wordsworth's criticism on Thomson. North's 
 comment on the opening of Thomson's Spring is, ' Never had a poem a more 
 delightful beginning.' This is in amusing contrast with Hazlitt, who calls the 
 same opening ' flimsy, round-about, unmeaning.' 
 
 Saintsbury, in the second volume of Ward's English /-"t^f A, has the best short 
 criticism of Thomson from a modern point of view. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 1-53. Capricorn. 'J'he sun enters the sign of Capricorn (Goat's 
 Horn) on the 21 si ot December. The sign immediately preceding 
 Capricorn is Sagittarius or the Archer, often represented on celes- 
 tial maps by a Centaur with bow and arrow. Following Capricorn 
 comes Aquarius, or the Water-Bearer, which the sun enters about 
 the 2ist of January. Consult your dictionary under the word ' Zo- 
 diac' the inverted year; the time of year in which there seems 
 to he neither growth nor life in Nature, but rather decay and death, 
 long, dark night. In the latitude of Thomson's birth-place (about 
 550 30'), on December Jist, the sun sets at 3.29 P.M., and on Decein- 
 ber 22d rises at 8.31 A.M. ; i.e., the night is seventeen hom-s long. 
 broad. What makes the sun look 'broad'.' Verify, from your 
 own observation, the points in this description of the winter sun. 
 
 54-71. crop the wholesome root. This is a decided anticlimax, 
 weakening instead of strengthening our impression of the severity 
 of winter. Genius of the coming storm. Compare II Penseroso 
 
 1^4 and Lvcidas 183. Fancy; thus characterized by Milton, in 
 
 the Par. Lost, v. 103-105. 
 
 . . . of all external things 
 Which the five watchful senses represent. 
 She forms imaginations, aery shapes. 
 
 For ' Imagination' see the Midsummer Night's Dream, v. i. 14-17: 
 
WINTER. 53 
 
 . . . as imagination bodies forth 
 The form of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing 
 A local habitation and a name. 
 
 Lowell gives an admirable concrete illustration of the difference 
 between Fancy and Imagination when he says that Ariel is a 
 creation of the Fancy and Prospero of the Imagination. 
 
 72-105. The vigor of this description of the rain-storm is some- 
 what impaired by the poet's occasional lapses into stilted phrase- 
 ology. What do you think, for instance, of ' household feathery 
 people' (87)? Can you imagine Chaucer or Milton writing this.'' 
 Compare the latter's description of country sights and sounds in 
 L'Allegro, 49-6S. There you see what Swift meant when he said 
 that a good style consists in proper words in proper places. Per- 
 haps you can find other places in these lines (72-105) where you 
 can belter the phraseology.' 
 
 223-275. With this description of the snow-storm compare the 
 beautiful opening of Whittier's Snow-Bound. Until that was 
 written, there was nothing better on the subject than these lines of 
 Thomson's. Both the Scotchman and the New Englander are able 
 to interest us because their treatinent is based upon Vision — that 
 is, upon clear view and close observation. But Thomson is far 
 inferior to Whittier in Imagination and in Human Sympathy. 
 There is nothing in the Winter that can compare with Snow-Bound 
 41-65 and loo-i 15. the laborer ox demands The fruit of all his 
 
 toils (239-241). This line, which has been severely ci'iticised 
 (why.'), is almost paralleled by Whittier's 
 
 The oxen lashed their tails and hooked, 
 And mild reproach of hunger looked. 
 
 In lines 261-263 the poet attributes to ' the bleating kind ' an emotion 
 of his own which they are incapable of feeling; moreover, were 
 they in 'despair' (= utter lack of hope or expectation) they would 
 not ' dig,' but would lie down and die. You will find this passage 
 '223-275) furnishes an excellent Study in Epithet. 
 
 276-321. In this incident of the cottager lost in the snow we have 
 a bit of genuine pathos, — a recollection, perhaps, of some tale that 
 Thomson had heard when a boy among the Roxburgh hills. Deftly 
 as the touches are laid on, we can hardly, with Christopher North, 
 attribute sublimity (!) to the poet who introduced them, nor can 
 we declare with that enthusiastic fellow-Scot that in this description 
 not a word could be altered for the better. Such laudation argues 
 a provincialism that British critics have been fond of pointing to 
 
54 NOTES TO THOMSON. 
 
 in the United States. Disastered. Look up thie etymology of 
 
 this word. shag = to roughen. This word is not uncommon 
 
 in Milton and Spenser. In lines 297-302 the syntax is muddy, but 
 you can clarify it by a careful study of the punctuation here given. 
 
 424-497. This enumeration of Greek Worthies is an evident 
 imitation of II Penseroso, 85-120. There is always danger for a 
 man of talent when he tries to imitate a man of genius ; Thomson's 
 thought seems diffuse and his diction pedantic when put beside 
 Milton's. His characterizations read like articles froin the Classical 
 Dictionary, with which they may profitably be compared. Line 456 
 refers to Leonidas; the haughty rival of 464 is Themistocles. 
 The Theban pair = Epaminondas and Pelopidas. By comparing 
 this passage (424-497) with the one immediately preceding (276- 
 321) you will perceive the difference between Poetry and Versified 
 History. Thomson's sense of humor developed late in life or he 
 might have perceived it himself. 
 
 69I-759. With this description of Frost, compare that in Cowper's 
 Winter Morning Walk, 104-16S. ethereal nitre = frost. Nitre 
 
 crystallizes in six-sided prisms. In the East Indies it is found on 
 the surface of the ground. Compare lines 717-720. Steamed 
 
 (721). We must not read into this word our modern and unpoetic 
 notions of steam as associated with intense heat and whirling 
 engines. ' To steam ' in Spenser and Thomson means only ' to rise 
 in vapor.' But it must be confessed that in any correct sense 
 ' steamed' goes badly with icy gale (723). the distant waterfall 
 
 Swells in the breeze (735-6). This admirable poetic touch is but 
 one of many in this description that it will repay you to study and 
 verify, remembering that Poetry describes things as they seem, 
 Science as they are. 
 
 760-777. Batavia (Holland), so called from the Batavi, a Keltic 
 tribe who inhabited the regions around the mouth of the Rhine in 
 the time of Caesar. 
 
 988-1023. This description of the Thaw is quite as good as that 
 of the Frost, — omitting Leviathan and his unwieldy train, whose 
 clumsy gambols add nothing to the horror of the scene. For a 
 really poetical description of the Leviathan, see Job xli. iS-34. 
 
 1024-1046. The transition is awkward from the description of the 
 Thaw to the Concluding Moral. Following the effects of the Thaw 
 we should expect some reflections upon the newly awakened life of 
 the Spring, such, for instance, as are introduced in 1041 et sqq. / 
 instead of this we are suddenly jerked back to Mid-Winter. 'Tis 
 
 done! What is done .' The Thaw.? ' No,' says the poet ; ' not the 
 thaw, but the work of dread Winter,' Then, in 104 1, we arc shot 
 
WINTER. 55 
 
 back into Spring again. The force of dislocation could no further 
 go. Disregarding the defective arrangement, we must confess 
 
 that the portion of the conclusion here given contains some excel- 
 lent lines ; among these the best seems to be, 
 
 And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year. 
 
 This is, perhaps, as fine a line as Thomson ever wrote, and is one 
 we may be glad to remember him by. Peace be to his ashes! He 
 has shown us that in that i8th Century, so much abused for its 
 Materialism, there lived at least one poet who was near to Nature's 
 heart. 
 
56 NOTES TO JOHNSON. 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 Born at Lichfield, 1709. His father was a book-seller, and in his shop the 
 boy was able to indulge his insatiable desire for reading. From 1728 to 1731 
 Johnson at Oxford was among the poorest of the poor, ' stoically shut up, 
 silently enduring the incurable,' as Carlyle puts it. He left without taking his 
 degree, and after two unsuccessful attempts at school-teaching came to seek 
 his fortune in London, accompanied by his friend Garrick (1737). The next 
 year appeared his poem, London, many passages of which — especially the 
 famous Slow rises worth by poverty depressed — reflect his own bitter 
 experiences as a starving author. At this date, twenty-four years of literary hack- 
 work were ahead of Johnson, during which, however, he managed to make at 
 least one ' honest strike for fame ' in his poem The Vanity of Hiima?! Wishes. 
 His Dictionary, his Ramble?-, his Rasselas, and his extraordinary conversational 
 powers assisted him to rise to a position of literary dictatorship similar to that 
 held in the seventeenth century by Dryden. In 1762 a small pension bestowed 
 upon him by George HL of unblessed memory relieved him from the unjust 
 ridicule of poverty. During the remainder of his life, he enjoyed a well-earned 
 rest, broken only by the diversions of writing his Visit to the Hebrides and his 
 Lives of the Poets. On this last-named work, it appears that Johnson's reputa- 
 tion as a prose-writer will chiefly rest. 
 
 Like to Achilles without his Homer, like to ^Eneas without his Vergil, like to 
 Henry V. without his Shakespeare — such would Johnson have been to us with- 
 out his Boswell. From 1763, when Boswell met Johnson, till 1784, when John- 
 son died, the daily walk and conversation of the great man have been preserved 
 for us in those incomparable sketches which are at once the joy and the despair 
 of all other biographers. To the reading of Boswell we might apply Hazlitt's 
 description of the reading of a good comedy — it is like keeping the best com- 
 pany, where the best things are said and the most amusing things happen. 
 
 Friends — Garrick, Burke, Goldsmith, Boswell, Reynolds, Robertson, Gib- 
 bon, Richardson. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — The best edition of Boswell \% that by G. Dirbeck Hill 
 (Clarendon Press, 6 vols.). The same editor has also published The Letters 
 of Samuel Johnson (excluding those published in Boswell) and a volume 
 entitled Dr. Johnson, His Friends and his Critics. 
 
 A large portion of Leslie Stephen s Johnson (E. M. L.) is a condensation of 
 Boswell, whose ' best things ' are skilfully selected. Hawthortie's Our Old Home 
 contains a charming account of his visit to Lichfield, Johnson's birth-place, and 
 
THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 57 
 
 to Uttoxeter, where Johnson did penance in the market-place. For the social 
 life of the times, see Thackeray^ s Virginians and his George III. in The Four 
 Georges. For the History, Green, Chapter X. Sees. 1-2. 
 
 Criticism. — The best criticism on Johnson has fortunately been brought 
 together within the compass of a single volume by Matthew Arnold. His 
 Johnson s Chief Lives has appended to it Alacaulay^s and Carlyle's Essays on 
 Boswell's Johnson. Macaulay gives us the man Johnson objectively and 
 materially, Carlyle gives us Johnson subjectively and spiritually. Not the least 
 interesting thing in this book is Arnold's own preface, with his high estimate 
 of Johnson as a prose-writer and his Lacustrine inability to see anything but 
 ' mistaken poetical practice ' in the eighteenth century poets. 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 
 
 This poem was published in 1749 and is imitated from the Tenth Satire of 
 Juvenal (see Gifford's translation), as is the Londonixovsx Juvenal's Third Satire. 
 The diction and the constructions in the second poem are more highly Latinized 
 than in the first ; the thought is mellower and the tone more resigned. 
 
 I -10. Notice the curious tautologj in lines 1-2. Survey (2), 
 Remark (3), watch (4), and say (5) are all infinitives depending 
 upon Let (i). Whitney, §§ 449, 477. Snares is hardly a good 
 
 metaphor with clouded. 
 
 11-20. The clauses beginning with How in 10 and 13 repeat the 
 construction of line 5. Later in the poem the writer gives concrete 
 illustrations of some of the general propositions here advanced. 
 
 21-28. the general massacre of gold = the general massacre which 
 the desire for wealth causes. Wide wasting pest ! The thought 
 
 and the phraseology in this passage are less from Juvenal than from 
 Vergil, ^Eneid iii. 56-7. 
 
 Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, 
 Auri sacra fames ! 
 
 29-36. madded, an obsolete form for 'maddened.' In line 31, 
 notice the abstractness of the diction. This use of abstract terms is 
 so frequent in Johnson as to amount to a mannerism. Yet he can 
 write very plain strong English when he wants to; see lines 33, 
 62, 78, 221. the Tow'r = the Tower of London, long used as 
 
 a state prison. 
 
 37-44. The needy traveller, serene and gay, Walks the wide heath, 
 and sings his toil away. A most happy rendering of one of 
 Juvenal's most famous lines : ' Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator.' 
 Increase; i.e., If you increase his riches you destroy his peace. 
 
 45-72. Democritus ; notice the accent of this \yord as determined 
 
58 NOTES TO JOHNSON. 
 
 by the rhythm. See notes on Epistle to Augustus, 304-337. mot- 
 
 ley; originally a patch-work dress of highly-colored bits of cloth; 
 the costume of the clown or professional jester. As applied here to 
 life, it implies a sneer as well as a description. man was of a 
 
 piece, that is, when men were more consistent than they are now. 
 Doubtless the satirists of the time of Democritus likewise looked 
 back to some Golden Age that existed only in their imaginations. 
 a new-made mayor's unwieldy state ; a reference to the Lord 
 Mayor's Show, a civic parade that still takes place annually in Lon- 
 don on the 9th of November, when the new Mayor is inaugurated. 
 Attentive goes with thou (61). robes and veils are subjects of 
 
 were (65). canvass; not in our modern (American) sense of 
 
 ' to solicit,' but in the old sense of ' to examine,' literally, ' to sift 
 through canvas " (bolting-cloth). 
 
 73-82. On every stage : on every stage of the suppliants' progress 
 to wealth and power. Love ends with hope : as soon as their 
 
 hope of patronage is disappointed, their love for their patron ends. 
 Sinking and growing are the emphatic words in their respective sen- 
 tences. 
 
 83-go. the painted face : the portrait of our former hero and 
 patron. palladium: CI. Myths, p. 305. better; this must 
 
 be taken sarcastically. For gives the reason for the sarcastic 
 
 better : being degenerate, we are unable to see heroic worth in the 
 features where once we found it. The form distorted (in our 
 
 pejorative imagination) justifies us in taking down the picture of 
 him who was once our hero; we detest what formerly we loved, and 
 indignantly rid our house of its presence. (I am aware that the sub- 
 jective interpretation of this difficult passage is not free from objec- 
 tions, but an objective interpretation creates even more difiiculties, it 
 seems to me, while a mixture of the tAvo methods produces hopeless 
 confusion.) 
 
 gi-gS. remonstrance rings. It is difficult to surmise what period 
 of English History Johnson had in mind, as the Tory party, of which 
 he was a staunch adherent, has never been noted for assaults upon 
 aristocratic and kingly power. Lines 95 and 96 seem to refer to 
 the premiership of Henry Pelham, who, at the time this satire was 
 written, had almost broken up the Opposition that destroyed Wal- 
 pole by taking into the Cabinet the most distinguished members of 
 that Opposition. septennial. Members of the House of Com- 
 
 mons hold office for seven years, unless the Crown orders a dissolu- 
 tion and a new election within that time. This prerogative of the 
 Crown is now lodged practically in the hands of the Prime Minister, 
 full is best taken as an adverb with riot and rail. 
 
THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 59 
 
 gg-i20. Wolsey in this sketch takes the place of Juvenal's Sejanus. 
 For the latter, consult a Histor>- of Rome under the years 14-31 A.D. 
 For the idealized Wolsey, see Shakespeare's Henry viii. ; for 
 the real Wolsey, Green, Chapter vi. Sec. 5. the regal palace; 
 
 Hampton Court, ten iniles west of the city of London. Wolsey's 
 arms are still to be seen above the clock-tower, and the magnifi- 
 cent carved roof of the hall was begun by him. Hampton Court 
 was the favorite residence of Cromwell and of William in. 
 
 121-134. Villiers : great is hardly an appropriate adjective for 
 George Villiers, first Duke of Buckingham, the frivolous and un- 
 principled favorite of James i. and Charles i. He was stabbed to the 
 heart by Felton in 1628. Harley, when a member of the Cabi- 
 
 net (171 1), was stabbed with a pen-knife by a French refugee named 
 Guiscard. The wound was not serious and brought Harley a good 
 deal of cheap popularity. Intemperance rather than this wound 
 fixed disease on Harley's closing life. What Johnson, in his Tory 
 fashion, calls the murder of W^entworth (better known as Strafford) 
 was in reality a perfectly legal and richly deserved execution for 
 treason (1641). Hyde. Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, 
 
 Prime Minister of Charles 11., was impeached in 1667 and fled to 
 France. Refusing to return and stand his trial, he was banished for 
 life. He has left a History of the Rebellion and Civil Wars in Eng- 
 land, much admired — by Tory writers. 
 
 135-164. the gown. The cap and gown are still worn by students 
 at Oxford and Cambridge. Bodley; Sir Thomas Bodley, an 
 
 Elizabethan diplomatist \\ho founded the Bodleian Library at 
 Oxford. Bacon's mansion. ' There is a tradition that the study of 
 Friar Bacon, built on an arch over the bridge, will fall wlien a man 
 greater than Bacon shall pass under it.' — Johnson. Novelty 
 
 thy cell refrain = Novelty i-efrain from approaching thy cell. So in 
 the ballad of Robin Hood and Little John (Childs, v. 222) : 
 
 . . . the whole train the grove did refrain 
 And unto their caves they did go. 
 
 Lines 153-4 ^^^ ^ bit of autobiography. pause . . . from 
 
 learning, to be wise. Compare Tennyson's Locksley Hall, 143-4; 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, 
 Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. 
 
 the patron and the jail are placed in admirable juxtaposition. Some 
 six years after writing this Satire, Johnson, in his celebrated letter 
 to Lord Chesterfield, gave ' noble' patronage in Literature a knock- 
 down blow from which it has never recovered. nations . . . 
 
60 NOTES TO JOHNSON. 
 
 meanly just. ' Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites ! 
 because ye build the tombs of the prophets, and garnish the sepul- 
 chres of the righteous, and say : If we had been in the days of our 
 fathers, we would not have been partakers with them in the blood 
 of the prophets.' Matt, xxiii. 29-30. Lydiat, who died in 1646, 
 
 suffered persecution not because he was a mathematician, but 
 because he was a Royalist. This is but one instance of others we 
 have noticed, where the good Doctor looks at historj' through Tory 
 spectacles. Galileo's experiences with the Inquisition are too 
 
 well known to call for recital here. He died in 1642. 
 
 165-174. Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury and Chief Persecutor 
 of the Puritans, was executed by order of the House of Commons 
 in 1645. Macaulay, as strong a Whig as Johnson was a Tory, also 
 disapproved of the execution of Laud, but for not exactly the same 
 reasons. ' The severest punishment which the two Houses could 
 have inflicted on him would have been to set him at liberty, and 
 send him to Oxford. There he might have stayed, tortured by his own 
 diabolical temper — hungering for Puritans to pillory and mangle; 
 plaguing the Cavaliers, for want of somebody else to plague, with 
 his peevishness and absurdity ; performing grimaces and antics 
 in the Cathedral ; continuing that incomparable Diary, which we 
 never see without forgetting the vices of his heart in the imbecility 
 of his intellect, minuting down his dreams, counting the drops of 
 blood which fell from his nose, watching the direction of the salt, 
 and listening for the notes of the screech-owls. Contemptuous 
 mercy was the only vengeance which it became the Parliament to 
 take on such a ridiculous old bigot.' — Essay on Hallam. 
 
 175-190. the rapid Greek: Alexander, whose Asiatic conquests 
 were completed between 334 and 323 B.C. This praise, etc., = 
 
 The desire for praise has such power over men that virtue [valor.'] 
 can scarce incite them to arduous deeds till fame lends her aid. 
 everlasting debt. When Johnson wrote this satire, the English 
 National Debt was about £78,000,000. In i860, our National Debt 
 was $64,842,287. In 1865 (August 31) it was $2,844,649,626. 
 
 191-222. Swedish Charles; Charles XII. (1697-1718). His life has 
 been written by Voltaire. Juvenal uses Hannibal as his example of 
 the emptiness of military glory. adamant; one of the finest 
 
 words in ovu" language. Look up the etymology. Surrounding 
 
 kings; Peter the Great (Russia), Augustus (Saxony and Poland), 
 Frederick iv. (Denmark). one capitulate; Frederick iv. in 
 
 1700. one resign; Augustus. In 1706, Charles compelled him 
 
 to resign his claim to the Polish crown in favor of Stanislas Lesc- 
 zinski. Moscow's walls. After his defeat at Smolensk (1708) 
 
THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 61 
 
 Peter the Great made overtures for peace. Charles is said to have 
 replied, ' I will treat with the Czar at Moscow.' Pultowa, where 
 
 Charles was totally defeated, July 8, 1709. distant lands. Charles 
 fled to Turkey and succeeded in embroiling that countr\' in a war 
 with Russia. In 17 14 he returned to S\veden. petty fortress : 
 
 Frederickshall in Norway. dubious hand. It was long dis- 
 
 puted whether the fatal bullet came from an enem}' in the front or a 
 traitor in the rear. In 1859 it Avas proved by an examination of the 
 King's scull that he had been shot from the front. It would be 
 well for you to commit to memory this fine passage (191-222), of 
 which lines 196 and 221-222 have become household words. If 3'ou 
 compare this characterization of Charles xii. with that of Villiers 
 (Absalom and Achitophel, I. 544-568) you will see that wliere John- 
 son draws a type, Dryden paints a man. 
 
 223-240. Persia's tyrant ; Xerxes. See a Historj' of Greece, under 
 the >ears 486-479 B.C., and compare the third and foin-th stanzas 
 of Byron's Isles of Greece (p. 152 of this book). 
 
 241-254. The bold Bavarian; Charles Albert, Elector of Bavaria ; 
 elected Emperor of Germany in 1742 under the title of Charles vii. 
 Caesarean = Imperial. ' Kaiser ' and ' Czar ' are both derived from 
 ' Csesar.' fair Austria ; Maria Theresa, Archduchess of Austria. 
 
 Upon the death of her father Charles vi. in 1740, she was treach- 
 erously attacked by Prussia, France, Bavaria and Saxony. Her 
 people rallied around her with enthusiasm ; after an heroic resist- 
 ance, peace was made with Prussia, and the Bavarian troops, at first 
 successful, were driven back. The Austrian cavalry, composed 
 largely of Croats and Hussars, over-ran Bavaria, and the vmlucky 
 Charles, deserted by his allies and a prey to disappointed ambition, 
 died after an inglorious Kaisership of only three years. For a 
 lively picture of these events, see the opening pages of Macaulay's 
 Essay on Frederick the Great. 
 
 255-282. This is one side of Old Age, and admii-ably drawn. 
 Compare As You Like It, ii. 6 (near the end) : 
 
 The sixth age shifts 
 Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, 
 With spectacles on nose and pouch on side ; 
 His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide 
 For his shrunk shank; and his big, manly voice, 
 Turned again toward childish treble, pipes 
 And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, 
 That ends this strange eventful history, 
 In second childishness and mere oblivion; 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. 
 
62 NOTES TO JOHNSON. 
 
 But there is another and a pleasanter side to Old Age. See Thack- 
 eray's touching description of the last days of Colonel Newcome 
 (The Nevvcomes, Chapters lxxv. andLxxx.); also the character 
 of Adam in As Yoii Like It. 
 
 283-290. The Miser; a favorite theme with great descriptive 
 writers. Well-known types are Golden Trapbois in Scott's Fortunes 
 of Nigel, Harpagon in Moliei^e's L'Avare and Pere Grandet in Bal- 
 zac's Eugdnie Grandet. 
 
 291-310. prime; the first part, the spring of life. Superflu- 
 
 ous lags the vet'ran on the stage ; a famous line — and famous 
 because the poet has hei^ein expressed, in striking phrase, an obser- 
 vation on life that we instantly recognize as true. 
 
 311-318. Lydia's monarch; Crcesus, renowned for his wealth. 
 The story goes that Crcesus, exhibiting his treasures to Solon, 
 asked the sage if he did not consider the owner of such treasures a 
 happy man. To this Solon replied, ' Count no man happy until he 
 is dead.' This story is probably apocryphal. Marlb'rough 
 
 died in 1722. Johnson seems to have drawn upon his imagination 
 and his Tory prejudice for this line. The comparison would be 
 extremely effective did it not lack the first condition of effective 
 coinparison — Truth. Swift was hopelessly insane for some 
 
 five years before his death (1745). 
 
 343-368. The poet has now enumerated some of the chief bless- 
 ings that men long for in this troublous world — Wealth, Political 
 Power, Literary Fame, Military Glory, Long Life, Beaut3\ He has 
 shown — often by concrete examples- — • that these so-called bless- 
 ings are more often curses in disguise. Is there then nothing for 
 which we may safely petition heaven? 'Yes,' he replies, 'but 
 very little.' Lines 360-368 tell us what this little is. The}' contain 
 the sum and substance of that somewhat melancholy but thoroughly 
 sincere philosophy by which Johnson bravely li\ed his own life, — 
 a life not unacquainted with grief. 
 
LIFE AND BIBLIOGRAPHY. 63 
 
 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 Born in London, 1716; educated at Eton and Cambridge with Horace Wal- 
 pole. From boyhood his health was delicate and he was subject to periods of 
 gloom and depression. Something more than two years (1739-1741) spent in 
 France and Italy brightened his mental tone and quickened his artistic sensi- 
 bilities. His Ode to Spring (written in 1742), breaking away from the 
 conventional eighteenth century forms — the heroic couplet and the rimed 
 octo-syllabic — marks the beginning of the return to freer lyrical movements. 
 For many years he resided at Cambridge; his opinion of life at his alma mater 
 may be gathered from the opening of his Hymn to Ignorance : 
 
 Hail, horrors, hail ! ye ever gloomy bowers . . . 
 Ah, Ignorance! soft salutary power! 
 Prostrate with filial reverence I adore. 
 
 Perhaps to escape these liorrors he plunged into a severe and prolonged 
 course of study which made him one of the most learned men and most accom- 
 plished critics in Europe. To the development of this critical faculty may be 
 partly attributed the small amount of Gray's verse — for the critical and the cre- 
 ative faculties seem mutually destructive. His studies in Norse poetry opened 
 up a field that is bemg vigorously worked to-day, while of the Elegy, did not 
 Wolfe say, on the eve of Quebec, ' I would prefer being the author of that poem 
 to the glory of beating the French to-morrow' ? In 1757 Gray had the good 
 sense to decline the laureateship. In 1768 he was appointed to the sinecure 
 Professorship of Modern Literature and Modern Languages at Cambridge, and 
 never delivered any lectures. Three years later he died. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — Gray is best studied in G(3jj<?'j 4-vol. edition (London, 
 1884), which gives the Poems, Journals, Essays, Letters, and Notes on Aris- 
 tophanes and Plato. The Journal in the Lakes (in Vol. I.) is especially valuable 
 as showing that Gray exploited the Lake Country before Wordsworth was born. 
 The only good Life of Gray is also by Gosse (E. M. L.). 
 
 Criticism. — Mattheio Arnold: Essays in Criticism, Second Series ; Thomas 
 Gray. Attributes Gray's scantiness of production to the fact that he lived in an 
 age unfavorable to 'genuine poetry' — that is, poetry ' conceived and composed 
 in the soul ' as distinguished from poetry composed in the ' wits ' ( ! ). 
 
 Lowell : Latest Literary Essays and Addresses : Gray. Takes a much wider 
 range than Arnold's Essay and is not tied to a theory. Classes Gray with Dry- 
 den as a ' well of English undefiled.' Written in Lowell's best manner. 
 
64 NOTES TO GRAY. 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 This poem, which was seven years a-making, was published in 1751 — within 
 two years of The Vanity of Human Wishes. Johnson, a severe and unsympa- 
 thetic critic of Gray, confesses that ' The " Churchyard," abounds with images 
 which find a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to wliich every bosom 
 returns an echo.' This is undoubtedly the chief cause of the wide-spread pop- 
 ularity of this poem ; a secondary cause is the exquisite felicity of the diction. 
 Perhaps the two may be summed up in Pope's line : 
 
 Wh:it oft \vas thought, but ne'er so well expressed. 
 
 While it would be easy to point to exemplars for many of Gray's famous lines, 
 the fact remains that the thought lives, not in other men's phrases, but in his. 
 In this lies his triumph as an artist. 
 
 1-12. The curfew. See note on II Penseroso, 74-84. The second 
 stanza owes something, perhaps, to the third stanza of Collins' Ode 
 To Evening : 
 
 Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat 
 With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing; 
 
 Or where the beetle winds 
 
 His small but sullen horn. 
 
 The moping owl. Compare Tennyson's iwo songs, The Owl. 
 reign = realm. 
 
 13-20. Notice the love of Nature, which we saw in Thomson, 
 reappearing here. From this time on, we shall find it beconning more 
 and more prominent in English verse. 
 
 21-24. Compare the third stanza of Burns' Cotter's Saturday 
 Night. 
 
 25-56. storied urn; .'in urn on which a slorv is carved. an- 
 
 imated = life-like. provoke = call forth, arouse. 
 
 57-60. Hampden. John Hampden, a w'ealthy country gentleman, 
 refused to pay the illegal ship-money tax levied by Charles i. He 
 was the first cousin of Oliver Cromwell, and, so far as we can judge, 
 a man of scarcely less ability than the Protector himself. He was 
 wounded in a skirmish at Chalgrove Field in June, 1643, and died 
 within a few days. His death was a national calamity. Since the 
 publication of Carlyle's Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches 
 (1845) no intelligent person has ventured to uphold the view of 
 Cromwell approved by Gray. 
 
 61-92. madding = raging, distracted. Compare ' madded," Vanitv 
 of Human Wishes, line 30. uncouth. See note on L'Allegro, 5. 
 
 rimes. See note on Lycidas 11. elegy. The eighteenth 
 
 century was much given to elegy and epitaph writing — as the 
 
THE BARD. 65 
 
 disfigured walls of Westminster Abbey testify. to dumb For- 
 
 getfulness seems best taken as indirect object with resigned. In 
 lines 89-92, some critics find a regular climax in thought. Do you 
 agree with this interpretation, or do you find it far-fetched.'' John- 
 son finely said of lines 77-9- : ' Had Gray written often thus, it had 
 been vain to blame and useless to praise him.' 
 
 93-128. chance = perchance. Contemplation; compare II 
 
 Penseroso, 51-54. wan may mean either ' pale' or ' sad.' In 
 
 Old English it generally means ' dark. ' or ' gloomy.' forlorn. 
 
 The prefix in this word is merely intensive; in 'forbid' it is nega- 
 tive. 'Lorn' is from the Old English ' leosan,' to lose; compare 
 the German ' verloren.' for thou canst read. Reading was not 
 
 a common accomplishment in eighteenth century England, nor is 
 it as common in the United States to-day as it is in Prussia and 
 Saxony. lay is generally associated with the idea of music 
 
 and seems an inappropriate word for an Epitaph. In Gray's man- 
 uscript, after line 116, came the following: 
 
 There scattered oft, the earliest of the year, 
 
 By hands unseen, are showers of violets found ; 
 
 The redbreast loves to build and warble there, 
 And little footsteps lightly print the ground. 
 
 This beautiful stanza — enough to make the fortime of an ordinary 
 poet, as Lowell says — Gray relentlessly cut out, because he thought 
 it too long a parenthesis in this place. Had other poets shown a 
 tithe of this artistic'conscientiousness, how many tons of verse would 
 the world have been happily spared ! 
 
 THE BARD. 
 
 Gray worked at this poem through some two years and a half; in 1757, with 
 the Ode on the Progress of Poesy, it was ' Printed at Strawberry Hill for R.&J. 
 Dodsley, in Pall Mall.' Though many ' Pindaric Odes ' had been published in 
 England before this time, these are the first that give the English reader an idea 
 of the real manner of Pindar. The argument of the Ode is best given in Gray's 
 own words : ' The army of Edward I., as they march through a deep valley, 
 are suddenly stopped by the appearance of a venerable figure seated on the 
 summit of an inaccessible rock, who, with a voice more than human, reproaches 
 the King with all the misery and desolation which he had brought on his coun- 
 try ; foretells the misfortunes of the Norman race, and with prophetic spirit 
 declares that all his cruelty shall never extinguish the noble ardour of poetic 
 genius in this island ; and that men shall never be wanting to celebrate true 
 virtue and valour in immortal strains, to expose vice and infamous pleasure, and 
 boldly censure tyranny and oppression. His song ended, he precipitates himself 
 from the mountain and is swallowed up by the river that rolls at its foot.' 
 
66 NOTES TO GRAY. 
 
 Metrically, the poem is divided into tliree Pericopes or groups of systems 
 (1-48, 49-96, 97-144). Each Pericope is divided into Strophe, Antistrophe and 
 Epode. Thus, in Pericope I., the Strophe is 1-14, the Antistrophe is 15-28, the 
 Epode is 29-4S. The metrical arrangement of the Antistrophe corresponds 
 with that of the Strophe ; that of the Epode is a law unto itself and in Gray's 
 time was considered an unintelligible experiment. 
 
 1-14. ruthless King. • This Ode is founded on a tradition cur- 
 rent in Wales, that Edward the First, when he completed the con- 
 quest of that country, ordered all the Bards that fell into his hands 
 to be put to death." — Gray. hauberk. "The hauberk was a 
 
 texture of steel ringlets, or rings, interwoven, forming a coat of 
 mail, that sat close to the body and adapted itself to every motion.' — 
 Gray. Cambria. Latin name for Wales. Snowdon. The 
 
 suffix in this word is of Keltic origin and signifies ■ hill " or ' mound.' 
 It appears as a prefix in Dumbarton, Dunstable. Glo'ster; 
 
 Mortimer. ' The\- both were Lord ^larchers, whose lands lav on 
 the borders of Wales, and probably accompanied the King in this 
 expedition.' — Gray. 
 
 15-28. Loose his beard, etc. ' This image was taken from a well- 
 known picture of Raphael, representing the Supreme Being, in the 
 vision of Ezekiel.' — Gray. Hoel; Llewellyn; Welsh bards. 
 
 29-48. Cadwallo, Urien, Modred [Merlyn?], are probablv as real 
 as King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Plinlim- 
 
 mon ; in central Wales. Arvon. ' The shores of Caernarvon- 
 
 shire opposite the island of Anglese\.' — Gray. See tiote on 
 Lycidas, 54. 
 
 49-62. agonizing King. Edward 11. (the tirst English Prince of 
 Wales) was murdered at Berkeley Castle in 1327. She-wolf of 
 
 France ; Isabelle, daughter of Philip the Fair, and wife of Edward 
 II., is accused of liaving contrived the murder of her husband. 
 The scourge of heaven ; Edward iii., who began the Himdred Years' 
 War against the French and defeated them in the great battle of 
 Crecy (1346). 
 
 63-76. Mighty Victor. The vigorous faculties of Edward in. 
 were seriously impaired soine time before his death (1377). He 
 came under the evil influence of an unworthy woman, who is said to 
 have robbed and deserted him on his death-bed. the Sable 
 
 Warrior; Edward the Black Prince, who died the year before his 
 father. Fair laughs the Morn. ' Magnificence of Richard the 
 
 Second's reign [1377-1399]- See Froissard and other contemporary 
 writers.' — Gray. 
 
 77-96. Reft of a crown. Richard 11. was deposed by Parliament 
 in favor of his cousin Henrv of Bolingbroke, who, it is alleged. 
 
THE BARD. 67 
 
 caused him to be starved to death. Shakespeare represents him as 
 assassinated by Sir Pierce of Exton (Richard ii. v. 5). Long 
 
 years of havock ; the wars of the Roses. London's lasting 
 
 shame; ' Henry vi., George Duke of Clarence, Edward v., Richard 
 Duke of York, etc., believed to be murthered secretly in the Tower of 
 London. The oldest part of that Structure is vulgarly attributed to 
 Julius Caisar.' — Gray. his Consort's faith ; 'Margaret of Anjou, 
 
 a woman of heroic spirit, who struggled hard to save her Husband 
 and her Crown.' — Gray. She appears in Scott's Anne of Geierstein, 
 in the three parts of Shakespeare's Henry vi. and in his Richard 
 III. his Father's fame; Henry v. the meek Usurper; 
 
 Henry vi. Gray calls him 'Usurper' because his grandfather 
 Henry iv. was not the hereditary heir to the crown. But Henry iv. 
 was no usurper, for he was practically elected by Parliament, as was 
 William in. nearly three hundred years later. the rose of snow; 
 
 the device of York. her blushing foe; the red rose of Lancaster. 
 
 See I Henry vi. ii. 4. In later times the white rose became the 
 Stuart emblem. Compare the opening lines of the Cavaliers' Chorus 
 in the opera of Villiers, ii. 3 : 
 
 There's not a flower that blooms a-field 
 But doth to thee in fragrance yield, 
 Dear rose, with leaf of driven snow, 
 Whose beauty takes both friend and foe. 
 
 A nation's king hath died for thee, 
 A nation's grief hath sighed o'er thee ; 
 Watered by England's richest blood. 
 Thou brav'st the storm of fire and flood. 
 
 The bristled Boar was the badge of Ricliard iii., who caused liis 
 two little nephews to be murdered in tlie tower. 
 
 97-110. Half of thy heart; Eleanor of Castile, the devoted wife 
 of Edward iii. She died many years before her husband. Ar- 
 
 thur. ' It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King 
 Arthur was still alive in Fairy-Land and should return again to 
 reign over Britain.' — Gray. genuine Kings. Consult an Eng- 
 
 lish History for Henry vii.'s claim to the throne (14S5) . 
 
 111-124. a Form divine. Qtieen Elizabeth. lion-port goes 
 
 comically with virgin-grace. Gray is stiff at a compliment, com- 
 pared witli the stibtle and graceful Shakespeare : 
 
 . . . between the cold moon and the earth 
 Cupid all armed. A certain aim he took 
 At a fair vestal throned by the west; 
 
68 NOTES TO GRAY. 
 
 And loosed his love-shaft smartly from the bow, 
 As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts; 
 But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft 
 Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon ; 
 And the imperial vot'ress passed on 
 In maiden meditation, fancy free. 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream, ii. 2. 97-105. 
 
 Taliessin. ' Taliessin, Chief of the Bards, flourished in the sixth 
 century. His works are still preserved, and his memory held in 
 high veneration among his Countrymen.' — Gray- 
 
 125-134. These lines refer to Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton. 
 Determine the particular lines that refer to each poet. 
 
 135-144. repairs the golden flood. Compare Lycidas, 169. 
 
 Few poets would have the artistic self-restraint to end this poem where Gray 
 ended it. Thomson, for instance, on such a subject could hardly have con- 
 tented himself with less than a thousand lines. Even Shelley, sometimes, ' can- 
 not get done.' Gray's practice was based upon a sound theory which he states 
 in a letter to Mason, as follows : ' The true lyric style, with all its flights of 
 fancy, ornaments, and heightening of expression, and harmony of sound, is in 
 its nature superior to every other style ; which is just the cause why it could not 
 be borne in a work of great length, no more than the eye could bear to see all 
 this scene that we constantly gaze upon — the verdure of the fields and woods, 
 the azure of the sea and skies — turned into one dazzling expanse of gems." 
 
LIFE AND BIBLIOGRAPHY. 69 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Born at Pallasmore in County Longford, Ireland, in 1728. His father was 
 a poor clergyman and with difficulty sent his son to Trinity College, Dublin, 
 where he entered at the bottom of his class. In 1749 he was graduated in the 
 same honorable position ; after a year and a half's intermittent study of medicine 
 at Edinburgh, he spent some two years strolling over western Europe. How he 
 supported himself during much of this time is a rriystery ; possibly the twentieth 
 chapter of The Vicar of Wakefield and parts of The Traveller may furnish a 
 clue. Between 1756 and 1759 he tried clerking it in a chemist's shop, practising 
 medicine, proof-reading, school-teaching, and hack-writing. In only the last 
 did he succeed ; in the Enquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in 
 Europe (1759) he emerges from the purlieus of Grub-Street and in The Citize?i of 
 the World he has left us some of the most delightful Essays in English. While 
 we may well object to the unphilosophic conclusion of The Traveller we are 
 charmed by its pen-pictures of Italy, Switzerland, Holland and France, its easy 
 and melodious versification, its sweet and genial humanity. The manuscript 
 of The Vicar of Wakefield ( 1766) was sold by Johnson for ^60 to release Gold- 
 smith from an arrest for debt. His excellent comedy The Good Naturcd Man 
 brought him further pecuniary relief — but temporary only, for Goldsmith had 
 now accustomed himself to a manner of living that could dispense with the 
 comforts of life, but must have the luxuries. In poetry, Goldsmith reaches his 
 culmination in The Deserted Village ; in comedy, it would be difficult to find 
 a writer, French or English, who can better the skilful construction and easy, 
 natural dialogue oi She Stoops to Conquer (1773). Goldsmith's later years were 
 honored by the friendship of such men as Garrick, Reynolds, Burke and John- 
 son. Johnson really loved him. When Goldsmith died in 1774, owing two 
 thousand pounds, it was Johnson who gave us the key to his friend's character 
 in saying ' Was ever poet so trusted before ? ' 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — Of the numerous books on Goldsmith, Tlie Life and 
 Adventures of Oliver Goldsmith by John Forster is the most scholarly extended 
 study. But perhaps Goldsmith would not have thanked the author for his atti- 
 tude of persistent and sentimental compassion. Among the shorter works, the 
 life by Dobson (Gt. Wr.) contains much trifling and uninteresting detail ; Black's 
 Life of Goldsmith (E. M. L.) is artistically proportioned, exquisitely sympa- 
 thetic and admirably sane. , Boswell has many anecdotes of Goldsmith, all 
 colored by Bozzy's lack of the sense of humor and by his jealousy of anybody 
 who got nearer to Johnson than did Bozzy himself. 
 
70 N07-ES TO G OLD SMI m. 
 
 Criticism. — Macaulay ; Essay on Goldsmith. Brings out clearly the fact 
 that Goldsmith's misfortunes were clue more to himself than to the neglect of 
 society. In nearly every other respect, shows a complete misunderstanding of 
 Goldsmith's character. 
 
 DeQuincey ; Essay on Goldsmith. A review of Forster's Life of Goldsmith, 
 in sympathy with the general tone of that work. Contains also, in characteristic 
 DeQuincey style, digressions on the state of the literary body in France, and on 
 the relation of literature to politics. 
 
 Thackeray; Sterne and Goldsmith \n The English Humorists. Contains lit- 
 tle about Goldsmith's works, but shows a loveable estimate of his character. 
 
 Fitzgerald ; Principles of Comedy. Those interested in Goldsmith's dramatic 
 genius will find some excellent criticism here. 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 This poem, published in 17^0, was dedicated to Sir Joshua Reynolds. Si.x 
 years later Adam Smith published The Wealth 0/ Nations, from which, had Gold- 
 smith lived, he could have learned that the economic change he laments was a 
 blessing in disguise for those poor emigrants to whom it seemed a curse. But 
 we do not read The Deserted Village for its Political Economy: we read it for 
 its idyllic sweetness ; for its portraits of the village preacher, of the village 
 schoolmaster, of the country inn; for its pathetic description of the poor emi- 
 grants ; for the tender and noble feeling with which Goldsmith closes the poem 
 in his Farewell to Poetry. 
 
 1-34. Sweet Auburn ! Attempts to identity ' Sweet Auburn ' 
 with any particular village are futile and unnecessary. The descrip- 
 tion is idealized, as an}' one who has had even small experience in 
 the making of verses can see. lent (16) = yielded. simply (25) 
 = artlessly. Smutted (27) would not be used in serious poetic 
 
 diction to-day. No description of Rustic Mirth to compare with 
 these thirty-four lines had been written in England since Milton's 
 L'Allegro. If one might point out a flaw in this gem, it would be 
 the too frequent personification of abstract terms, such as gambol 
 (21) and sleights (22). 
 
 35-50. The hollow-sounding bittern. The bittern has a hollow, 
 throaty cry, and generally builds its nest on the ground. Perhaps 
 this line is a reminiscence of Isaiah xiv. 23 : ' I will also make it 
 a possession for the bittern and pools of water; and I will sweep it 
 with the besom of destruction, saith the Lord of Hosts.' the 
 
 lapwing, sometimes called the ' pewit,' from its cry. 
 
 51-56. Princes and lords. Compare Burns' Cotter's Saturday 
 Night, 165 ; also his song. For A' That and A' That (p. 113 01 this 
 book). Lines 55 and 56 point a real moral. The strengtli of a 
 countrv lies largely in its yeomanry or small-farmer class. In this 
 respect, France leads the world. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 71 
 
 57-62. Here we have again the myth of a Golden Age of which 
 the poets are so fond. History teaches plainly that there never was 
 a time ere England's griefs began. 
 
 63-74. trade's unfeeling train. This is a remnant of the Mercantile 
 Theory, wide-spread in Europe during the Middle Ages and not dead 
 yet in unintelligent communities. According to this theory Com- 
 merce is a war, and when A. gains, B. must lose. An elementary 
 knowledge of Economics shows us now, that where Commerce 
 (Trade) is unrestricted, both A. and B. gain; otherwise there would 
 be no Commerce. rural . . . manners. The ordinai-y mean- 
 
 ings attached to 'rustic manners' and 'bucolic manners' hardly 
 bear out the poet's eulogy. What is there in city life that tends to 
 refine and polish the manners } 
 
 75-96. The sincerity that breathes through these lines makes us 
 feel that here is a bit of genuine autobiography. 
 
 97-112. unperceived decay. Evidently suggested by Vanity of 
 Human Wishes, 293. Throughout this passage the influence of 
 Johnson is perceptible. his latter end. 'Hear counsel and 
 
 receive instruction, that thou mayest be wise in thy latter end.' 
 Proverbs xix. 20. 
 
 1 13- 136. careless = free from care. loud laugh. Fatness 
 
 and laughter have long been associated — perhaps unjustly — with 
 the idea of weak mentality. Compare : 
 
 Let me have men about me that are fat : 
 Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o' nights : 
 Yond Cassius hath a lean and hungry look : 
 He thinks too much : such men are dangerous. 
 
 Julius Cassar, i. 2. 192-5. 
 
 Yet Falstaff was a tun of a man. pause; the interval between the 
 strains of the nightingale's song. 
 
 Listen Eugenia, — 
 
 How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves ! 
 
 Again — thou hearest ? 
 
 Eternal passion ! 
 
 Eternal pain ! 
 
 Matthew Arnold's Philomela, 28-32. 
 
 Compare also Keats' Ode to a Nightingale (p. 168 of this book). 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. A stiff and common- 
 place line, in Pope's earliest and worst manner. bloomy. 
 Compare the opening lines of Milton's Sonnet to the Nightingale : 
 O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 
 Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still. 
 
 mantling = covering as with a mantle. 
 
72 A'OTES TO GOLDSMITH. 
 
 137-162. We can find many points of resemblance between this 
 beautiful portrait of the village preacher and Chaucer's Poor Parson 
 (Dryden's character of a Good Parson). Goldsmith's sketch seems 
 to contain allusion to his father and to his brother Henry. To the 
 latter he had dedicated The Traveller. disclose = allow to be 
 
 seen. mansion ; in its original sense of ' dwelling-place ' (Latin, 
 
 ' manere,' to stay, remain). place = position, as in ' He has a 
 
 place in the Custom-House.' doctrines fashioned to the chang- 
 
 ing hour. Perhaps Goldsmith was thinking of The Vicar of Bra} : 
 
 And this is law that I'll maintain 
 
 Until my dying day, Sir, 
 That whatsoever king shall reign 
 
 Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, Sir. 
 
 tales of sorrow done. For this absolute use of the participle, com- 
 pare L'Allegro 115, and see Whitney, § 395-7. shewed how 
 fields were won. Compare Alexander's Feast, 66-S. His pity 
 gave ; his natural sentiment (^Piiy) relieved them before his theologi- 
 cal \'iiliie ( Charity^ came into play. 
 
 163-192. Allured to brighter worlds and led the way. In Chau- 
 cer : 
 
 But Christes lore and his apostles twelve, 
 He taughte, but first he fohved it him-selve. 
 
 dismayed = affrighted (the dying man). fools, who came to 
 
 scoff. Compare Pope's 
 
 For fools rush in where angels fear to tread. 
 
 Essay on Criticism, 625. 
 
 The service past. For the construction, compare line 157. As 
 
 some tall cliff. See this same figure with a different but equally fine 
 application, in Matthew Arnold's Sonnet on Shakespeare : 
 
 For the loftiest hill 
 Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, 
 Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 
 Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling place, 
 Spares but the cloudy border of his base 
 To the foiled searching of mortality. 
 
 193-216. his morning face. Compare 
 
 . . . the whining school-boy, with his satchel 
 And shining morning face. . . . 
 
 As You Like It, ii. 7 (near the end). 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 73 
 
 terms = periods during which the Justices hold court. tides = 
 
 ecclesiastical times or seasons, as Whitsuntide (= White -f- Sun- 
 day -|~ Time). presage = foretell. gauge [gage]= to 
 measure the content of a barrel. words of learned length and 
 thundering sound. Goldsmith must have been thinking of the 
 conversation of his friend Dr. Johnson, of whom he once said that 
 it was no use arguing with Johnson ; if his pistol missed fire, he 
 knocked jou down with the butt end of it. 
 
 216-236. the twelve good rules; such as (4) Reveal No Secrets, 
 (9) Encourage No Vice. They are all given in Hales' Longer 
 English Poems, p. 353. In our day they have been transferred 
 from the wall to the copy-book. game of goose; Fox and Geese, 
 or something like it. royal has never been satisfactorily ex- 
 
 plained; perhaps the poet, being in a reminiscential mood, uses 
 ' royal' subjectively, as when we say, ' I had a royal good time yes- 
 terday.' Chimney = fire-place. 
 
 237-264. An hour's importance. Compare Burns' 
 
 Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
 O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! 
 
 Tam O'Shanter, 57-8. 
 
 the barber's tale. Since men first shaved, barbers have been noted 
 for their talkativeness. See the character of Nello in George Eliot's 
 Romola. woodman, in its original ineaning of ' hunter.' 
 
 the smith. Compare Longfellow's beautiful poem. The Village 
 Blacksmith. mantling bliss = the foaming ale. Shall kiss 
 
 the cup. Compare Ben Jonson's song To Celia beginning : 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes 
 
 And I will pledge with mine; 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup 
 
 And I'll not look for wine. 
 
 265-302. This is very pretty poetry, but very poor Economics. 
 Consult some elementary treatise on that subject, such as Laugh- 
 lin's Elements of Political Economy. 
 
 303-308. The fencing-in of land once common is undoubtedly a 
 grievous wrong to the English peasant. For the counterbalancing 
 advantages which he has derived from the progress of civilization, 
 see the concluding pages of the Tliird Chapter of Macaulay's His- 
 tory of England. 
 
 309-320. It is amusing to notice how the poets abuse the city, yet 
 how, with rare exception, they cannot bear to live anywhere else. 
 Artist = artisan, dome — building, house ; thus Coleridge : 
 
74 NOTES TO GOLDSMITH. 
 
 In Xanada did Kubla Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree. 
 
 Kubla Khan, 1-2. 
 
 321-336. Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn. ' Gold- 
 smith wrote in a pre-Wordsworthian age, when even in the reahns of 
 poetry a primrose was not much more than a primrose ; but it is 
 doubtful whether, either before, during or since Wordsworth's time, 
 the sentiment that the imagination can infuse into the common and 
 familiar things around us e\'er received more happy expression than 
 in [this] well-known line.' Black's Life of Goldsmith, Cap. xiv. 
 
 337-362. Goldsmith's geography and natural historj- are not his 
 strong points. The Altama [Altamaha] river in Georgia enters the 
 Atlantic near the thirty-first parallel ; the flora and fauna he de- 
 scribes are tropical. Tigers in Georgia I 
 
 363-384. For a somewhat similar scene, compare Longfellow's 
 Evangeline, i. 5. seats. See note on Alexander's Feast, 26. 
 
 385-394. The thought here is certainly just, though the expression 
 (especialh' in line 394) is feeble. In lines 343-36S of The Vanity of 
 Human Wishes, Johnson has ^\orked out this thought to a logical 
 conclusion that agrees pretty well with that arrived at by Agur the 
 son of Jakeh, some three thousand years ago : ' Give me neither 
 povert\' nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me.' 
 
 395-426. anchoring commonly means ' coming to anchor,' but in 
 Lear iv. iS-20, we have it used as here, meaning ' lying at anchor.' 
 
 . . . yon tall anchoring bark 
 Diminished to her cock; her cock, a buoy 
 Almost too small for sight. 
 
 strand = beach. The Strand in London, now the busiest street in 
 the world, was once, no doubt, a mere path by the river-side, 
 degenerate times. The time (1770) was certainly degenerate so far 
 as Poetry was concerned. Thirteen years had elapsed since Gray 
 published his Odes, and during this long night Goldsmith's Traveller 
 (1764) twinkled a lonely star. My shame in crowds. Though 
 
 he occasionally struck off a good thing, Goldsmith did not shine in 
 conversation. In the blaze of Johnson's talk, who could .-' No one 
 save Burke, and he modestly said, ' It is enough for me to have rung 
 the bell for him.' Keep'st me so. It was not Poetry that kept 
 
 Goldsmith poor, but his own thriftlessness. Torno [Tornea 
 
 or Torneo], a river that marks the boundary-line between Sweden 
 and Russia. It flows into the Gulf of Bothnia. Pambamarca. 
 
 A mountain in Ecuador. 
 
 427-430. These four lines were added by Johnson and can hardly 
 be said to improve the conclusion of the poem. 
 
LIFE AND BIBLIOGRAPHY. 75 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Born at Berkhampstead, 1731. His father was a Church of England clergy- 
 man and court chaplain. At the age of six, Covvper lost his mother; his 
 touching Httle poem On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Norfolk, 
 written many years later, commemorates his emotion on this occasion. He 
 acquired some knowledge of the Latin poets at Westminster School, but did not 
 proceed to the University. Admitted to the bar, success there was interfered 
 with by an attack of insanity under the influence of which he attempted suicide. 
 Eighteen months' medical treatment restored his intellect, but left him with a 
 deep-seated religious melancholia that in a few years brought on another attack 
 of insanity. After his second recovery, while leading a life of intolerable dul- 
 ness at Olney, he took to writing moral satires for diversion. Only by exceed- 
 ing charity can this diversion be said to be shared by his readers. To the 
 inspiration of his vivacious friend Lady Austen we owe John Gilpin, perhaps 
 the most humorous ballad in English — written by the most melancholy poet. 
 To her suggestion also we owe The Task (1785), a poem which, though it has 
 neither beginning, middle nor end, has a discernible purpose — to sing 'the 
 praise of retirement and of country life as most friendly to piety and virtue." ' 
 Its still-life descriptions, within their narrow limits, are almost perfect; its 
 asceticism, its sentimentalism and its provincialism are easily discoverable — 
 and easily skipped. Cowper's translation of Homer (1791) proved — as might 
 have been expected — that the man who found a congenial subject in 77/,? Sofa 
 and The Time Piece \\a.s, not the man to sing of the heroes who drank delight of 
 battle on the plains of windy Troy. His Letters preserve for us charming 
 glimpses of English country life in the last century, and perhaps by these he will 
 be remembered longer than by his more formal works. The declining years of 
 his life were clouded by a third attack of insanity ; from this he was mercifully 
 delivered by death in 1800. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — Cowper's Complete Works, comprising' his Poems, Cor- 
 respondence and Translations. Edited ivith Memoir of the Author, by Robert 
 Southey. 8 vols. (Bohn's Library). This is the standard edition, if we cut out 
 Southey's tedious Memoir. Goldwin Smith's Coiuper (E. M.L.) gives all the 
 essential facts in compact form, and succeeds in making really interesting the 
 record of Cowper's uneventful life. 
 
 1 Goldwin Smith's Cowpcr, Cap. V. 
 
76 NOTES TO COW PER. 
 
 Criticism. — Bagehot ; Literary Studies, Vol.1.; William Cowper. Contains 
 some good remarks on Society as a proper object for the exercise of the poetic 
 imagination, with a comparison between Pope, the poet of Town Life, and Cow- 
 per, the poet of Rural Life. 
 
 Samte-Beuve ; Causeries du Lundi, Tome Omieme ; WilUatn Cowper, ou De 
 La Poesie Domestique. The nature of this study is sufficiently indicated by the 
 sub-title. A translation will be found in English Portraits, by C. A. Sainte- 
 Beuve (Henry Holt & Co., N.Y.). 
 
 Leslie Stephen; Hours in a Library {Third Series) ; Cowper and Rousseau. 
 Dwells almost exclusively on the moral sentiments common to Cowper and 
 Rousseau. 
 
 THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 
 
 This poem forms the fifth book of The Task. The poet evidentlv 
 writes with his ' eye on the object ; ' he sees a good deal and he sees 
 it accurately and minutely. Though occasionally commonplace, he 
 is never insincere either in thought or in diction. 
 
 1-40. Spiry. See note on ' beaked promontory,' Lycidas, 94. 
 bents = stalks of stiff, wiry grass. This word has no etymological 
 connection with ' bend,' but is cognate with the German ' Binse,' 
 a rush. With lines 21-32 compare Thomson's Winter, 232-242. 
 deciduous = liable to fall. 
 
 41-57. The Woodman and His Dog ; — perhaps the best specimen 
 of Cowper's Naturalism. Homer could hardly have painted this 
 vignette with more fidelity. lurcher; a cross between the grey- 
 
 hound and the collie. churl. See note on ' the Bear,' II Pen- 
 
 seroso, 87. 
 
 58-76. pale. See note on II Penseroso, 156. Kind = family, 
 
 race. Thomson has the word in this sense in Winter, 261 ; also 
 Chaucer, in The Wife of Bath's Tale, 245. 
 
 77-95. Compare Thomson's Winter, 242-256. pensioners. 
 
 See note on II Penseroso, 10. 
 
 96-126. Indurated. Cowper accents this word on the second 
 syllable; Goldsmith (Traveller, 232) on the first. Modern usage 
 prefers the latter. that (106), object of throzvs. 
 
 127-168. Imperial mistress. Anne, Empress of Russia, niece of 
 Peter the Great, erected this ice-palace in St. Petersburg in 1740. 
 It was fifty feet long, with six large windows in front, the frames 
 of which were painted to represent green marble. A balustrade 
 adorned with ice-statues surrounded the building. Orange trees, dol- 
 phins and an elephant, all carved from ice, adorned the court thus 
 formed ; ice-cannon and mortars defended the approaches. Elabo- 
 rately carved ice-furniture filled the rooms, and ice-logs w ere laid ready 
 
THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 77 
 
 to impart a comfortable chill to the bracing atmosphere. When the 
 Empress visited the palace, the ice-cannon succeeded in firing a 
 small salute without breaking, and the elephant shot forth a stream 
 of burning naphtha. Aristaeus ; Cyrene. See CI. Myths, § 130. 
 
 lubricity = the state or quality of being slippery ; hence, figuratively, 
 ' instability,' ' evanescence.' This beautiful description of the Ice 
 Palace is a remarkable instance of the idealizing power of the 
 imagination, when we remember that Cowper had never seen any 
 more impressive ice-formations than those of the sluggish Ouse. 
 What would he have said of Niagara in mid-winter! 
 
78 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Robert Burns, the son of a Scotch peasant-farmer, was born near the town of 
 Ayr in 1759. Inspired by love, he wrote his first song at the age of fifteen ; the 
 same passion (though with varying objects) found expression in the profusion 
 of beautiful lyrics he poured out during the next ten years, and relieved for him 
 the monotonous farm-drudgery that was breaking his young manhood. His 
 first volume of poems was published at Kilmarnock in 1786; it immediately 
 attracted the attention of the Edinburgh literati, who received Burns with 
 open arms. Burns' manliness and self-respect did not forsake him when thus 
 suddenly elevated from the society of peasants and smugglers to that of Noble- 
 men, University Professors and Lord-Justices. A couple of winters in Edin- 
 burgh seemed to exhaust their interest in the greatest of Scotch poets ; a small 
 place in the Excise was thrown to Burns and he was dispatched to the uncon- 
 genial tasks of gauging whiskey-barrels and scraping sterile acres at Ellisland. 
 Here he lived from 1788 to 1791, making a manful fight in the struggle for exist- 
 ence that always presses so hard upon the Scotch peasant. ' God help the 
 children of Dependence,' he writes, when abandoning the hopeless attempt to 
 wring a living out of the Scotch soil. Removing to Dumfries, his duties as 
 Exciseman brought him into contact with low convivial company to which he 
 was by nature inclined ; much of his magnificent power was frittered away in 
 tavern-songs and political squibs. Penury and despair dogged his few remain- 
 ing years and sat by his death-bed; when his mighty spirit was at last given 
 surcease of woe, Mr. Pitt — to whose disgrace be it recorded that he had long 
 known of Burns' necessities and could have relieved them with a stroke of his 
 pen — Mr. Pitt condescendingly remarked that since Shakespeare no verse has 
 the appearance of coming so sweetly from nature as Burns'. 
 
 In a letter to Miss Helen Craik written in 1793, Burns has drawn his own 
 character with sad truthfulness : ' Take a being of our kind ; give him a stronger 
 imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between them will ever 
 engender a more ungovernable set of passions than are the usual lot of man; 
 implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary . . . send him 
 adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from the paths of 
 lucre and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man living for the pleas- 
 ures that lucre can purchase; lastly, fill up the measure of his woes by bestow- 
 ing on him a spurning sense of his own dignity ; and you have created a wight ^ 
 nearly as miserable as a poet.' 
 
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 79 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. Burns' life is best studied in his Letters, now published 
 with anv good edition of his works. Of the elaborate biographies, Chambers' 
 (published in 1851) has not been superseded ; of the shorter, Shairp's (E. M. L.) 
 is superior in insight and sympathy to Blackie's (Gt. Wr.). A thorough study of 
 Burns carries one back, of course, to Ramsay, Fergusson and the ballads pre- 
 served by Scott in The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. 
 
 Criticism. — Carfyle ; Essay on Bums. This famous Essay must stand as 
 the best interpretation of Burns, in spite of some extraordinary literary blunders, 
 such as the statements ; (i) that Burns had ' models only of the meanest sort ; ' 
 (2) that The Jolly Beggars is ' refined ; ' (3) that Tam O'Shanter is merely 'a 
 piece of sparkling rhetoric' But it must be remembered that in Carlyle the 
 ethical so overshadowed the jesthetical that he could see in Keats little but 
 ' weak-eyed maudlin sensibility.' The Hero as Man of Letters. 'Wit, 
 
 wild laughter, energy, directness, sincerity: these were in both [Mirabeau 
 and Burns] .' 
 
 Christopher North ; Essay on The Genius and Character of Burns. Speech 
 at the Burns Festival (1844). These are elaborate and sympathetic studies, 
 tinged with that over-enthusiasm for Burns which may naturally be felt by a 
 fellow-countryman. 
 
 Emerson; Speech at the Burns Centenary (1859). Classes Burns as a 
 reformer with Rabelais, Shakespeare, Cervantes and Butler. 
 
 Longfellow ; Poem entitled Robert Burns. 
 
 Ross; Burnsiana ; A Collection of Literary Odds and Ends relating to Robert 
 Burns. In this bushel of chaff will be found a few grains of excellent wheat. 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 This poem, which appeared in the Kilmarnock edition, owes something to 
 Fergusson's ' Farmer's Ingle.' The person to whom it is dedicated would have 
 died unknown had not Burns preserved him immortal in this inscription. If 
 we had to part with any one poem of Burns, this is the last we should be willing 
 to lose; not because it shows him at his best as a poet, — admirable as it is, — 
 but because it shows him at his best as a man. 
 
 1-9. For a poet who had ' models only of the meanest sort,' this 
 handling of the Spenserian stanza is a deft performance ! 
 
 10-18. Notice with what graceful strength, in the homely pas- 
 sages, Burns drops into his native Ayrshire dialect. sugh = 
 sough, a murmuring or rushing sound. moil = diudgery. The 
 verb ' to moil ' (from the Latin mollis, soft) means originally ' to wet, 
 to moisten ; ' then, ' to soil by labor or toil.' the morn = to- 
 morrow. And weary, etc. This is one of several lines that 
 show the influence of Gray. 
 
 19-27. stacher = stagger. flichterin = fluttering. ingle = 
 
 fireplace. carking = distressing. This word has no etymological 
 
80 NOTES TO BURNS. 
 
 connection with ' care,' but is from the Old French charger, to 
 load. toil; pronounced ' tile' as shown by the rime here and in 
 
 Johnson's London, 218-219: 
 
 On all thy hours security shall smile, 
 
 And bless thy evening walk and morning toil. 
 
 28-36. Belyve = ere long. ca' = drive. This word is cognate 
 
 with ' calk,' as in ' The ship's-carpenter calked the seams.' Com- 
 pare ' ca'd,' Tam O'Shanter, 25. tentie = attentive. penny- 
 fee = monej'-wages, as distinguished from wages paid in board and 
 lodging. 
 
 37-45. spiers = inquires. uncos = un -|- known (things) = 
 
 news. See note on ' uncouth,' L'Allegro, 5. Anticipation. 
 
 Compare the first two lines of Johnson's Vanity of Human Wishes 
 and the criticism thereon. Gras = causes. When Johnson 
 
 asked Boswell Senior what Cromwell had done for his country, the 
 doughty old Laird replied, ' Gad, Doctor, he gart kings ken they 
 had a lith [joint] in their necks ! ' 
 
 46-54. eydent = busy, diligent. to jauk = to tritle. 
 
 55-72. hafflins = half. ben = within. As a noun, this word 
 
 signifies the inner room of a cottage as distinguished from the but 
 or outer room. See note on 'bower,' L'Allegro, 87. cracks = 
 
 talks. Compare our colloquial ' He cracks jokes," ' He cracks up his 
 own wares.' blate = bashful. laithfu' = loath (unwilling) 
 
 -j- ful = shy, reluctant. lave = what is left; the rest. 
 
 73-90. Lines 80-81 are evidently an echo from L'Allegro, 67-8. 
 For the sentiment of the whole stanza in which they occur, compare 
 Clough's A London Idyll, 1-12 : 
 
 Un grass, on gravel, in the sun 
 
 Or now beneath the shade, 
 They went, in pleasant Kensington, 
 
 A prentice and a maid. 
 That Sunday morning's April glow, 
 
 How should it not impart 
 A stir about the veins that flow 
 
 To feed the youthful heart. 
 
 Ah ! years may come, and years may bring 
 The truth that is not bliss. 
 
 But will they bring another thing 
 That can compare with this ? 
 
 91-99. soupe = (originally) a liquor with something soaked in 
 it. hawkie = cow ; specifically, a white-faced cow. hallan ; 
 
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 81 
 
 a partition between the door and the ingle. hain'd means liter- 
 
 ally ' hedged-in,' ' inclosed ;' hence 'kept,' 'preserved.' keb- 
 
 buck : ' . . . a cheese that is made with ewe milk mixed with cow"s 
 milk.' — Scott, Old Mortality, Cap. viii. fell = sharp, biting. 
 
 towmond = twelvemonth. sin' = when. lint = flax. i' the 
 
 bell = in blossom. 
 
 100-108. ha'-Bible ; the Bible kept in the hall or principal room 
 of the cottage. See note on ' ben," line 64. lyart haffets = gray 
 
 temples. wales -^ chooses ; cognate with the German ' Wahl,' 
 
 choice. Let us worship God. ' [Robert] had frequently re- 
 
 marked to me that he thought there was something peculiarly ven- 
 erable in the phrase " Let us worship God," used by a decent 
 sober head of a family introducing family worship. To this senti- 
 yient of the author, the world is indebted for The Cotter's Saturday- 
 Night.' — Gilbert Burns (brother of the poet). 
 
 109-126. Dundee; Martyrs; Elgin; names of h\inn-tunes. 
 beets = kindles; originally (i) "to make better;" (2) 'to mend' 
 (the fire). It is from the same root as boots (— profits), for Avhich 
 see note on Lycidas, 64. Italian trills are tame. That depends 
 
 upon whether vou are an Italian or a Scotchman. Burns' acquaint- 
 ance with Italian music was more than limited. 
 
 127-135. The priest-like father. It is well known that this por- 
 trait is intended for Burns' own father. the royal Bard = 
 Uavid. lone Patmos. St. John the Apostle was banished to 
 this island in his old age. great Bab'lon's doom ; as told in 
 Revelation xvm. 
 
 136-162. P'or line 138, see Pope's Windsor Forest, 111-112 : 
 
 See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, 
 And mounts exulting on triumphant wings. 
 
 stole. An ecclesiastical vestment worn by priests in the Anglican, 
 Roman Catholic and Greek Churches. It is a long, narrow strip of 
 silk, drawn over the shoulders and hanging down in front to about 
 the knees. 
 
 163-171. With line 165 compare line 53 of Goldsmith's Deserted 
 Milage. Line 167 is line 247 of the Fourth Epistle in Pope's Essay 
 on Man. 
 
 172-180. With the exception of the last line, this stanza is a 
 somewhat commonplace paraphrase of sentiments scattered through 
 The Deserted Village. 
 
 i8i-i8g. Wallace (d. 1305) was Burns' favorite hero. His story 
 is told in Scott's Tales of a Grandfather, First Series, Cap. vii. 
 See Burns' Bannockburn, p. 112, of this book. 
 
82 NOTES TO BURNS. 
 
 TAM O'SHANTER. 
 
 Goldsmith justly considered ten lines of The Deserted Village a good morn- 
 ing's work; Burns, incredible as it may seem, actually wrote Tarn O'Shanter in 
 one day ! The scene is laid within sight of Burns' birth-place, near which the 
 ruins of Alloway Kirk may still be seen. Brownyis (Brownies) were supposed to 
 be friendly spirits that haunted farm-houses; Bogilis (Bogies) were evil spirits. 
 
 I-I2. chapman billies = pedlar fellows. drouthy = dry, 
 
 thirsty, gate = road, often confused with gate meaning a ' door.' 
 In the meaning of ' road,' the word survives in many street-names, 
 as Bishopsgate, Kirkgate, and is cognate with the German Gasse = 
 street. nappy = strong ale; ale that makes you ' nap.' unco 
 
 (a dialectal reduction of ■ uncouth') = wonderfully; very. slaps 
 
 = gaps in fences. 
 
 13-36. Tam O'Shanter. The honor of being the original of thisf 
 famous character is conceded to one Douglas Graham of the 
 Shanter Farm in the parisli of Kirkoswald. His tombstone and 
 that of his shrewish wife are still to be seen in the parish church- 
 yard, skellum = scoundrel. blethering = blathering = 
 foolish-talking. The form ' Blatherskite' (and the creature) are as 
 well known in the United States as in Scotland. blellum = 
 noisy fellow. ilka melder = every grinding (of your meal). 
 ca'd. See note on ' ca,' Cotter's Saturday Night, 30. Kirkton ; 
 the village where stands the parish church. warlocks = wizards, 
 mirk (murk) = darkness. gars. See note on Cotter's Saturday 
 Night, 44. greet = weep. 
 
 37-58. reaming swats = foaming ale ; Goldsmith's ' mantling 
 bliss.' Souter = Shoemaker. 
 
 59-78. tide = opportunity. See note on ' tides," in The Deserted 
 Village, 209. 
 
 79-96. skelpit = hurried. whiles = at times. ' Whiles ' is 
 
 the adverbial genitive of the Old English ' hwil,' meaning ' time.' 
 The Scotch use, illustrated here, preserves the original meaning 
 better than does the English use. smoored = smothered, 
 
 birks = birches. meikle = big. whins = furze or gorse. 
 
 the cairn in Biu-ns' time was covered with trees, and a few iields to 
 the left, as you follow the old road from Ayr to Maybole, stands the 
 house in which he was born. 
 
 97-110. bore = hole (in the wall). John Barleycorn. A (too) 
 
 favorite subject witli Burns. See his inimitable ballad, John Barley- 
 corn : 
 
 There were three kings into the east, 
 
 Three kings both great and high, 
 And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
 John Barleycorn should die. — 
 
TAM O'SIIANTER. 83 
 
 boddle. A Scotch coin, issued under Charles II., vahie 2d. ; some- 
 times called a ' tm-ner.' 
 
 111-124. winnock-bunker = window-seat. in the east (end 
 
 of the church). touzie tyke = shaggy cur. skirl = scream. 
 
 dirl = tremble. It has long been a seriously debatable question 
 whether it is possible to extract music from Scotch bag-pipes. The 
 great authority of Burns cannot be quoted on the afiirmative, for 
 you will notice he does not say that auld Nick succeeded in giving 
 the company music, but merely that it was his charge [duty] to give 
 them music. All that the poet's utmost patriotism can assert is 
 that the bag-pipes did ' scream.' A later and scarcely less eminent 
 authority (Mr. Gilbert), in his pathetic ballad Ellen Mcjones Aber- 
 deen, comes out less dubitatively in favor of the bag-pipes : 
 
 ' Let's show,' said McCIan, ' to this Sassenach loon 
 That the bag-pipes can play him a regular tunc' 
 ' Let's see,' said McClan, as he thoughtfully sat, 
 'In my Cottage is easy, — I'll practise at that.' 
 
 He blew at his ' Cottage,' and blew with a will, 
 For a year, seven months and a fortnight, until 
 (You'll hardly believe it) McClan, I declare, 
 Elicited something resembling an air. 
 
 It was wild, it was fitful ; as wild as the breeze — 
 It wandered about into several keys ; 
 ^ It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh I'm aware, 
 
 But still it distinctly suggested an air. 
 
 ' Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around ; 
 And fill a' ye lugs wi' the exquisite sound. 
 An air fra' the bag-pipes ! Beat that if you can ; 
 Hurrah for Clonglocketty Angus McClan ! ' 
 
 125-142. These are the weakest lines in the poem. Instead of 
 entering into The Horrible and carrving us with him, the author 
 stands outside and laughs at it. We feel all the time that there w^as 
 really nothing for Tam to be frightened at. cantrip = magic, 
 
 unchristen'd bairns. The belief that unchristened babies went to 
 hell \vas very common during the Dark Ages, and was the origin of 
 the custom of baptizing them within three days of birth. The only 
 evidence we have that Shakespeare was born on the 23d of April is 
 the entry in the register of Trinity Church, Stratford, that he was 
 baptized on the 26th. gab = mouth. This word is related to the 
 name of our friend Gobbo, who had the ' infection to serve.' 
 
 143-162. cleekit = clutched. carlin = old woman. Rig- 
 
 v/oodie ; from rig (ridge), the back -j- -viddie (withy) = the rope 
 
84 NOTES TO BURNS. 
 
 that goes over a horse's back to support the shafts ; hence, ' twisted,' 
 ' mis-shapen.' spean = cause to vomit. crummock = a 
 
 staff with crooked head. 
 
 163-178. walie = beautiful. perished = caused to perish ; 
 
 so used in Elizabethan English. bear = barley. harn = 
 
 coarse linen. coft = bought. pund Scots. A pound Scots 
 
 was equal to i^ an English pound. 
 
 179-192. botched = was restless. syne = after that : not 
 
 common except in the expression Auld Lang-Svne = Old Long- 
 Ago, tint (preterite of ' tine ') = lost. 
 
 193-205. Notice how admirably the similes are adapted to the 
 subject; homeh' and lively. fyke = bustle. byke = hive, 
 
 eldritch = ghastly. 
 
 206-229. key-stane. 'It is a well-known fact that witches, or 
 any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther 
 than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper, 
 likewise, to mention to the benighted traveller that when he falls in 
 with bogles, whate^'er danger there inav be in his going forward, 
 there is much more hazard in turning back.' — Burns. ettle = 
 
 intention. 
 
 This poem carries the reader along with a rush, by means of a kind of 
 Homeric liveliness and directness. With an exception already noted, there is 
 hardly a dull line to be found ; the incidents are duly subordinated to the main 
 action, and the interest is not allowed to flag a moment before the end. Burns' 
 acquaintance with Greek literature was probably nil, yet in design and execu- 
 tion his poem is thoroughly Greek — that is, in accordance with the best models. 
 A quotation from Matthew Arnold will make this clear : ' The radical difference 
 between the poetic theory of the Greeks and our own is this : That with them 
 the poetical character of the action in itself, and the conduct of it, was the first 
 consideration; with us, attention is fixed mainly on the value of the separate 
 thoughts and images which occur in the treatment of an action. They regarded 
 the whole: we regard the parts.' 
 
 TO A MOUSE. 
 
 Burns' father died in 1784. Upon Robert and Gilbert Burns fell the respon- 
 sibility of supporting the widowed mother and her younger children. The 
 young men made a brave effort. They leased a small farm (Mossgiel) near 
 Lochlea, and toiled early and late; in two seasons — thanks to bad seed, poor 
 soil and a late harvest — they lost nearly everything they had. ' This overset all 
 my wisdom,' Burns wrote despairingly; in this little poem he has expressed this 
 same thought with a mournful pathos drawn from his own sad experiences. 
 
 1-24. brattle = hurrv. pattle = a sinall spade for cleaning 
 
 the plough. whiles. See note on Tam O'Shanter, 83. daimen 
 =: occasional, icker = ear (of corn). thrave = twenty -four 
 
BANNOCKBURN. 85 
 
 sheaves, set up in the field. lave. See note on Cotter's Saturday 
 
 Night, 72. big = build. foggage = aftermath. snell 
 
 = piercing; cognate with the German sc/inell = quick. 
 
 25-48. But = without (the original meaning). hald = 
 
 holding. thole = endure, suffer. cranreuch = hoar-frost, 
 
 no thy lane = not (thyself) alone. a-gley = awry. 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 This is another poem written in those depressing days at Mossgiel and com- 
 ing straight from Burns' heart. 
 
 1-35. stoure = dust. bield = shelter; (from the same root as 
 
 ' bold'). histie = dry, barren. With lines 19-28, compare 
 
 In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
 Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; 
 Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 
 
 Yet nothing daunted 
 Nor grieved if thou be set at naught : 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, 
 
 When such are wanted. 
 
 Wordsworth ; To the Daisy, 17-24. 
 
 37-54. card; a synecdoche for 'compass.' Pope has the same 
 figure with nearly the same application : 
 
 On life's vast ocean diversely we sail. 
 Reason the card, but Passion is the gale. 
 
 Essay on Man, ii. 107-108. 
 
 ' This passage,' Warton tells us, ' is exactly copied from Fonte- 
 nelle.' Thus do the poets live off each other! — Or shall we rather 
 say, with more conventional dignity : Thus do the poets hand down 
 from age to age the intellectual treasures of their stock in trade.'' 
 
 When Burns was living, he asked of the world bread and they gave him a 
 stone. When he was dead and wanted nothing, they builded him a tawdfy 
 monument ; nay, worse, two tawdry monuments, one on the banks of Doon, 
 near Alloway Kirk, the other at Dumfries. To injury they added insult by 
 inscribing on the latter a long eulogium in doubtful Latin. Better had they 
 have cut thereon — 
 
 Such is the (ale of simple Bard, 
 
 On hle's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 
 
 BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 Burns' expressed sympathy with the French Revolution came near cost- 
 ing him his place in the E.xcise ; he was instructed by his superior officer (one 
 
86 NOTES TO BURNS. 
 
 Corbet) that his ' business was to act, not to think' This would have been an 
 exceedingly easy instruction for Corbet himself to follow, but Burns was not a 
 Corbet. The poet's pent-up feeling found relief in Bannockburn, of which he 
 writes that the ' recollection of that glorious struggle for freedom, associated with 
 the glowing ideas of some struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient, 
 roused my rhyming mania.' i In the same letter he writes of the air Hey tuttie 
 tatie : ' . . . well I know that ... it has often filled my eyes with tears. 
 There is a tradition, which I have met with in many places of Scotland, that it 
 was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my 
 solitary wanderings, warmed me to a-pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty 
 and independence which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, 
 that one might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic fol- 
 lowers on that eventful morning. So may God ever defend the cause of truth 
 and liberty as he did that day ! Amen.' 
 
 The battle oi Bannockburn was fought on the 24th of June, 1314, and resulted 
 in the total defeat of the English under Edward il. 
 
 FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 
 
 This triumphant lyric of Democracy was written on New Year's Day, 1795. 
 Some two years earlier the Marseillaise had spread like wild-fire through 
 France ; but the Marseillaise is a local song : 
 
 Fr;in(;ais, pour tioiis, ah ! quel outrage ! 
 
 For A' That is a song for all men of all nations ; it breathes ' the prophetic 
 soul of the wide world, dreaming on things to come." 
 
 1-8. gowd = gold. Compare: 
 
 Worth makes the man and want of it the fellow. 
 The rest is all but leather or prunella. 
 
 Pope, Essay on Man, iv. 203-204. 
 
 9-40. hodden-grey = coarse woollen cloth. birkie = con- 
 
 ceited fellow. coof=loiit. A prince can make a belted 
 
 knight. Compare The Deserted Village, 53-54, and The Cotter's 
 Saturday Night, 165. fa' = pretend to. gree = prize, honor. 
 
 I Letter to G. Thomson, Sept., 1793. 
 
THE REVIVAL OE ROMANTICISM. 87 
 
 THE REVIVAL OF ROMANTICISM. 
 
 The great writers of the eighteenth century, with Pope at their head, had a 
 deep distrust for all forms of politics and literature characterized by \'isionari- 
 ness, Enthusiasm, Mysticism, and Fantasticism. With a shudder at the re- 
 membrance of a Rump Parliament and a Cowley, they turned to Reality and 
 moralized their song. Who shall blame them ? — But given the human mind, 
 constituted as it is, the reaction against their habit of thought was sure to come. 
 However excellent the quality of the bread, men will not live on bread alone. 
 The craving after the Supernatural, the longing to escape from the bonds of 
 Sense, the desire to identify the life of Man with the life of Nature, the fond 
 looking-back to the mythical ideals of the Past, — all this is in the heart of man 
 and must, from time to time, find expression. From such subjects the classical 
 poets of the eighteenth century resolutely averted their faces ; hence, in due 
 time, there arose to treat these subjects, a new school of poets : their morning- 
 star glimmered in Collins, and their sun rose in full splendor in Coleridge. 
 Byron, Keats, Shelley, Scott, and Wordsworth, dissimilar as they appear at 
 first sight, will all be found, on closer study, to belong to this, the Romantic 
 School. 
 
NOTES TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 Born in Devonshire in 1772. He spealcs of liimself as an imaginative child 
 who, at the age of six, had read Belisarius, Robinson Crusoe and Philip Quarll. 
 At nine he entered Christ's Hospital School,' where Charles Lamb was already 
 a pupil. Debts, disappointed love and Pantisocratic dreams interfered sadly 
 with his studies at Cambridge (1791-94), which he left without taking his degree. 
 One Cottle, a publisher, having offered to buy at a guinea and a half a hundred 
 (eight cents a line) all the verses Coleridge could write, the young bard married 
 on this brilliant prospect. The dreary struggle for bread and butter that fol- 
 lowed brought on nervous prostration, and this that opium habit which DeQuin- 
 cey says killed Coleridge as a poet. Kubla Khan and Christabel : Part the 
 First, were written in 1797. His growing intimacy with the Wordsworths led 
 him to publish The ,-///c/f«i' il/a;-/«(?r in Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads (1798). 
 The same year a small annuity bestowed by some generous friends enabled 
 him to visit Germany. From Gottingen he writes : ' I shall have bought thirty 
 pounds ' worth of books, chiefly metaphysics, and tvi-th a view to the one work 
 to which I hope to dedicate in silence the prime of my life' 
 
 With Coleridge the metaphysician and the theologian we are not greatly con- 
 cerned here. The thirty-six years of life that remained to him after 1798 were 
 devoted chiefly to those subjects — with what success we may be content to let 
 the metaphysicians decide. Occasionally Coleridge would make an excursion 
 into the fields of Belles-Lettres and sow there such precious seeds as are to be 
 found scattered through the Biographia Literaria and the Lectures on Shake- 
 speare. At rarer intervals he would rouse his dormant poetic faculty, as when 
 he wrote Christabel : Part the Seco7id, The Ballad of the Dark Ladie (both of 
 these unfinished and unfinishable), and the magnificent Hymn Before Sunrise, 
 in the Vale of Chamouni. These fragments, thrown off during nearly four 
 decades of inglorious dependence upon rich men's bounties; innumerable 
 projects for a magnum opus that never came to anything ; the worship of a 
 little philosophical coterie whose feeble influence is rapidly waning ; — such are 
 the literary results of the manhood and old age of one whose youthful perform- 
 ance declares him to have been one of the most splendidly endowed of English 
 poets. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — Prefixed to the latest and best edition of Coleridge's 
 Poems is a careful and elaborate biography by y. Dykes Campbell. (Macmillan.) 
 
 1 See Thackeray's Newcomes, Cap. lxxv. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 89 
 
 This does not attempt any literary estimate in connection with the life ; such 
 a treatment will be found in Traill's Coleridge (E. M. L.)- Hall Caine's 
 Life of Coleridge (Gt. Wr.) contains a good Bibliography. The poet's grandson, 
 E. H. Coleridge, has in preparation another and more elaborate biography : it is 
 difficult to imagine what useful or pleasant result will be attained by exhibidng to 
 the world in more detail the characteristics of the poetical Skimpole who dwelt 
 at Highgate. Contemporary portraits will be found in Lamb's (fanciful) Chrisfs 
 Hospital Five-and- Thirty Years Ago ; in DeQuincey s Literary and Lake Remi- 
 niscences and in his Coleridge and Opium Eating ; in Hazlitt's Lectures on the 
 English Poets 3.nd. in his Literary Remains (Essay XLX.) ; in Carlyle's Sterling, 
 Part I. Cap. viii. 
 
 Criticism. — James Wilson ( Christopher North) : Essay on Coleridge's 
 Poetical Works. If any one lack enthusiastic admiration for Coleridge, he 
 should read this Essay, which places the Hymn before Sunrise ahead of any 
 strain in Milton or Wordsworth ! 
 
 Whipple : Essays and Reviews ; English Poets of the Nineteenth Century ; also, 
 Coleridge as a Philosophical Critic. Two little studies as admirable for their 
 sanity as for their brevity. 
 
 Siuinburne : Essays and Studies ; Coleridge. The most poetically-apprecia- 
 tive estimate we have ; ranks Coleridge as the greatest of lyric poets ' for height 
 and perfection of imaginative quality.' 
 
 Courthope : The Liberal Movement in English Literature ; {Poetry, Painting 
 and Music) : Coleridge and Keats. Contends that whatever unity there may 
 be in Coleridge's poems is not logical unity, but musical unity. 
 
 Lowell : Address on Unveiling the Bust of Coleridge at Westf/iinster Abbey. 
 A charming little speech that judiciously avoided taxing the thinking-power 
 of the audience. 
 
 (Those who are courageous enough to follow Coleridge into what he him- 
 self called the ' holy jungle of transcendental metaphysics' will find an exposi- 
 tion and critique (i) of his social and political philosophy in y. S. Mill's 
 Dissertations and Discussions, Vol. ii. ; (2) of his moral, religious and metaphys- 
 ical systems in Shairp's Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. The latter is the Fine 
 Old Tory view, and declares Coleridge to have been ' the greatest thinker whom 
 Britain has during the century produced.' (!) Mr. G. E. Woodberry hardly 
 shares this conviction, for he asserts {N. Y. Nation, 39, 549) that it is plain not only 
 that Coleridge's ' mind ranged through a vast circuit of knowledge habitually, 
 but also that it touched the facts only at single points and superficially.' Most 
 of us, I think, will also agree with Mr. Woodberry when he adds : [Coleridge's] 
 'theology and metaphysics, in pursuit of which he wasted his powers, are 
 already seen to be transient.' An artistic description of Coleridge as a critic 
 is given by Professor H. .4. Beers in the Introduction to his Prose Extracts 
 from Coleridge.) 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 The origin of this poem is thus related in Wordsworth's Memoirs : ' In the 
 autumn of 1797, he [Coleridge] , my sister and myself started from Alfoxden 
 pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit Linton and the \'alley of Stones 
 
90 NOTES TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 near to it ; and as our united funds were very small, we agreed to defray the 
 expense of the tour by writing a poem to be sent to the New Monthly Magazine 
 set up by Phillips the bookseller, and edited by Dr. Aiken. Accordingly, we 
 set off, and proceeded along the Quantock Hills, towards Watchet, and in the 
 course of this walk was planned the poem of the ' Ancient Mariner,' founded on 
 a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the greatest 
 part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention ; but certain parts I suggested ; 
 for example, some crime was to be committed which should bring upon the 
 Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to call him, the spectral 
 persecution, as a consequence of that crime and his own wanderings. I had 
 been reading in Shelvocke's I'oyages a day or two before, that while doubling 
 Cape Horn, they frequently saw Albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of 
 sea-fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet. ' Suppose,' said I, 
 'you represent him as having killed one of these birds on entering the South 
 Sea, and that the tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge the 
 crime.* The incident was thought fit for the purpose, and adopted accordingly. 
 I also suggested the navigation of the ship by the dead men, but do not recollect 
 that I had anything more to do with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with 
 which it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by either of us at 
 the time, at least not a hint of it was given to me, and I have no doubt it was a 
 gratuitous afterthought. We began the composition together, on that to me 
 memorable evening; I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of the 
 poem, in particular: 
 
 And listened like :i three years' child, 
 The Mariner had his will. 
 
 These trifling contributions, all but one, which Mr. C. has with unnecessary 
 scrupulosity recorded, slipped out of his mind, as well they might. As we 
 endeavored to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same evening), our respective 
 manners proved so widely different that it would have been quite presumptuous 
 in me to do anything but separate from an undertaking upon which I could 
 only have been a clog.' 
 
 The effect for which Coleridge strove in this poem he has fortunately de- 
 scribed for us in Cap. xiv. of his Biographia Literaria : ' During the first year 
 that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neighbors, our conversations turned frequently 
 on the two cardinal points of poetry : the power of exciting the sympathy of the 
 reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and the power of giving 
 the interest of novelty by the modifying colors of imagination. The sudden 
 charm which accidents of light and shade, which moonlight or sunset diffused 
 over a known and familiar landscape, appeared to represent the practicability of 
 combining both. These are the poetry of nature. The thought suggested itself 
 (to which of us I do not recollect) that a series of poems might be composed of 
 two sorts. In the one, the incidents and agents were to be in part, at least, super- 
 natural ; and the excellence aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the 
 affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions as would naturally accom- 
 pany such situations, supposing them real. And real in this sense they have 
 been to every human being, who, from whatever source of delusion, has at any 
 time believed himself under supernatural agency. For the second class, sub- 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 91 
 
 jects were to be chosen from ordinary life ; the characters and incidents were to 
 be such as will be found in every village and its vicinity where there is a medi- 
 tative and feeling mind to seek after them, or to notice them when they present 
 themselves. 
 
 ' In this idea originated the plan of the Lyrical Ballads ; in which it was agreed 
 that my endeavors should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, 
 or at least romantic ; yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human 
 interest and a semblance of truth, sufficient to procure for these shadows of 
 imagination that willing suspension of disbelief, for the moment, which consti- 
 tutes poetic faith.' 
 
 This exposition by the author leaves little need for more comment on The 
 Ancient Mariner, save perhaps a word as to the form. This is modelled on 
 that of the medieval ballad; but if you compare it with one of these — The 
 Demon Lover, for instance, or Sir Patrick Spens — you will notice the incom- 
 parable superiority of Coleridge, both in the depth of his psychological observa- 
 tion and in the bewitching melody of his cadences. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Eftsoons ( 12) ; from the Old English eft = again ■\- sonc = soon = 
 at once, speedily. With lines 21-24 compare the opening stanzas 
 of Tennyson's l"he Voyage ; indeed the whole of that poem shows 
 Coleridge's influence. nninstrelsy (36) = company of musicians. 
 
 Compare, ' But now bring me a minstrel. And it came to pass, 
 when the minstrel played, that the hand of the Lord came upon 
 him.' 2 Kings, iii. 15. thunder-fit (69) = a noise like thunder. 
 
 The oldest meaning of this word ' fit ' is ' struggle ; ' it has no etymo- 
 logical connection with the adjective ' fit,' nor with the noun ' fit' = 
 ballad, song. shroud (75). Shrouds are supporting ropes that 
 
 run from the mast-head to the sides of the ship. vespers (76) = 
 
 evenings. 
 
 PART IL 
 
 'em (92) ; dative case = to or for them. The form 'cm is directly 
 from the Old English dative plural 'him,' Middle English 'hem.' 
 Our modern form ' them' is from ' pam ' or ' pafem,' the dative plural 
 of the demonstrative ' se, se6, p&t'(that), whose plural has entirely 
 supplanted that of the third personal pronoun. When at Mt. Saint 
 Jean, then, the Duke of Wellington said (if he did say), Up, Guards, 
 AND AT 'em ! he was not guilty of a barbarism, but was indulging a 
 laudable fondness for Choicest Old English. uprist (98). A 
 
 weak preterite : = uprose. See Whitney, §§ 240, 244. The stanza 
 beginning All in a hot and copper sky reminds one of some of 
 Turner's pictures. This great artist, as well as Coleridge, had a keen 
 eye for the subtle aspects of nature that hard and brilliant minds 
 like Macaulay's find so uninteresting. For similar touches see lines 
 
92 NOTES TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 171-180, 199-200, 263-271, 314-326, 368-372. death-fires (128); 
 
 sometimes called ' fetch-candles ' or ' corpse-candles ; ' supposed to 
 portend the death of the person who sees them. ' Another kind of 
 fiery apparition peculiar to Wales . . . appeareth ... in the lower 
 region of the air, straight and long, not much unlike a glaive, mours, 
 [mulberry-leaves.?] or shoots directly and level . . . but far more 
 slowly than falling stars. It lighteneth all the air and ground 
 where it passeth, lasteth three or four miles or more, for aught is 
 known, because no man seeth the rising or beginning of it ; and 
 when it falls to the ground, it sparkleth and lighteth all about. 
 These commonly announce the death or decease of freeholders bv 
 falling on their lands. . . .' Brand's Popular Antiquities, iii. 
 237- 
 
 PART III. 
 
 they for joy did grin (164). ' I took the thought of ' grinning for 
 joy ' from poor Burnett's ^ remark to me when we had climbed to the 
 top of Plinlimmon, and were nearlj' dead with thirst. We could not 
 speak from the constriction till we found a little puddle under a 
 stone. He said to me : ' You grinned like an idiot.' He had done 
 the same.' — Coleridge in Table-Talk, May 31, 1830. the horned 
 Moon (210). ' It is a common superstition among sailors that some- 
 thing evil is about to happen whenever a star dogs the moon.' — Cole- 
 ridge. Did you ever see the phenomenon described in lines 210-21 1 .'' 
 Has Coleridge made a mistake .' 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 Lines 226-227 were written by Wordsworth. 
 
 PART V. 
 
 silly (297) = (originally) blessed ; then, 'simple-hearted,' 'guile- 
 less,' 'weak,' 'foolish' and (as here) ' empty,' ' useless.' sheen 
 (314) = bright, shining. The Sun, right up above the mast 
 (383). The ship has now reached the equator, retm-ning north. In 
 line 30 she is represented as having crossed the line, going south. 
 In Coleridge's prose comment on lines 103-106, he represents the 
 ship, at that point of the narrative, as having reached the line, 
 going north. But this is contradicted by lines 328, 335, 367-368, 
 373-376, all of which imply a calling north from the point reached 
 in 107. 
 
 1 Campbell (p. 59S) says ' Berdmore of Jesus Coll. Cambridge,' but gives no 
 
 authority. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 93 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 After line 475, in the edition of 179S, came these five stanzas : 
 
 The moonlight bay was white all o'er, 
 
 Till rising from the same, 
 F'ull many shapes, that shadows were, 
 
 Like as of torches came. 
 
 A little distance from the prow 
 
 Those dark-red shadows were; 
 But soon I saw that my own flesh 
 
 Was red as in a glare. 
 
 I turned my head in fear and dread. 
 
 And by the holy rood. 
 The bodies had advanced, and now 
 
 Before the mast they stood. 
 
 They lifted up their stiff right arms, 
 
 They held them straight and tight; 
 And each right-arm burnt like a torch, 
 
 A torch that's borne upright. 
 Their stony eye-balls glittered on 
 
 In the red and smoky light. 
 
 I prayed and turned my head away. 
 
 Forth looking as before. 
 There was no breeze upon the bay. 
 
 No wave against the shore. 
 
 After line 503, in the edition of 179S, came this stanza: 
 
 Then vanish'd all the lovely lights ; 
 
 The bodies rose anew : 
 With silent pace, each to his place. 
 
 Came back the ghastly crew. 
 The wind, that shade nor motion made. 
 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 ivy-tod C535) = ivy-busii. ' Tod' is etjinologicallv the same word 
 as the German ' Zotte,' a tuft of hair or wool. a-feared. The 
 
 prefix here is merely intensive, as in 
 
 'He Cometh not,' she said; 
 
 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 I would that I were dead.' 
 
 Tennyson's Mariana, 9-11. 
 
94 NOTES TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 I pass, like night, from land to land (586) ; a line doubtless suggested 
 by the legend of the Wandering Jew. teach (590) = tell. The Old 
 V English meaning of ' teach ' is ' point out,' ' show.' What loud 
 
 uproar bursts from that door! (591). Notice with what dramatic 
 skill this poem i^set. The mariner's tale — gloomy, weird, super- 
 natural — stands out in compelling contrast against the scenery of 
 the bridal — cheerful, domestic, humanistic. If you look especially 
 at the marvellous way in which the supernatural element is intro- 
 duced, you will perhaps agree with me that no poet — not even the 
 mighty Shakespeare himself — has so brought home to us those 
 spiritual existences which, to a devout mind, attend our every mo- 
 ment and preserve our going out and our coming in. 
 
LIFE OF BYRON. 95 
 
 LORD BYRON, 
 
 George Gordon, sixth Baron Byron of Rochdale, was born in London in 
 1788. Much of his youth was passed in Scotland, where he acquired the love of 
 mountain scenery that appears so constantly in his poems. Harrow and Cam- 
 bridge seem to have done little for him save to excite in him a loathing for the 
 pedantry of the schools. 'YY^q Hours of Idleness (1807) being savagely condemned 
 by the Edinburgh Review, Byron consoled himself by drinking three bottles of 
 claret at a sittmg and by writing English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, — a satire 
 that contains some lines not unworthy of Pope. Two years on the continent 
 (1809-1811) furnished the material for the first and second cantos of Childe Har- 
 old, wherein he showed for the first time his great powers of idealistic description. 
 Seven editions were sold within a month. Then followed a long list of lurid 
 Oriental romances in verse, concerning which we must agree with the author 
 when he declares they show his own want of judgment in publishing and the 
 public's in reading. The same public made itself equally ridiculous by treating 
 Byron as the object of a persistent lionism ; this period of heroic vacuity in the 
 poet's life, was brought to an abrupt close by differences arising from an unhappy 
 marriage ; in 18 16 he wisely left England for Italy, never to return. The third and 
 fourth cantos of Childe Harold (i8i6and 1818) give us those splendid pictures of 
 the Rhine, Switzerland and Italy upon which Byron's reputation as a poet must 
 largely rest. His numerous dramas, though containing magnificent lyrical pas- 
 sages, are all lacking in the first essentials of a good play — Action and Contrast of 
 Character. Just what it is Byron has given us in Don Juan the critics seem un- 
 able to agree upon : Watkinshas called it the ' Odyssey of Immorality; ' Shelley 
 declares it to be ' Something wholly new and relative to the age and yet surpass- 
 ingly beautiful.' However this may be, certain it is that the varying moods of 
 this poem, with its wonderful range of humor, passion and imagination, come 
 straight from Byron's soul, which he has here exposed — as he was too fond of 
 doing — to the gaze of the world. The revolt of Greece against Turkey enlisted 
 his ardent sympathies ; in 1823 he left Italy for Greece, where he unselfishly 
 devoted his money, his talents and his health to the cause of Hellenic indepen- 
 dence. Had he lived, he bid fair to become the Cavour of his age ; this glori- 
 ous prospect was eclipsed by death, which came to him untimely, at Mesolonghi, 
 on the 19th of April, 1824. 
 
 No English poet is so well known on the Continent of Europe as Byron, nor 
 has any foreigner ever exercised such an influence as he on the poetry of mod- 
 ern France, Germany and Italy. 
 
 Friends. — Scott, Moore, Sheridan, Shelley, Hobhouse, Trelawny. 
 
 Antipathies. — Wordsworth, Southey, Castlereagh, George IV. 
 
96 NOTES TO BYRON. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — Of the innumerable Lives of Byron, few add anytliing 
 worth knowing to Moore s. Byron's Letters, contained therein, are, it seems to 
 me, the very best letters in English. Shelley's yulian and Maddalo is inesti- 
 mably precious as a portrait by the contemporary who understood Byron best 
 and loved him most. Of the shorter Lives, Nichol's (E. M. L.) is greatly supe- 
 rior both in appreciation and in arrangement to Noel's (Gt. Wr.) ; the latter, 
 indeed, is written in a style that can be called English only by courtesy, and 
 reminds one of Walt Whitman at his worst. Irving' s Abbotsford and Newstead 
 Abbey gives a charming account of his visit to Byron's ancestral home. For the 
 History, see Green, Cap. X. Sec. 4; a\so, Spencer Walpole's History 0/ England, 
 Cap. i.-vi. The last mentioned author is at home in political and social 
 questions; when he wanders into Literature (Cap. iv.) he is in a foreign country 
 whose features he is able to sketch but crudely and superficially. 
 
 Criticism. — .5'^/- Walter Scott : Quarterly Review, XVI. 172, and XIX. 215. 
 Over-generous reviews of Childe Harold, Cantos iii. and iv., and of some of the 
 minor poems. 
 
 Macaulay: Moore's Life of Lord Byron. Macaulay was twenty-four when 
 Byron died, and this Essay is written with the sincerity and force of a man who 
 had experienced the poetical effects he describes. Yet it is chiefly objective in its 
 descriptions and seldom gets at the heart of things. 
 
 Morley : Critical Miscellanies, Vol. i. ; Byron. A study of Byron as the 
 spiritual exponent of the revolutionary spirit. 
 
 Swinburne: Essays and Studies ; Byron. Shows a sympathetic insight into 
 the high qualities of Byron's poetry such as only a poet could display. 
 
 Swinburne: Nitieteentk Century ; XV.§8j and 764. Wordszuorth and Byron. 
 The first of these articles is a lamentable exhibition of bad taste and bad temper ; 
 it deluges Byron with a flood of literary abuse (drawn forth by Matthew Arnold's 
 preference for Byron over Shelley). The second article is devoted chiefly to 
 Wordsworth and contains some sound criticism mixed with assumptions of 
 critical authority that are equally offensive and ridiculous. 
 
 Matthew Arnold: Essays in Criticism, Second Series; Byron. This is the 
 article which roused Mr. Swinburne's ire — although it judiciously praises Byron, 
 in Mr. Swinburne's own words, for ' the excellence of sincerity and strength.' 
 
 Andrew Lang : Letters to Dead Authors ; Lord Byron. A caustic review (in 
 verse) of the Arnold-Swinburne controversy. 
 
 Courthope : The Liberal Movement in English Literature, Essays i., iv. andvi. 
 Shows conclusively that the Arnold-Swinburne controversy is internecine; that 
 Byron's permanence is due to reality in description, feeling and style ; that the 
 final test of classic poetry is not ' high seriousness ' (Arnold) nor ' imagination 
 and harmony' (Swinburne), but is the extent and quality of the pleasure it 
 produces for the imagination by means of metrical language. 
 
 For Continental criticism, see Goethe ; Conversations ivith Eckcrmann : Oct. ig, 
 1823; Eeb.22, 1824; May 18,1824: Jan. 10, 182^; Dec. 25, 182^ ; March 2b, 
 1826 ; Nov. 8, 1826 ; fune 20, 1827 ; Dec. 16, 1828. Taine ; History of English 
 Literature : Book iv. Cap. 2. Castelar ; Vtda de Lord Byron (t.anslated by 
 Mrs. Arthur Arnold; London, 1875). Mazzini ; Byron and Goethe (in Vol. 
 VL of Mazzini's Life and Writings; London, 1891). 
 
CniLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 97 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 In his Preface to the First and Second Cantos Byron wrote : 'A fictitious 
 character is introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece, 
 which, however, makes no pretension to regularity. It has been suggested to 
 me by friends, on whose opinion I set a high value, that in tlie fictitious charac- 
 ter, Childe Harold, I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real per- 
 sonage : this I beg leave once for all to disclaim ; — Harold is the child of 
 imagination, for the purpose I have stated. . . . It is almost superfluous to 
 mention that the appellation ' Childe,' as 'Childe Waters,' 'Childe Childers,' 
 etc., is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification [Spense- 
 rian stanza] which I have adopted.' 
 
 Childe ; in Middle English ballads -= a noble youtli, a squire. Com- 
 pare 
 
 Childe Roland to the dark tower came, 
 
 in King Lear, iii. 4, and Browning's poem witli tlie same title. 
 
 MODERN GREECE. 
 
 1-27. Tritonia = Athene. CI. Myths, pp. 416-417. Colon- 
 
 na's cliff = Sunium, the most southerly point of Attica. olive. 
 
 The olive was fabled to be the gift of Athene (Minerva). Hymet- 
 tus ; a mountain near Athens famed for marble and hone^'. Apollo 
 
 = the sun. For interpretation of the sun-myth, see CI. Myths, 
 p. 419. Mendeli; a corruption of ' Pentelicus,' a mountain 
 
 about twehe miles from Athens. Here are situated the quarries 
 whence came the marble for the temples of the city. 
 
 28-54. Athena's tower. This must mean the Parthenon, but it 
 would be difficult to find a more inappropriate word than tower. 
 Marathon. See a History of Greece under the year 490 B.C. ; com- 
 pare also Byron's Isles of Greece, p. 152 of this book. distant 
 Glory = glory to which we look back through a long distance of 
 time. The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; a slovenly 
 construction not justified by the gain in rhetorical emphasis. With 
 line 49 compare lines 60-62 of Gray's Bard. the violated mound, 
 on the field of Marathon, where the Greeks who fell there are said to 
 have been buried. Stanza xc. closely resembles Stanza xvii. of the 
 Third Canto of Childe Harold. 
 
 55-81. voyager with th' Ionian blast = he who comes from the 
 Ionian Sea (the West). Pallas = Wisdom (for the sages); 
 
 Muse = Poetry (for the bards ). Delphi ; the oracle of Apollo, in 
 
 Phocis : CI. M\ths, p. 420. 
 
98 NOTES TO BYRON. 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 For the history of Venice as interpreted by her art, see Ruskin's 
 St. Mark's Rest; for the Ducal Palace in particular, see his Stones 
 of A'^enice, Vol. ii. Cap. 8. 
 
 1-27. The Bridge of Sighs; too well known by means of photo- 
 graphs to need description here. The palace (2) is the Ducal Pal- 
 ace; the prison, the state prison, just across the Rio del Palazzo. 
 ' This Rio, or canal, is usualh- looked upon by the traveller with 
 great respect, or even horror, because it passes under the Bridge of 
 Sighs. It is, however, one of the principal thoroughfares of the 
 city ; and the bridge and its canal together occupy, in the mind of a 
 Venetian, very much the position of Fleet Street and Temple 
 Bar in that of a Londoner, — at least, at the time when Temple Bar 
 was occasionally decorated with human heads. The two buildings 
 closely resemble each other in form.' — Ruskin : Stones of \"enice, 
 ii. S. when many a subject land : in the fifteenth century. the 
 winged lion (of St. Mark); the emblem of Venice. Cybele; 
 
 pronounced here according to the Italian method, with the accent 
 on the second syllable; the classic form requires Cyb'ele. 
 
 Hinc mater cultrix Cybeli Corybantiaque aera 
 Idaeumque nemus ; hinc fida silentia sacris 
 Et juncti currum dominae subiere leones. 
 
 ^^neid iii. 111-113. 
 
 In yEneid vi. 7S5, we read of her, 
 
 Invehitur curru Phrygias tunita per urljes, 
 
 suggesting IJyron's tiara of proud towers. In the Prado of Madrid 
 there is a beautiful statue of Cybele and her lions, embodying the 
 Vergilian conceptions quoted above. For the attributes of the god- 
 dess, see CI. Myths, § 45a. Tasso (d. 1595), author of Jerusalem 
 Delivered, the epic of the Crusades. Passages from this famous poem 
 took such a strong hold upon the imagination of even the common 
 people, that the gondoliers used to recite them as they rowed. For 
 the Gondolier's Cry, see Stones of Venice, \'ol. ii. Appendix i. 
 
 28-45. Dogeless. ' Doge ' was the title of the chief magistrate of 
 the Venetian Republic. This office was established in the seventh 
 century, and was abolished by Napoleon when he overthrew the 
 Venetian Republic in 1797. ' Doge' and 'Duke' are both from the 
 Latin 'dux.' Rialto ; 'The best building raised in the time of 
 
 the Grotesque Renaissance; very noble in its simplicity, in its pro- 
 portions and its masonry. . . . The bridge was built by Antonio da 
 
CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE. 99 
 
 Ponte in 1588. It was anciently of wood, with a drawbridge in tiie 
 centre. . . . the ti-aveller should observe that the interesting 
 effect both of this and the Bridge of Sighs depends in great part 
 on their both being more than bridges ; the one a covered passage, 
 the other a row of shops, sustained on an arch.' — Venetian Index to 
 the Stones of Venice, article ' Rialto.' See, also. Merchant of Ven- 
 ice, iii. Pierre; the hei-oic character in Otway's Venice Pre- 
 served. See note on Pope's Epistle to Augustus, 278. that 
 which = bright and cheerful thoughts. these spirits = these 
 ideal creations of the imagination. what we hate; i.e., the 
 hard, dull lot of commonplace existence. With the sentiment of 
 this passage compare 
 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 
 
 Merchant of Venice, v. i. 
 
 46-63. The spouseless Adriatic. The prosperity' of \"enice was 
 based upon her commerce; this fact was symbolized bv the cere- 
 mony known as The Marriage of the Adriatic, wherein the Doge 
 cast a ring into the sea. The vessel in which he was conveved to 
 the appointed place was called the Bucentaur. St. Mark yet sees 
 
 his lion . . . stand, where he stands to-day, in the Piazetta west 
 of the Ducal Palace. ' . . . that noble winged lion, one of the 
 grandest things produced by mediaeval art, which all men admire 
 and none can draw. I have never yet seen a faithful represen- 
 tation of his iirm, fierce and fiery strength.' — Ruskin : Stones of 
 Venice, iii. Appendix 10. Emperor (52); Suabian (55) : Fred- 
 
 erick Barbarossa, who attempted to enforce his authority over the 
 cities of northern Italy (the Lombard League), but was defeated by 
 them at the battle of Legnano (1176). Sismondi calls this 'the 
 first and most noble struggle ever maintained by the nations of 
 modern Europe against despotism.' The Pope, Alexander in., had 
 sided with the League, and to him the Emperor made submission in 
 Venice, the year after the battle. the Austrian. Venice was 
 
 under Austrian rule from 1797 to 1S05, and from 1814 to 1866. For 
 the condition of Venetian society during the last days of the Aus- 
 trian occupation, see Howells' delightful Venetian Days. lauwine 
 (German) = avalanche. Dandolo. There were several distin- 
 
 guished Doges of this name ; the one here referred to is Enrico 
 Dandolo, who, though old and blind, led the men of the fourth 
 Crusade to the capture of Constantinople in 1204. 
 
100 NOTES TO BYRON. 
 
 64-81. Doria : Pietro Doiia, a Genoese admiral m ho told the 
 Venetians, when the\ sued him for peace in 1379, that thev slioiild 
 have no peace until a lein was put upon their unbridled horses o\\ 
 the porch of St. Mark's. These four bronze horses were brou;.';ht 
 to Venice from Constantinople by Enrico Dandolo ; they are sup- 
 posed to date from the time of Nero. Napoleon took them to Paris, 
 where they adorned his triumphal arch in the Place du Carrousel. 
 At the restoration of the Bourbons they were returned to Venice. 
 bj^word = a word used proxerbially. The \\ ord referred to is ' Pan- 
 taloon,' which Byron explains in the next line as derived from 
 (Italian) pianfar, ' plant,' -|- Icone, ' lion.' This etymology is of 
 doubtful \alue. A more probable explanation of ' Pantaloon ' is 
 from S. Pantaleone (~af (-arr-) -|- At'wi'), the patron saint of Venice. 
 The subsequent history of this Mord was probably : (1) a common 
 name among Venetians of the lower orders ; (2) an_\ low-born foolish 
 fellow; (3) a foolish old man in Italian comed\'. Candia, in 
 
 Crete, was held by the Venetians against the Tuiks for twenty-four 
 years; Troy was besieged for but ten. Lepanto; the great sea- 
 
 fight (1571) in which the Turks were defeated by Don John of 
 Austria. The Venetian fleet under Sebastiano \'eniero contributed 
 largely to the success of that da_\ . 
 
 82-gg. Syracuse. By the failure of her ill-advised expedition 
 against the Dorian city of Syracuse, Athens -was irretrievabl\- 
 ruined and the supremacy of Greece passed to Sparta (413 B.C.). 
 ' Several [of the Athenian captives] Avere saved for the sake of 
 Euripides, whose poetry, it appears, was in request among the 
 Sicilians more than among any of the settlers out of Greece. And 
 when any travellers arrived that could tell them some passage, or 
 give them any specimen of his verses, they were delighted to be able 
 to communicate them to one another. Many of the captives who 
 got safe back to Athens are said, after they reached home, to have 
 gone and made their acknowledgments to Euripides, relating how 
 that some of them had been released from their slavery by teaching 
 what they could remember of his poems, and others, when strag- 
 gling after the fight, had been relieved with meat and drink for 
 repeating some of his lyrics. Nor need this be any wonder, for it is 
 told that a ship of Caunus, fleeing into one of their harbors for pro- 
 tection, pui'sued by pirates, was not received, but forced back, till 
 one asked if they knew an}' of Euripides' verses, and on their saying 
 they did, they were admitted and their ship brought into harbor.' — 
 Plutarch : Life of Nicias. Upon the incident referred to in the last 
 sentence. Browning has founded his Balaustion's .Vd\enture (p. 253 
 of this book). 
 
CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. IQl 
 
 100-117. shameful . . most of all, Albion ! to thee. One of 
 
 the finest things ahout Bvron is his perpetual protest against that 
 self-satisfied Philistinism, moral, social and intellectual, into which 
 the English settled down after the battle of Waterloo. In the dedica- 
 tion of this Fourth Canto to his friend Hobhouse, he Avrites : ' And 
 when we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard the 
 simple lament of the labourers' cliorus, ' Roma ! Roma ! Roma I 
 Roma non e piii come era prima' [Rome ! 'tis not now as in former 
 days], it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge with the 
 bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still yelled from the Lon- 
 don taverns over the carnage of Mount St. Jean, and the l^etraval of 
 Genoa, of Italy, of France. . . .' Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, 
 
 Shakespeare : ' Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho ; The Ghost- 
 Seer or Armenian; Tiie Merchant of Venice, Othello.' — Byron. 
 Mrs. Radcliffe was never in such good company before, and was 
 probably as much surprised as we are when she saw her name coupled 
 with Shakespeare's. 
 
 CASCATA DEL MARMORE. 
 
 About fifty miles north-east of Rome and near the little citv of 
 Terni, the Velino breaks down, in three leaps, through a distance of 
 some 650 feet, thus forming the Cascata del Marmore, or Marble 
 Cascade. The rainbow mentioned in Stanza Ixxii. is formed at the 
 central fall. In a note on Stanza Ixxi. Byron writes: 'I saw the 
 Cascata del Marmore of Terni twice, at different periods — once 
 from the summit of the precipice, and again from the valley below. 
 The lower \ie\\ is far to be preferred, if the traveller has time for one 
 only; but in any point of view, either from above or below, it is 
 worth all the torrents and cascades of Switzerland put together. . . .' 
 Phlegethon, in the Hellenic mythology, is a river of fire in the Under- 
 world. 
 
 In this description Byron is at his best. His restless spirit sympathizes with 
 the rush and whirl of the falling waters ; their mad uproar finds a responsive 
 echo in his own wild heart ; he is uplifted to a true poetic ecstasy and in 
 
 Love w.^tchlng■ Mildness with unalterable mien 
 he rises to what may fairly be called The Sublime. 
 
 THE COLISEUM. 
 
 i-i8. The Gladiator; referring to the famous statue long known 
 as The Dying Gladiator, but now correctly designated The Dvino- 
 
102 NOTES TO BYRON. 
 
 Gaul. This mastei-piece was found at Rome in the sixteenth century, 
 and is no\s' in the Capitoline Museum ; in the same I'oom stands 
 the Satyr of Praxiteles, which suggested Hawthorne's Marble Faun. 
 See his Italian Note Book for April 22, 1858. Consents to death, 
 but conquers agony. What a world of heroic resignation and daunt- 
 less courage does this display to the imagination I Professor G. H. 
 Howison tells me that for artistic condensation of a vast moral mean- 
 ing he thinks it ^\•ould be hard to match this line in the poetry of the 
 world. Dacian. The outlying province of Dacia, on the northern 
 
 bank of the Danube, was a fertile source of supply for the Roman 
 MiiHiis Gladiatoriiim. Notice the modified survival of this inhuman 
 institution in the Spanish Bull-Fight, in the English Prize-Ring 
 and (shall we say it?) in American Foot-Ball. Goths. They 
 
 sacked Rome under Alaric in 410 A.D. 
 
 19-45. the ways : the passages that led to the seats of the Coliseum. 
 the playthings of a crowd. When the victor in a gladiatorial com- 
 bat had disabled or disarmed his foe, he appealed to the spectators 
 to know whether lie should slay or spare the vanquished. If the 
 mob desired to witness a death-scene, — as they generally did, — 
 they turned their thumbs towards their breasts (up). ' the 
 
 loops of time: the envious rents which time has made. Like 
 
 laurels on the bald first Caesar's head; a most unsavory simile, de- 
 grading instead of elevating the subject. Byron's note on this line 
 is interesting as histor^y, but does not mend his poetry. He says: 
 ' Suetonius informs us that Julius Ctesar was particularly gratilied 
 by that decree of the Senate which enabled him to wear a wreath 
 of laurel on all occasions. He was anxious, not to show that he was 
 the conqueror of the world, but to hide that he was bald. A stran- 
 ger at Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor should 
 we without the help of the historian.' this magic circle; a meta- 
 
 phor from Witchcraft. 
 
 46-54. While stands the Coliseum, etc. ' Qiiamdiu stabit Col\'seus, 
 stabit et Roma ; quando cadet Colyseus, cadet Roma ; quando 
 cadet Roma, cadet et mundus (Beda in Excerptis seu Collectaneis 
 apud Ducange Gloss, med. et infimae Latinitatis, tom. ii. p. 407, 
 edit. Basil). This saying must be attributed to the Anglo-Saxon 
 pilgrims who visited Rome before the year 735, the aera of Bede's 
 death ; for I do not believe that our venerable monk ever passed the 
 sea.' — Gibbon : Decline and Fall, Cap. Ixxxi., Note 52. 
 
 > Query: In G6r6me's famous picture, are not the thumbs turned the 
 wrong way? See the authorities as cited by Mayor in his note on Juvenal 
 iii. 36. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 103 
 
 THE COLISEUM BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 1-7. These lines refer to the scenery of the Higher Alps, upon 
 which Manfred gazes from his castle. 
 
 8-45. the blue midnight. The vault of heaven, with the moon 
 shining on it, looked blue contrasted with the trees, which looked 
 black. Similarly, trees that intervene between us and the setting 
 sun look black, not green. the Caesars' palace. West of the 
 
 Coliseum rises the Palatine Hill, with ruins of the palaces of Augus- 
 tus, Tiberius and Caligula. 
 
 Notice with what beautiful pathos the poet interprets for us the associations 
 of the past. Remove the human element from this description and more than 
 half the charm is lost. Compare this description with an account of the 
 Coliseum in Baedeker or in Murray, and we see that Idealism is truer than 
 Realism. 
 
 ST. PETER'S. 
 
 i-g. the dome = the building. See note on this word in The 
 Deserted Village, 319. The original design of St. Peters was by 
 Bramante. The corner stone was laid in 1506, and the church was 
 consecrated in 1626. Among the distinguished aixhitects employed 
 upon it was Michael Angelo. Diana's marvel. The temple 
 
 of Diana at Ephesus, one of the seven wonders of antiquity. For a 
 vivid portrayal of the feeling of the Greeks towards this shrine, see 
 Acts xix. 23-41. his martyr's tomb. The church is built on the 
 
 site of the Circus of Nero, where St. Peter is said to have suffered 
 martydom. Sophia. The mosque of St .Sophia in Constanti- 
 
 nople, formerly a Christian church. The length of this building is 
 354 feet ; of Milan Cathedral, 444 feet ; of St. Paul's in London, 510 
 feet; of St. Peter's, 639 feet; of the Capitol at Washington, 7:51 
 feet. 
 
 10-36. Zion's desolation. Jerusalem was taken by Titus in 70 
 A.D. only find a fit abode = find only a fit abode. This un- 
 
 fortunate word ' only' is abused by more careful writers than Byron, 
 so defined = just as clearly. 'See' must be supplied after 'now.' 
 dome (34) must refer specificall3' to the dome of St. Peter's, con- 
 structed from designs by Michael Angelo. Its diameter is 138 feet; 
 from the ground to the top of the cross is 435 feet. 
 
 37-45. That ask the eye = That demand your attention. 
 
 46-54. About half of this slovenly stanza needs to be translated 
 into English. The meaning (such as it is) seems to be : Just as the 
 most intense feeling outstrips expression, so this mighty edifice 
 
104 NOTES TO BYRON. 
 
 baffles the foolish gaze that would pierce its mysteries ; being so 
 great, it cannot be grasped in its entirety bv us little men until, etc. 
 It is curious to notice how Byron, as soon as he gets away from the 
 objective and concrete and begins to analyze, becomes not ox\\y dull, 
 but soinetimes even ungrammatical. 
 
 55-63. Line 60 utters a doubtful truth. Judging by what they 
 did accomplish, there is nothing in St. Peter's which the architects 
 of Greece and Rome could not have accomplished had they chosen 
 to; — but they chose to accomplish better things. For the impres- 
 sion made by St. Peter's upon Hawthorne, see his Italian Note Book 
 for 1858; Feb. 7 and 19, March 27, April 10. can (63) = are 
 
 able to accomplish. 
 
 THE OCEAN. 
 
 Byron's love of the ocean dates from childhood. He was a daring swimmer 
 and many instances are recorded of his achievements in that line, such as his 
 swimming the Hellespont to see if Leander <:t)«/a? have done it. He was never so 
 happy as when sailing the blue .iLgean ; in this Apostrophe to the Ocean, he has 
 given voice to those feelings of awe and sublimity which the ocean brings to all 
 who love it, but which no poet has ever expressed so well as he. 
 
 1-27. unknelled, uncoffin'd and unknown (18). An echo from 
 Hamlet i. 5, 76-77 : 
 
 Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, 
 Unhouseled, disappointed, unaneled. 
 
 spurning him to the skies (^2t^^. Compare \'ergirs description of 
 the fleet of ^Eneas in a storm off the coast of Sicih' : 
 
 Tollimur in caelum curvato gurgite et idem 
 Subducta ad Manes imos desedimus unda. 
 Ter scopuli clamorem inter cava saxa dedere ; 
 Ter spumam elisam et rorantia vidimus astra. 
 
 ^'Eneid, iii. 564-567. 
 
 lay (27). This verb is the causal of ' lie: " as used in this line it 
 is an indefensible solecism. 
 
 28-81. Armada; Trafalgar ( 36 ) . Consult a History of England 
 under the years 15SS and 1805. Thy waters washed them power 
 
 (39). In the first edition this line was printed by mistake, ' Thy 
 waters wasted them,' and the error has been repeated in many sub- 
 sequent editions. sandal (79). The sandal is of Oriental 
 origin and hence became associated with pilgrimages to the Holy 
 Sepulchre; for scallop-shell, see Brewer under that title, and com- 
 pare the description of the Palmer in Marmion, i. 27. 
 
THE ISLES OE GREECE. 105 
 
 The scallop shell his cap did deck, 
 The crucifix around his neck 
 
 Was from Loretto brought ; 
 His sandals were with travel tore, 
 Staff, budget, bottle, scrip he wore ; 
 The faded palm-branch in his hand 
 Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land. 
 
 THE ISLES OF GREECE. 
 
 For an account of the struggle for Greek independence, see Miiller's Political 
 History of Recent Times, Period i. \ 5. 
 
 1-6. Sappho; the lyric poetess of Lesbos, who flourished in the 
 seventh century B.C. Only fragments of her poetry have come 
 down to us. Some idea of lier sentiment and rhythm may be gained 
 from the following translation (Symonds) of her Ode to Anactoria. 
 
 Peer of gods he seemeth to me, the blissful 
 Man who sits and gazes at thee before him. 
 Close beside thee sits, and in silence hears thee 
 
 Silverly speaking, 
 Laughing love's low laughter. Oh this, this only 
 Stirs the troubled heart in my breast to tremble ! 
 For should I but see thee a little moment, 
 
 Straight is my voice hushed ; 
 Yea, my tongue is broken, and through and through me 
 'Neath the flesh impalpable fire runs tingling ; 
 Nothing see mine eyes, and a noise of roaring 
 
 Waves in my ear sounds; 
 Sweat runs down in rivers, a tremor seizes 
 All my limbs, and paler than grass in autumn 
 Caught by pains of menacing death, I falter 
 
 Lost in the love-trance. 
 
 Compare Tennyson's imitation in his Eleanore. Delos, in the 
 
 ^gean Sea, the birth-place of Phoebus Apollo, was fabled to liave 
 risen from the sea. See the ^Eneid, iii. 73-77, and Spenser's Fair\- 
 Qiieen. 11, xii, 13. 
 
 7-42. Scian. Scio (Cliios) is one of the se\en cities that claimed 
 the honor of being the birth-place of Homer. Teian. Anacreon 
 the lyric poet (sixth century B.C.) was born at Teos in Asia Minor. 
 See line 63. Islands of the Blest. The classic tradition about 
 
 the Islands of the Blest inay have been based upon the tale of some 
 adventurous trader who got as far as Madeira or the Azores. Mara- 
 
 thon. See note on this word in Childe Harold, ii. 78. Salamis ; 
 
 Thermopylae. Consult a History of Greece under the year 4S0 B.C. 
 
106 NOTES TO BYRON. 
 
 43-48. Bjron's consecration to the cause of Greek independence 
 proves how sincerely he felt these lines. They were written only 
 three years before his death ; five years after that event, by the aid 
 of England, France and Russia, Greece regained her freedom. 
 
 49-72. Pyrrhic dance ; said to be named from the inventor Pyr- 
 rhicus. It is accompanied by the flute and is intended to imitate 
 the motions of a combatant. Pyrrhic phalanx; so called from 
 
 Pyrrhus (= The Red-haired) King of Epirus. See the History of 
 Rome under the years 281-275 B.C. Cadmus, is fabled to have 
 
 brought the alphabet from Egypt to Greece. This story corre- 
 sponds with the teachings of Comparative Alphabetics. Poly- 
 crates : Tyrant (Prince) of Samos, a generous patron of the Arts 
 and of Letters. Miltiades : Commander of the Greek army at 
 Marathon. 
 
 73-96. Suli; Parga; in Epirus. Doric = Spartan. Her- 
 
 acleidan blood ^ the heroic race descended from Herakles (Hercu- 
 les). There may be an allusion here to the myth of the Heracleidje. 
 the Franks = the French. a king: Louis xviii. 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 With these two little lyrics, each indicative of a constantly recurring mood, wo 
 may appropriately close our study of Byron. 
 
 ' Farewell, thou Titan fairer than the Gods ! 
 
 Farewell, farewell, thou swift and lovely spirit. 
 Thou splendid warrior with the world at odds, 
 
 Unpraised, unpraisable, beyond thy merit ; 
 Chased, like Orestes, by the Furies' rod 
 
 Like him at length thy peace dost thou inherit ; 
 Beholding whom, men think how fairer far 
 
 Than all the steadfast stars the wandering star.' 
 
 (.Andrew Lang.) 
 
LIFE AND BIBLIOGRAPHY. 101 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 John Keats, the son of a ]ivery-stable keeper, was born in London in 1795. 
 He was removed from school at fifteen and apprenticed to a surgeon. His 
 imaginative faculties were roused by reading the Faerie Queene, and when he 
 came of age he resolved to devote himself to Literature. Cowden-Clarke and 
 Leigh Hunt early discovered his genius; the latter published the Sonnet on 
 Chapman'' s Homer in The Examiner, Dec. 1, 1816. Keats' first volume of poems 
 (18 17) attracted little attention — which is not wonderful when we remember that 
 Scott and Byron were publishing at this time. Endymion (1818) is Greek only 
 in its central conception of Beauty as a thing to be worshipped. In execution it 
 is Gothic : like Alph, the sacred river, it runs 
 
 Through caverns measureless to man, 
 Down to a sunless sea. 
 
 Blackwood's and The Quarterly descended like mastodons on this poem, tearing 
 up its luxuriant over-growth and trampling under foot the tender flowerets that 
 gave promise of so glorious a summer. Financial troubles, his own delicate 
 health, the death of a brother and a distracting love-affair tightened the strain 
 upon Keats' sensitive nature, already overwrought. While struggling against 
 these ills, he produced his most beautiful work, the Ode on a Grecian Ur?i, the 
 Ode to a Nightingale and The Eve of St. Agnes. After many experiments, 
 he had at length found subjects suited to the display of his peculiar genius. To 
 what more aerial heights he might have soared, we can only in sorrow conject- 
 ure. Consumption laid upon him its cruel grasp; the unfinished Hyperion is 
 his swan-song. A voyage to Italy gave no relief; in the twenty-sixth year of his 
 age, in the Eternal City he closed his eyes in easeful death. He was buried ' in 
 the romantic and lonely cemetery of the Protestants in that city, under the pyra- 
 mid which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now mould- 
 ering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome. The cemetery is 
 an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It 
 might make one in love with death to think that one should be buried in so 
 sweet a place.' ' 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — The tendency of this generation to think over-highly of 
 Keats and his work comes out plainly in Sidney Calvin s Keats (E. M. L.), which 
 
 ^ Shelley ; Preface to Adonais. 
 
108 NOTES TO KEATS. 
 
 ranks him by power, temperament and aim as ' the most Shakespearean spirit 
 that has lived since Shakespeare." Rossetti's Keats (Gt. Wr.) is more judicious 
 in tone and contains a more critical examination of the quality of Keats' verse. 
 Those who wish to make a study of Keats at first hand must consult The Poet- 
 ical Works and Other Writings of yohn Keats, edited by H. Buxton Forman : 
 4 vols, and supplement ; London, 1889-1890. 
 
 Criticism.- — Leigh Hunt's Principal Reviews 0/ Keats are to be found as 
 follows: (i) First Volume of Poems (1817) in Forman i.; (2) The Stories of 
 Lamia, The Pot of Basil, The Five of St. Agnes, etc., in Forman ii. ; Memoir 
 of Keats in Forman iv. ; Selections from Keats, 'with Critical Notice in Hunt's 
 Imagination and Fancy. 
 
 Shelley: Adonais ; An Elegy on the Death of yohn Keats. In reading this 
 impassioned monody it must be remembered that Shelley was misinformed as 
 to the immediate cause of Keats' death. Scattered through Shelley's Letters 
 are many references to Keats. These are indexed in Forman iv. 
 
 DeQuincey : Notes on Gilfillati's Literary Portraits ; yohn Keats. Ten pages 
 devoted to Horace, Lucretius, Johnson, Addison and Homer; six pages to 
 Keats. Condemns unsparingly the affectations and solecisms of Endymion, but 
 speaks highly of Hyperion. The latter poem is also touched on in DeQuincey's 
 Milton V. Southey and Landor. 
 
 Mattheit) Arnold : Essays in Criticism, Second Series; yohn Keats. Brings 
 out finely what is best in Keats as a man, and dwells upon his power of ' nat- 
 uralistic interpretation.' 
 
 Lowell: Among my Books, Second Series ; Keats. Written in 1856 and 
 chiefly biographical ; a great deal of this essay has therefore been superseded by 
 more recent works. In concluding, Lowell claims for Keats ' more of the pene- 
 trative and sympathetic imagination which belongs to the poet, of that imagina- 
 tion which identifies itself with the momentary object of its contemplation, than 
 any man of these later days.' 
 
 Courthope : The Liberal Movement in English Literature ; Essay V. ' With 
 his brilliant pictorial fancy [Keats] was able to conjure up before his mind's eye 
 all those forms of the Pagan world whicli were, by his own confession, invisible 
 to Wordsworth ; but, on the other hand, to the actual strife of men, to the clash 
 and conflict of opinion, to the moral meaning of the changes in social and politi- 
 cal-life, he was blind or indifferent.' 
 
 See also Bibliography on Shelley and Wordsworth. 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 
 
 The legend of St. Agnes tells us that she was a Roman virgin of noble family 
 who suffered martyrdom in the fourth century. The 21st of January was sacred 
 to her, and it was believed that on the eve of that day, maidens, by fasting, 
 might get sight of their future husbands. 
 
 1-9. for ^ in spite of. his frosted breath. 'The breath of 
 
 the pilgrim, likened to pious incense . . . is a simile in admira- 
 ble ' keeping,' as the painters call it; that is to saj, is thoroughly 
 harmonious with itself and all that is going on. The breath of the 
 
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 109 
 
 pilgrim is visible, so is that of a censer ; his object is religious, and 
 so is the use of the censer; the censer, after its fashion, maj be 
 said to pray, and its breath, like the pilgrim's, ascends to heaven. 
 Young students of poetry may, in this image alone, see what imag- 
 ination is, under one of its most poetical forms, and how thoroughh- 
 it ' tells.' There is no part of it unfitting. It is not applicable in one 
 point, and the reverse in another.' — Hunt. 
 
 io-i8. purgatorial rails. • . . . most felicitous [is] the introduc- 
 tion of the Catholic idea in the word ' purgatorial.' The very color 
 of the rails is made to assume a meaning and to shadow forth the 
 gloom of the punishment.' — Hunt. ache in icy hoods and 
 
 mails. • Most wintry as well as penitential. . . .' — Hunt. 
 
 19-45. flattered = softened, soothed. Hunt's rhapsody on this 
 word seems a trifle far-fetched. their pride = their proud arrav. 
 
 the brain, new-stuffed with triumphs gay. Compare II Penseroso, 
 .S-8. 
 
 46-72. couch ^= cause to recline. The diction here and in the 
 preceding stanza shows suggestions of Romeo and Juliet — Keats' 
 favorite Shakespearean play. See Act ii. Sc. 3, lines 37-38 of that 
 play : 
 
 And where unbruised youth with unstuffed brain 
 Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. 
 
 Indeed the Eve of St. Agnes thrills with the same high-wrought 
 emotion that throbs and glows throughout the Balcony-Scene in 
 Romeo and Juliet. train (58). ' I do not use train for ' concourse 
 of passers by,' but for ' skirts' sweeping along the floor.' — Keats; 
 Letter to Taylor, 11 June, 1820. Hoodwinked = blinded, 
 
 faery fancy— fancies of Fairjdand. amort = deadened: a cor- 
 
 ruption of a la >?iorf, 'to the death.' Compare 
 
 How fares my Kate ? What, sweeting, all amort ? 
 
 Taming of the Shrew, iv. 3, 36. 
 
 her lambs unshorn (71). 'In the Catholic church formerly the 
 nuns used to bring a couple of lambs to her altar during mass.' — 
 Hunt. 
 
 73-105. beldame (90). The prefix in this word, though etymo- 
 logically cognate with the French ' beau,' ' belle" (beautiful), was 
 regularly used in Middle English to indicate secondary relationship.: 
 thus, ^^W«;«c ^ grandmother ; ^(?/5/';'c = grandfather. This usage 
 is also discernible in Modern French: ' beau-fils '= son-in-law ; 
 ' beau-frere ' = brother-in-law. Gossip (105). On this word as 
 
110 NOTES TO KEATS. 
 
 text, Archbishop Trench preaches a delightful sermonette, in Eng- 
 lish Past and Present, Lectui-e iv. 
 
 106-135. a little moonlight room. ' The poet does not make his 
 ' little moonlight room ' comfortable, observe. The high taste of the 
 exordium is kept up. All is still wintrv. There is to be no comfort 
 in the poem, but what is given bj love. All else may be left to the 
 cold walls.' — Hunt. St. Agnes' wool. See note on line 71. 
 
 liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays: Oberon. brook, seems 
 
 inaccurately used for 'restrain' or 'refrain from.' Keats' earlier 
 poems abound with such inaccuracies, and they justly aroused 
 DeQiiincey's wrath. Tears. ' He almost shed tears of sympa- 
 
 thy to think how his treasure is exposed to the cold; and of delight 
 and pride to think of her sleeping beauty and her love for himself. 
 This passage ' asleep in lap of legends old' is in the highest imagi- 
 native taste, fusing together the imaginative and the spiritual, the 
 remote and the near.' — Hunt. 
 
 136-171. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose. Both 
 the color and the perfectness of the full-blown i-ose enter into this 
 comparison. passing-bell. The church-bell, tolled at the death 
 
 of a parishioner, for the purpose of frightening away the evil spirits 
 that would seize the departing soul. 
 
 When the passing-bell doth toll 
 And the furies in a shoal 
 Come to fight a parting soul, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 Herrick: Litanie to the Holy Spirit, 21-24. 
 
 the monstrous debt, ' was his monstrous existence, which he owed to 
 a demon and repaid when he died or disappeared through the work- 
 ing of one of his own spells by Viviane.' — Forman, ii. 84. For the 
 storm referred to in line 170, see Tennyson's Merlin and ^Mvien (near 
 the end) : 
 
 . . . ever overhead 
 Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten branch 
 Snapt in the rushing of the river rain 
 Above them ; and in change of glare and gloom 
 Her eyes and neck glittering went and came ; 
 Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent. 
 Moaning and calling out of other lands, 
 Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more 
 To peace. 
 
 172-198. a missioned spirit: a spirit sent («////«) to aid the aged 
 woman. ring-dove fray'd and fled = a ring-do\'e which has been 
 frishtened and has tied. 
 
THE EVE OF ST. AGATES. HI 
 
 199-207. Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died. ' This is a 
 \erse in the taste of Chaucer, full of minute grace and truth. The 
 smoke of the wax taper seems almost as ethereal and fair as the 
 moonlight, and both suit each other and the heroine.' — Hunt. But to 
 her heart, her heart was voluble. Paining with eloquence her balmy 
 side. ' The beautv of such a plirase is no mere beaut\' of fancy or 
 of sound; it is the beauty which resides in truth only, every word 
 being chosen and everj,' touch laid by a vital exercise of the imagina- 
 tion. The first line describes in perfection the duality of conscious- 
 ness in such a moment of suspense, the second makes us realize at 
 once the physical effect of the emotion on the heroine, and the spell 
 of her imagined presence on ourselves.' — Colvin's Keats, Cap. ix. 
 
 208-216. Keats' manuscript shows that this gorgeous picture was 
 completed only after many revisions and elaborate toil. Notice es- 
 pecially the exquisite comparison in line 213. 
 
 217-225. Rose-bloom fell on her hands. Moonlight shining 
 through stained glass is not strong enough to produce this effect. 
 But as we read this description, we cannot help wishing it were ! 
 Porphyro grew faint. ' The lover's growing ' faint ' is one of the 
 few inequalities which are to be found in the latter productions of 
 this great but young and o\'ei--sensitive poet. He had, at the time of 
 his writing this, the seeds of a mortal illness in him, and he doubt- 
 less wrote as he had felt, for he was also deeply in love ; and extreme 
 sensibility struggled in him with a great imderstanding.' — Hunt. 
 
 226-243. clasp'd like a missal, etc. Hunt takes this to mean 
 ' . . . where Christian pi-ayer-books must not be seen and are there- 
 fore doubly cherished for the danger.' But ' clierished ' by whom? 
 And how does this explain 'clasp'd'.' Her soul is certainly the 
 thing ' clasp'd; ' i.e., tight-closed, unopened as Avould be a Christian 
 prayer-book in a land of Paynims. 
 
 244-261. carpet. An anachronism (repeated in line 360). Medi- 
 eval chambers and halls were strewn with rushes ; ' carpets ' were 
 then co\'erings for tables and couches, such as the ' cloth ' described 
 in line -56. 
 
 262-270. Notice the Oriental richness of the coloring. This 
 stanza owes something to Paradise Lost, v. 331-34S. 
 
 271-297. carpet (2S5) ; here used correctly, referring to the ' cloth ' 
 of line 256. La belle dame sans mercy; the title of a poem 
 
 written by Alain Chartier in the fifteenth century. Keats' poem of 
 the same name has almost nothing in common with the original. 
 
 298-315. tunable = harmonious, musical. See note on Lycidas, 
 
 37-49- 
 
 316-324. Notice the striking effect produced by the sharp contrast 
 
112 NOTES TO KEATS. 
 
 between the warmth and passion of the liero and the nnsvnipathetic 
 chill of his surronndinjifs. 
 
 325-351. heart-shaped and vermeil dyed. The best we can say 
 for this conceit is that il is in Shakespeare's earliest and worst st\le. 
 Rhenish -^ Rhine wine, as in 
 
 The king doth w.ike to-night and takes his rouse, 
 Keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels; 
 And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, — 
 
 Hamlet, i. 4, 8-10. 
 
 352-378. Xot the least artistic portion of this wonderful poem is 
 its conclusion — carefully prepared for by the allusions in lines 22- 
 23 and 155-156. Such exquisite dramatic propriety is rare in Keats : 
 it is nevertheless indispensable in every work of art that would claim 
 
 for itself the fii'st rank. 
 
 The Eve of St. Agnes is the one considerable eftbrl of Keats in which he has 
 been able to invent a human interest and a human action manifesting themselves 
 in a manner at once rational and noble. Yet even in this masterpiece, we feel 
 that the poet is least at home in the human part of the story; that his strength 
 lies in the more limited field of Word-Painting; in his ability to individualize a 
 scene and represent it for us in words as the painter does in colors. 
 
 odp: to a nightingale. 
 
 During the autumn and winter of 1818 much of Keats' time was occupied with 
 the sad duty of nursing his brother Thomas, — ill with that same hereditary con- 
 sumption which took off Keats himself. Thomas Keats died in December, 
 1818; this Ode, written in the following spring, is tinged with the melancholy 
 that was thenceforth to accompany Keats to his early grave. 
 
 i-io. It must be confessed that this opening stanza is not clear. 
 No sufficient reason is assigned for the poet's ' drowsy numbness.' 
 Lethe ; the river of Forgetf ulness in the I'nderworld ; CI. Myths, pp. 
 Si, 195, 351. Dryad; Wood-nymph. Compare Keats' Ode to 
 
 Psyche, given in CI. Myths, pp. 160-161. 
 
 11-30. Flora; goddess of Flowers and Spring. Hippocrene. 
 
 See note on Lycidas, 15-22. What thou . . . hast never 
 
 known, The weariness, etc. This treatment is not strictly classical ; 
 the following is : 
 
 O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 
 
 Still, after many years, in distant lands. 
 
 Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain 
 
 That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain ! 
 
 Say, will it never heal? 
 
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 113 
 
 And can this fragrant lawn 
 With its cool trees, and night 
 And the sweet, tranquil Thames 
 And moonshine and the dew, 
 To thy racked heart and brain 
 Afford no balm? 
 
 Matthew Arnold's Philomela: 5-15. 
 
 31-50. Not charioted by Bacchus. A sudden change of mood from 
 tiiat expressed in lines 11-20; he will lia\e none of the inspiration 
 of Wine; Poesy shall convey him to some Land of Faerv- In line 
 },>, he imagines himself there. Was there ever a more lovely picture 
 of this Land than is suggested in the fifteen lines that follow.? See 
 also the exquisite picture in lines 69-70, and compare the remarks 
 in the Notes at the conclusion of T/ic Eve of St. Agues. 
 
 51-60. I have been half in love with easeful Death. A sigh from 
 the depth of Keats' own soul. Less than two short \ears of life 
 were before him when he wrote this line. 
 
 61-80. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird. The enduring 
 type (the Bird) is here illogicalh- contrasted with the passing indi- 
 vidual (the Poet). No hungry generations press thee down, 
 ' is Dantesque in its weird vigor, . . . bringing before us vis- 
 ions of many terrible things, and chiefl\' of multitudinous keen and 
 cruel faces more relentless in the relentless oppressiveness of their 
 onset upon the sensitive among men than anvthing [ .''] in the 
 mighty visions of damnation and detestableness seen five hundred 
 \ears ago in Italy.' — Forman, i. xxi. 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 
 
 Keats seems never to have acquired any knowledge of Greek ; the crude but 
 vigorous version of the Elizabethan furnished the sole inspiration for this mag- 
 nificent Sonnet. True, it was Balboa and not Cortez that discovered the Pacific, 
 but what matter ? Hunt's criticism on the last line can hardly be bettered : it 
 leaves the reader, he says, 'with all the illimitable world of thought and feeling 
 before him to which his imagination will have been brought, while journeying 
 through these " realms of gold." ' 
 
 Keats was only twenty-one when he wrote this Sonnet (1816). In 1848 was 
 published the following Sotmet to Homer, found among his papers : whether 
 written in 1816 or in 1818 is not known. 
 
 Standing; aloof in giant ignorance, 
 
 Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, 
 As one who sits ashore and longs perchance 
 
 To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas. 
 
114 NOTES TO KEATS. 
 
 So thou wast blind ; — but then the veil was rent, 
 
 For Jove uncurtain'd Heaven to let thee live. 
 And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent, 
 
 And Pan made sing^ for thee his forest-hive; 
 Aye on the shores of darkness there is light. 
 
 And precipices show untrodden green, 
 There is a budding morrow in midnight, 
 
 There is a triple sight in blindness keen; 
 Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befel 
 
 To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell. 
 
 Dante Gabriel Rossetti told Forman he considered 
 
 There is a budding morrow in midnight 
 one ot the finest lines ' in all poetry.' 
 
LIFE OF SHELLEY. 115 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 Percy Bvssiie Shelley, the son of a wealthy, commonplace Sussex baronet, 
 was born in 1792. His hatred of tyranny made Eton anything but a bed of roses 
 for him. The same Oxford that still maintains in a place of honor ^ a statue to 
 James II. — this Oxford expelled Shelley for the utterance of religious opinions 
 which, however mistaken, were inspired by a youthful and generous enthusiasm 
 for truth. This same noble enthusiasm partly redeems the follies and eccentrici- 
 ties of the next five years; in Alastor (1816) dawned upon the world another 
 poet in this age of poets. Impartial judgment cannot acquit Shelley of all 
 responsibility for his first wife's suicide, nor can it fail to approve the legal 
 decree that deprived him of the guardianship of her children ; Shelley had to 
 learn by this bitter experience that mere iconoclasm saveth the soul neither 
 of society nor of the individual. Laon and Cynthia (1S18) shows Shelley in 
 all his glory and all his weakness : his vehement passion, his splendor of 
 imagery, his idealizing spirituality, his monotony in character-delineation, his 
 inability to gain any ' wide and luminous view ' of life. — The same year (1818) 
 he left England for the third time — never to return. The next four years he 
 spent chiefly in Italy; the impressions of that residence, recorded in the prose 
 of his Letters, Matthew Arnold prefers to his poetry. His intimacy with Byron 
 gave us Julian and Maddalo ; " a profound and admiring study of the Greek 
 tragedians gave us the Prometheus Unbound (1821), 'a genuine liking [for 
 which] ,' Mr. Symonds declares, ' may be reckoned the touch-stone of a man's 
 capacity for understanding lyric poetry.' 3 Of all his works, Adonais (1821) is 
 the most artistic in form. Years were bringing to Shelley the philosophic mind ; 
 had he lived he would undoubtedly have produced something great. But this 
 was not to be : he was drowned while sailing on the Gulf of Spezzia, July 8, 
 1822. 
 
 Keats, Napoleon, Shelley, Byron — all died between 1820 and 1824. Was 
 there ever, within so short a time, such an in-gathering of mighty spirits to the 
 abodes of dusty death ! 
 
 1 Over the entrance to the main quadrangle of University College — Shelley's 
 College! 
 
 2 See Bibliography on Byron. 
 
 3 O Cruel Test ! Must all lack the lyric sense who cannot ' like ' a ' Lyrical 
 Drama,' a production whose very title is a contradiction in terms? — The Lyrics 
 in the Prometheus Unbound are undoubtedly beautiful, though at times danger- 
 ously near to ' words, detached from meaning ' (Symonds, p. 124). But how about 
 the ' Drama ' part of this play, —a ' Drama ' where the characters are abstractions, 
 where the action obeys no law but that of unreason, and where the fundamental 
 philosophy (if anything) is mere Rousseauism? 
 
116 NOTES ro SHELLEY. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — All that is worth knowing about Shelley (and a good 
 deal that is not) is collected in Dowdens Life of Shelley. This is a special plea, 
 the general plan of which is drawn with great literary skill, while many of the 
 details are filled in with fervid and unnecessary rhetoric a la Sivinburne. Shel- 
 ley {'E,.M. L.), by the lamented yolm Addington Symonds, gives us the life and 
 the poetry with less attempt to gloss over the faults ; Sharp's Shelley (Gt. Wr.) 
 gives a favorable coloring to the main facts of Shelley's life, with little comment 
 on the poetry. Prefixed to Woodberry's Text of Shelley (the most recent) is a 
 brief Memoir. 
 
 Criticism. — DeQnincey : Notes on Gilfillan's Literary Portraits; Percy 
 Bysshe Shelley. Though written when material for Shelley's biography was com- 
 paratively scanty, this essay gauges the character of ' the eternal child ' with a 
 fine discrimination that Shelleyites would do well to study. Attempts no esti- 
 mate of Shelley's poetry. -.^ 
 
 Bagehot : Literary Studies, Vol. i. ; Percy Bysshe Shelley. A subtle study 
 (i) of some of the characters of Shelley's poems as reflecting the impulses of the 
 poet; (2) of Shelley's religious(?) philosophy; (3) of the Classical quality of his 
 Imagination as distinguished from the Romantic Fancy of Keats. 
 
 Shairp : . Ispects of Poetry ; Shelley as a Lyric Poet. Follows the line of thought 
 suggested under (1) and (2) of Bagehot's Essay. Concludes with an examina- 
 tion of the most famous lyrics ; even these the author does not rank high, find- 
 ing them limited in range and unsound in substance. 
 
 Swinburne : Essays and Studies ; Notes on the Text of Shelley. As to the Notes, 
 I confess my judgment jumps with Mr. Arnold's when he writes : ' Shelley is not 
 a classic, whose various readings are to be noted with earnest attention." — For 
 pure, unconscious humor there is hardly a critic to equal Mr. Swinburne since 
 the death of the lamented Hosea Biglow. He tells us that ' Byron was a singer 
 who could not sing ; ' that Shelley ' was alone the perfect singing-god,' the man 
 of ' flawless work and perfect service, . . . [who] holds the same rank in 
 lyric as Shakespeare in dramatic poetry — supreme, and without a second of his 
 race.' ( !) 
 
 Matthew Arnold : Essays in Criticism, Second Series ; Shelley. A review of 
 Dowden's Shelley, marking ' firmly what is ridiculous and odious in the Shelley 
 brought to our knowledge,' and showing that the ' former beautiful and lovable 
 Shelley nevertheless survives.' Points out Shelley's self-deception and want of 
 humor. (How persistently and naturally these defects re-appear in Shelley's 
 followers I) 
 
 Courthope : The Liberal Movement in E?iglish Literature ; Essay iv. Attrib- 
 utes Shelley's failure in Epic and Drama to his ' imperfect perception of the limits 
 of art.' 
 
 See also Bibliography on Byron and on Keats. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 
 
 This poem was written in the autumn of 1818 when the Shelleys were living 
 near Venice. Their home is thus described by Mrs. Shelley in her Note on the 
 
AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. \\q 
 
 Poems of 1818 : ' I Capuccini was a villa built on the site of a Capuchin convent, 
 demolished when the French suppressed religious houses ; it was situated on the 
 very over-hanging brow of a low hill at the foot of a range of higher ones. The 
 house was cheerful and pleasant ; a vine-trellised walk, a Pergola, as it is called 
 in Italian, led from the hall door to a summer-house at the end of the garden, 
 which Shelley made his study, and in which he began the Prometheus ; and here 
 also, as he mentions in a letter, he wrote Julian and Maddalo ; a slight ravine, 
 with a road in its depth, divided the garden from the hill, on which stood the 
 ruins of the ancient castle of Este, whose dark massive wall gave forth an echo, 
 and from whose ruined crevices, owls and bats flitted forth at night, as the cres- 
 cent moon sunk behind the black and heavy battlements. We looked from the 
 garden over the wide plain of Lombardy, bounded to the west by the far Apen- 
 nines, while to the east, the horizon was lost in misty distance. After the 
 picturesque but limited view of mountain, ravine, and chestnut wood at the 
 Baths of Lucca, there was something infinitely gratifying to the eye in the wide 
 range of prospect commanded by our new abode.' 
 
 1-44. Notice the hurrying force of the imagery; there is neither 
 pause nor let until the figure is worked out (line 26). For welter- 
 ing (18) compare Lycidas, 13. Are (43) : ungrammatical. 
 
 45-65. If there is any specific reference intended in these lines, I 
 confess I am unable to trace it. Perhaps they merely continue the 
 imagery of 1-26. The syntax of 64-65 is hardly ' flawless work,' 
 nor should great poets hold themselves to be above the rules of 
 grammar. 
 
 66-114. In these lines the general features of the landscape, as 
 described by Mrs. Shelley, are easily recognizable ; but how beauti- 
 fully idealized ! grain (80). See note on II Penseroso, 33. 
 Amphitrite (97) ; a sea-nymph, daughter of Nereus. CI. Myths, § 52. 
 
 115-141. And thou soon must be his prey. Referring to the 
 belief that the tides were encroaching on the foundations of Venice. 
 Engineering Science has made it improbable that Venice will ever 
 suffer seriously from this danger. thy conquest-branded brow. 
 
 In iSiS Venice was under Austrian rule; see note on ' the Austrian,' 
 Childe Harold, Canto iv. Stanza 12, line 55. 
 
 142-166. Celtic Anarch. Celtic is here vaguely and incorrectly 
 used for ' Austrian.' In the Prometheus Unbound, ii. 4, 94, with 
 like inaccuracy, Shelley uses 'Celt' for 'European.' Thou 
 
 and all thy sister band. Like the cities of the Lombard League. 
 See notes on Childe Harold, Canto iv. Stanzas xi. and xii. 
 
 167-205. a tempest-cleaving Swan: Byron. See the Julian and 
 Maddalo. thunder-fit. See note on this word in The Ancient 
 
 Mariner, 69. Scamander : a river of the Troad. See Iliad, xxi. 
 
 Petrarch, died at Argua in the Euganean Hills, in 1374. In com- 
 mon with Shelley, his mind seems haunted with the vision of Ideal 
 
118 NOTES TO SHELLEY. 
 
 Loveliness ; on this subject these poets can sing interminably with 
 a sublimity that sometimes verges pei^ilously on the ridiculous. 
 
 206-235. the brutal Celt. See note on Celtic Anarch, line 152. 
 the sickle to the sword Lies unchanged. The imagery of lines 225- 
 230 seems to be suggested b>' Joel iii. 10-13. Hebrew poetry was a 
 favorite study with Shelley. foison = abundance; a fine old word, 
 seldom used now except in poetry. ' Fusion ' is a doublet of foison, 
 and both are from the Latin ' fundere,' to pour. 
 
 236-284. Ezzelin. ' Ezzelino, a small, pale, wiry man, with ter- 
 ror in his face and enthusiasm for evil in his heart, lived a foe to 
 luxury, cold to the pathos of children, dead to the enchantment of 
 women. His one passion was the greed for power, heightened by 
 the lust for blood. Originally a noble of the Veronese Marches, he 
 founded his illegal authority upon the Captaincy of the Imperial 
 party delegated to him by Frederick. Verona, Vicenza, Padua, Feltre 
 and Belluno made him captain in the Ghibelline interest, conferring 
 on him judicial as well as military supremacy. How he fearfully 
 abused his power, how a crusade was preached against him, and how 
 he died in silence, like a boar at bay, rending from his wounds the 
 dressings that his foes had placed to keep him alive, are notorious 
 matters of history ... by his absolute contempt of law, his 
 inordinate cruelty, his prolonged massacres and his infliction of 
 plagues upon whole peoples, Ezzelino established the ideal in Italy 
 of a tyrant marching to his end by any means whatever.' — Symonds : 
 Renaissance in Italy; i. 107-10S. Padua. The University of 
 
 Padua was a famous institution of learning as early as the thirteenth 
 century. Galileo was Professor of Mathematics there from 1592- 
 1610. 
 
 285-319. an air-dissolved star, that mingles fragrance (with light) 
 is certainly a false image; or is this one of those 'impressionist' 
 lines that we are to-day so loudly called upon to admire ? Lines 
 315-319 seem to express about as definite a religious belief as 
 Shelley ever attained to. 
 
 320-334. that silent isle, must be the hopeful mood that came to 
 the poet, this beautiful autumn morning among the hills. The 
 remembered agonies of Shelley's life were neither few nor far be- 
 tween, but their causes lay chiefly in his own ill-regulated impulses. 
 
 335-374- This is certainly a lovely picture of the Ideal Life for 
 humanity, but if \%e try to apply this Ideal to life on Earth we find 
 at once it is applicable only to life in Cloud-Land. Matthew Arnold 
 has summed up this failing of Shelley's in one telling sentence : ' The 
 Shellev of actual life is a vision of beauty and radiance, indeed, but 
 availing nothing, effecting nothing.' 
 
THE CLOUD. — TO A SKYLARK. 119 
 
 THE CLOUD. 
 
 In her preface to the 1839 edition of her husband's poems, Mrs. Shelley wrote : 
 ' There are others, such as the Ode to the Skylark and The Cloud, which, in the 
 opinion of many critics, bear a purer poetical stamp than any other of his pro- 
 ductions. They were written as his mind prompted : listening to the carolling 
 of the bird, aloft in the azure sky of Italy, or marking the cloud as it sped across 
 the heavens while he floated in his boat on the Thames.' There are few, per- 
 haps, who will not agree with Mrs. Shelley in thinking that this poem, the Ode 
 to a Skylark [and the Ode to the West Wind] ' bear a purer poetical stamp than 
 any other of his productions.' Notice the exquisitely light effect of the anapcestic 
 movement and how it fits the subject. 
 
 For rack (33) in the sense of ' floating vapor,' coinpare Shake- 
 speare's use of this -word in The Tempest, iv. i, 159. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 ' In the spring we spent a week or two near Leghorn, borrowing the house of 
 some friends who were absent on a journey to England. — It was on a beautiful 
 summer evening, while wandering among the lanes whose myrtle-hedges were 
 the bowers of the frre-fiies, that we heard the carolling of the skylark which in- 
 spired one of the most beautiful of his poems.' — Mrs. Shelley's Note on the 
 Poems of 1820. 
 
 1-5. The lark, when addressed, is supposed to be already higlr in 
 the heavens. 
 
 6-10. The punctuation in our text follows that of the first edition 
 Like a cloud of fire, then, refers to the ascending motion of tlae bird 
 and not to its appearance. If, as some editors propose, we remove 
 tlie semi-colon from the end of tlie eighth line to the end of the 
 seventh, we get a meaning at variance with that of the third line. 
 
 11-60. In these lines we see illustrated Courthope's remark : 'If 
 greatness in poetry consisted in a succession of dazzling images 
 and a rapid flow of splendid verse, Shelley would be entitled to 
 almost the first place in English literature.' W^hen we read the 
 Prometheus Unbound, we see the other side of the shield and under- 
 stand what the critic ineans when he adds : ' But in all the higher 
 qualities of epic and dramatic construction, his work is defective.' 
 
 61-90. Sprite (61), an archaism for ' spirit ; ' so used also in Lines 
 Written among the Euganean Hills, 371. knew (80) : iingram- 
 
 matical. 
 
 gi-105. This passage Bageliot ' compares with the fifth and sixth 
 stanzas of Keats' Ode to a Nightingale, to illustrate the difference 
 between the Classical Imagination and the Romantic Fancy. ' When 
 
 1 See Shelley Bibhography, p. 116. 
 
120 NOTES TO SHELLEY. 
 
 we speak of this distinction, we seem almost to be speaking of the 
 distinction between ancient and modern literature. The character- 
 istic of the classical literature is the simplicity with which the im- 
 agination appears in it ; that of inodern literature is the profusion 
 with which the most various adornments of the accessory fancy are 
 thrown and lavished upon it. . . . With a single soaring effort im- 
 agination may reach her end; if she fail, no fancy can help her; 
 if she succeed, there will be no petty accumulations of insensible 
 circumstances in a region far above all things. Shelley's excellence 
 in the abstract lyric is almost another phrase for the simplicity of 
 his impulsive imagination.' For a further illustration, coinpare the 
 concluding stanza of Shelley's poem with the concluding stanza of 
 Coleridge's Kubla Khan. 
 
 SONNET. —TO THE NILE. 
 
 In February, 1818, Keats, Hunt and Shelley agreed each to write a Sonnet on 
 the Nile. It was long supposed that the Ozymandias Sonnet was Shelley's con- 
 tribution on this occasion, but in 1876 it was pretty well established that this 
 Sonnet — To the Nile — is the one in question (Forman, i. 410). 
 
 Keats' Sonnet is as follows : 
 
 Son of the old moon-mountains African ! 
 
 Stream of the Pyramid and crocodile ! 
 
 We call thee fruitful, and that very while 
 
 A desert fills our seeing^'s inward span : 
 
 Nurse of swart nations since the world began. 
 
 Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou beguile 
 
 Those men to honour thee, who, worn with toil, 
 
 Rest them a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan? 
 
 O may dark fancies err! They surely do; 
 
 'Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste 
 
 Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew 
 
 Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste 
 
 The pleasant sun-rise. Green Isles hast thou too. 
 
 And to the sea as happily dost haste. 
 
 The thought in Shelley's concluding couplet is repeated from his Laon and 
 
 Cynthia, vi. 41 : 
 
 love had nursed us in the haunts 
 Where knowledge, from its secret source, enchants 
 Young hearts with the fresh music of its springing. 
 Ere yet its gathered flood feeds human wants 
 As the great Nile feeds Egypt; ever flinging 
 Light on the woven boughs which o'er its waves are swinging. 
 
 SONNET — OZYMANDIAS. 
 
 ' After all, it is something to have seen those red waters. It is only low green 
 banks, mud-huts and palm-clumps, with the sun setting red behind them, and 
 
SONNET— OZYMANDIAS. 121 
 
 the great, dull sinuous river flashing here and there in the light. But it is the 
 Nile, the old Saturn of a stream — a divinity yet, though younger river gods 
 have deposed him. Hail ! O venerable father of crocodiles ! ... At dawn 
 in the morning we were on deck ; the character had not altered of the scenery 
 about the river. Vast flat stretches of land were on either side, recovering from 
 the subsiding inundations ; near the mud villages, a country ship or two was 
 roosting under the date trees ; the landscape everywhere stretching away level 
 and lonely. In the sky the east was a long streak of greenish light, which 
 widened and rose until it grew to be of an opal color, then orange ; then, behold, 
 the round red disc of the sun rose flaming up above the horizon. All the waters 
 blushed as he got up ; the deck was all red ; the steersman gave his helm to 
 another, and prostrated himself on the deck, and bowed his head eastward and 
 praised the maker of the sun; it shone on his white turban as he was kneeling 
 and gilt[?] up his bronze face and sent his blue shadow over the glowing deck. 
 The distances, which had been gray, were now purple ; and the broad stream 
 was illuminated. As the sun rose higher, the morning blush faded away; the 
 sky was cloudless and pale and the river and the surrounding landscape were 
 dazzlingly clear. ... It is poor work, this landscape painting in print. 
 Shelley's two Sonnets are the best views that I know of the Pyramids — better 
 than the reality; for a man may lay down the book, and in quiet fancy conjure 
 up a picture out of these magnificent words, which sha'n't be disturbed by any 
 pettinesses or mean realities." — Thackeray ; Cornhill to Cairo, xv. 
 
 Lines 6-8 are not clear. The meaning seems to be : The passions of Ozyman- 
 dias (stamped on the broken statue) survive the hand of the sculptor that 
 mocked (imitated) them and the heart of the vain-glorious king that nourished 
 them. 
 
122 LIFE OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 WORDSWORTH, 
 
 William Wordsworth was born in Cumberland in 1770, — fifteen months 
 before the death of Gray. His family was of that upper middle class, the back- 
 bone of English society, which has furnished the mother-country her greatest 
 poets, statesmen, sailors and men of science (Shakespeare and Milton, Pitt and 
 Gladstone, Nelson and Rodney, Newton and Darwin) . The beauty of the lonely 
 Cumberland hills sank deep into his boyish heart ; deep sank also the spirit of 
 reverence which men of mediECval Cambridge lovingly expressed in 
 
 That branching roof i 
 Self-poised and scooped into ten thousand cells, 
 Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 
 Lingering and wandering on as loth to die. 
 
 After taking his degree in 1791, he travelled in France, — sympathizing at first 
 with the French Revolutionists, but soon recoiling in horror at their excesses. 
 A small legacy enabled him to devote himself to literature; the result was the 
 Lyrical Ballads^ published with Coleridge in 1798. From this time on, for 
 nearly fifty years, Wordsworth made his home among the Lakes of Cumberland 
 and Westmoreland ; here it was he grew into closer and closer communion with 
 Nature, interpreting her every mood and 
 
 hearing oftentimes 
 The still sad music of humanity, 
 Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
 To chasten and subdue. 
 
 Such a life brings with it the bliss of solitude, but he who lives it cannot touch 
 the depths and heights of passion explored by those who live in the great world 
 and are themselves a part of the great deeds they sing. Nor did Wordsworth 
 mistake his calling ; he states clearly that his office is "... to add sunshine 
 to daylight by making the happy happier, to teach the young and the gracious 
 of every age to see, to think and feel, and therefore to become more actively and 
 securely virtuous." 
 
 In 1813 Wordsworth settled at the home indissolubly associated with his 
 name — Rydal Mount. He was now forty-three years of age and nearly all his 
 best work was done. After this there came to him, slowly but surely, the rever- 
 ence and affection of all that was best in England — but the fountains of poetic 
 
 ' King's College Chapel. Wordsworth was a student at St. John's. 
 - See Introduction to The Ancient Mariner. 
 
LIFE AND BIBLIOGRAPHY. 123 
 
 inspiration had well-nigh run dry. In 1843 he reluctantly accepted the Laureate- 
 ship. He died on the 23d of April, 1850, — 
 
 With heart as calm as lakes that sleep 
 
 In frosty moonlight glistening', 
 Or mountain torrents, where they creep 
 Along a channel smooth and deep 
 
 To their own far-off murmurs listening. 
 
 Friends. — Coleridge, DeQuincey, Scott, Southey, Lamb, Dr. Thomas 
 Arnold. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — Those who have the courage to read all the verse that 
 Wordsworth wrote will find it in the splendid ii-vol. edition of Professor Wi//- 
 iam ICni£^/it (Paterson). Vols, ix.-xi. contain the Life. Opinions will always 
 differ widely as to whether it is possible to make an interesting biography out of 
 Wordsworth's uneventful and self-centred existence, but there can hardly be 
 two opinions as to the dulness of Mvtrr's Wordsworth (E. M. L.). The nature 
 of Calvert's Wordsworth, A Biographic Esthetic Study, is sufficiently indicated 
 by noting that the author considers The Idiot Boy an ' incomparable artistic 
 feat.' 
 
 Coleridge: Biographia Literaria ; Cap. iv. xiv. xvii.-xx. xxii. A much better 
 exposition of Wordsworth's poetic philosophy than the poet was able to give 
 himself; does not fail to point out what Wordsworth could never see, — the 
 characteristic defects in his verse. 
 
 DeQuincey : Autobiography , from iSoj to 1S08 ; Cap. iii.-v. (The Lake 
 Poets.) These are chiefly personal reminiscences ; — the unsympathetic might 
 call them small-beer chronicles. They leave us with the impression that Words- 
 worth's personality was decidedly unlovely. Essay on Wordsworth' s Poetry. 
 Examines (briefly) Wordsworth's ' theory of Poetic Diction and the philosophy 
 of The Excursion ; ' calls attention to the penetration of Wordsworth's vision, 
 and the depth of his sympathy with The Permanent in human nature. 
 
 Lowell: Among My Books, Second Series ; Wordszsjorth. About half this 
 Essay is biographical ; the other half does not spare ' the historian of Words- 
 worthshire,' yet declares that his ' better utterances have the bare sincerity, the 
 absolute abstraction from time and place, the immunity from decay that belong 
 to the grand simplicity of the Bible.' 
 
 Stephen : Hours in a Library, Vol. Hi. This is an elaborate and eulogistic 
 exposition of that Wordsworthian philosophy which (Mr. Matthew Arnold takes 
 pains to assure us) , ' so far at least as it may put on the form and habit of ' a 
 scientific system of thought,' and the more it puts them on,' — is an illusion. 
 
 Matthew Arnold : E.ssays in Criticism, Second Series ; Wordsworth. In this 
 Essay the most distinguished disciple of Wordsworth gives up about four-fifths 
 of his master's verse as of little permanent value, but presents us with the other 
 one-fifth as a 'great and ample body of powerful work' that will rank him 
 superior to all modern poets save Dante, Shakespeare, MoliSre, Milton and 
 Goethe. French and German critics find it hard to treat this dictum with 
 
124 NOTES TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 seriousness, but it appeals strongly to the insularism and conservatism of 
 the English mind. 
 
 Courthopc : The Liberal Movenient in English Literature, Essay lu. 
 ( Wordsworth'' s Theory of Poetry ). Shows that Wordsworth's best poems are 
 written on principles that are directly opposed to the theories laid down in his 
 Preface to the Lyrical Ballads. 
 
 Those who desire more Wordsworthian Criticism should consult J. S. 
 Mill's Autobiography, Cap. v. ; Shairp's Studies in Poetry and Philosophy ; John 
 Morley's Studies in Literature ; Whipple's Essays and Reviews, I'ol. i. 
 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 
 
 The person and the place herein idealized are thus described by Dorothy 
 Wordsworth in her Tour of a Journey in Scotland : August 28, 1803. ' The land- 
 ing was as pretty a sight as ever I saw. The bay, which had been so quiet two 
 days before, was all in motion with small waves, while the swollen waterfall 
 roared in our ears. The boat came steadily up, being pressed almost to the 
 water's edge by the weight of its cargo ; perhaps twenty people landed, one after 
 another. . . . The women . . . were dressed in all the colors of the rain- 
 bow, and with their scarlet cardinals, the tartan plaids of the men and Scotch 
 bonnets made a gay appearance. There was a joyous bustle surrounding the 
 boat, which even imparted something of the same character to the waterfall in 
 its tumult, and the restless grey waves ; the young men laughed and shouted, 
 the lassies laughed and the elder folk seemed to be in a bustle to be away. . . . 
 The hospitality we had met with at the two cottages and Mr. MacFarlane'sgave 
 us very favorable impressions on this our first entrance into the Highlands, and 
 at this day the innocent merriment of the girls, with their kindness to us, and the 
 beautiful face and figure of the elder, come to my mind whenever I think of the 
 ferry-house and waterfall of Loch Lomond, and I never think of the two girls 
 but the whole image of that romantic spot is before me, a living image as it will 
 be to my dying day.' Clough's delightful poem, The Bothie of Tober-Na- 
 
 Vuolich, is an epic treatment of a subject similar to this. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 Wordsworth classed this beautiful lyric among his Poems of the Fancy, — 
 why, it is difficult to see. Its quality is more akin to that of Shelley's Ode to a 
 Skylark than to that of Keats' Ode to a Nightingale. See notes on the former 
 poem. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 See remarks, in the Biography, on Wordsworth's boyhood. Of the lines. 
 
 Shall 1 call thee Bird 
 Or but a wandering Voice? 
 
 Wordsworth has given the following exposition: 'This concise interrogation 
 characterizes the seeming ubiquity of the voice of the cuckoo, and dispossesses 
 the creature of a corporeal existence; the imagination being tempted to this 
 
TIN TERN ABBEY. 125 
 
 exertion of her power by a consciousness in the memory that the cuckoo is 
 almost perpetually heard throughout the season of spring, but seldom becomes 
 an object of sight.' — Wordsworth's Prose Works, edited by Grosart, ii. 137. 
 
 TINTERN ABBEY. 
 
 This is the last poem in tlie first edition of The Lyrical Ballads (1798). 
 Wordsworth classed it among his Poems of the Imagination. Matthew Arnold 
 declares that the author's ' categories are ingenious but far-fetched, and the result 
 of his employment of them is unsatisfactory.' The critic accordingly places 
 this composition among the Reflective and Elegiac Poems. 
 
 Coleridge tells us that Wordsworth's object, in the Poems of 1798, was 'to 
 give the charm of novelty to things of every day and to excite a feeling analogous 
 to the supernatural, by awakening the mind's attention from the lethargy of cus- 
 tom, and directing it to the loveliness and the wonder of the world before us ; 
 an inexhaustible treasure, but for which, in consequence of the film of familiarity 
 and selfish solicitude, we have eyes yet see not, ears that hear not and hearts 
 that neither feel nor understand.' 
 
 Had Wordsworth never pushed his poetical theories beyond this safe and de- 
 sirable point, he would have spared the world many thousands of verses, his 
 critics much grief and his friends many apologies. 
 
 But Tintern Abbey needs no apology : me judice, it attains almost perfectly the 
 object which Coleridge has described ; it answers perfectly to the author's defi- 
 nition of good poetry as ' the spontaneous overflow of powerful feeling.' 
 
 35-49. It must have been of some such lines as these that John 
 Stuart Mill was thinking when he wrote (Autobiography, Cap. v.) : 
 ' From them [Wordsworth's poems] I seemed to learn what would 
 be the perennial source of happiness, when all the greater evils of 
 life should have been removed. And I felt myself at once better 
 and happier as I came under their influence. There have certainly 
 been, even in our own age, greater poets than Wordsworth ; but 
 poetry of deeper and loftier feeling could not have done for me at 
 that time what his did. I needed to be made to feel that there was 
 real, permanent happiness in tranquil contemplation. Wordsworth 
 taught me this, not only without turning away from, but with a 
 greatly increased intei'est in the common feelings and common des- 
 tiny of human beings. ... At the conclusion of the Poems 
 came the famous Ode, falsely called Platonic, ' Intimations of Im- 
 mortality' : in which, along with more than his usual sweetness of 
 melody and rhythm, and along with the two passages of grand 
 imagery but bad philosophy so often quoted, I found that he too had 
 had similar experience to mine. ... I long continued to value 
 Wordsworth less according to his intrinsic merits, than by the 
 measure of what he had done for me. Compared with the greatest 
 poets, he may be said to be the poet of unpoetical natures, possessed 
 
126 NOTES TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 of quiet and contemplative tastes. But unpoetical natures are pre- 
 cisely those which require poetic cultivation. This cultivation 
 Wordsworth is much more fitted to give, than poets who are intrin- 
 sically far more poets than he.' 
 
 65-83. ' The forces that made Wordsworth a poet were far differ- 
 ent from those conscious reasonings on Man and Society, of which 
 he gives an account in the Prelude : his inspiration sprang from 
 mysterious sources which, as he shows us in the first book of his 
 curious metrical autobiography, had been unconsciously pouring 
 images into his mind from earliest childhood.' — Courthope : The 
 Liberal Movement in English Literature; Essay iii. 
 
 93-102. In his old age Wordsworth became a High Churchman 
 and a Tory. With what curious feelings must he have read this 
 confession of the Pantheistic faith of his youth ! Byron might have 
 written these lines; his own belief in Pantheism is not more un- 
 mistakably nor more beautifully expressed : 
 
 My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 
 
 Earth, air, stars — all that springs from the great Whole 
 
 Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. 
 
 Don Juan, iii. 54. 
 
 121-133. Such sentiment as this, unintelligible to manj', was un- 
 doubtedly religious truth to Wordsworth. Professor C C. Everett 
 suggests as explanation of the joy we receive in the contemplation 
 of Nature : i) our more or less conscious recognition of the freedom 
 of the life of Nature ; 2) the identity of our lives with that of Nature ; 
 3) the fulness of the life of Nature; 4) its divinity ; 5) its prefigura- 
 tion of a perfection which we have not yet attained.' 
 
 L.A.ODAMIA. 
 
 Protesilaus was a Thessalian chief in the army of Agamemnon. While the 
 Grecian fleet lay wind-bound at Aulis, the oracle declared that victory in the 
 coming contest sliould rest with that side which should lose the first warrior 
 Protesilaus resolved to sacrifice himself for his country. When the fleet reached 
 Troy, he was the first to leap ashore and the first to meet death from the sword 
 of Hector. 
 
 When Laodamia, the wife of Protesilaus, heard of his death, she besought the 
 gods to grant her once more sight of her husband. — .At this pomt in the story 
 Wordsworth's poem begins. 
 
 1 For the ingenious and beautiful argument by which this explanation is sup. 
 ported, see Everett's Poetry, Comedy and Duty, Cap. I. For a very different 
 view of Nature, see J. S. Mill's Essay entitled Nature. 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 127 
 
 65-66. Parcae. See note on ' Furj,' Lycidas, 75. Stygian. 
 
 See note on this word in L' Allegro, 3. 
 
 79-84. Alcestis. See Notes on Childe Harold, Canto iv. Stanza 
 xvi. Medea ; Aeson : CI. Myths, § 145-146. 
 
 115-120. Aulis. For the story of Iphigenia in Aulis, see CI. 
 Myths, p. 2S8; Tennyson's Dream of Fair Women, 101-120. 
 
 158-163. Wordsworth changed this stanza twice, each time for 
 the worse. The version on p. 202 is his latest and is therefore 
 given there ; the second reading is : 
 
 By no weak pity might the Gods be moved ; 
 She who thus perished, not without the crime 
 Of lovers that in reason's spite have loved, 
 Was doomed to wear out her appointed time. 
 Apart from happy Ghosts — that gather flowers 
 Of blissful quiet mid unfading bowers. 
 
 The original reading is : 
 
 Ah, judge her gently who so deeply loved ! 
 Her, who in reason's spite, yet without crime, 
 Was in a trance of passion thus removed ; 
 Delivered from the galhng yoke of time 
 And those frail elements — to gather flowers 
 Of blissful quiet mid unfading bowers. 
 
 During the years 18 14-18 16 Wordsworth made a deep study of Vergil; the 
 effects of this ennobling discipline are perceptible in the lofty tone and (at times) 
 majestic diction of Laodamia. — With whatever fatuity Wordsworth may have 
 clung to his theory ' that there neither is nor can be any essential difference 
 between the language of prose and [of] metrical composition," his practice, and 
 that of all great poets, shows there is a decided difference. No man can employ 
 the language of the peasantry (to this reducfio ad absurdum was Wordsworth 
 driven in defending his theory) and write a poem like Laodamia ; — a poem 
 that ranks not unworthily with the creations of that 
 
 Wielder of the stateliest measure ever moulded by the lips of man. 
 
 ODE ON THE INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 ' Even the " intimations " of the famous Ode, those corner-stones of the supposed 
 philosophic system of Wordsworth, — the idea of the high instincts and affec- 
 tions coming out in childhood, testifying of a divine home recently left, and 
 fading away as our life proceeds, — this idea, of undeniable beauty as a play of 
 fancy, has itself not the character of poetic truth of the best kind ; it has no real 
 solidity. The instinct of delight in Nature and her beauty had no doubt extraor- 
 dinary strength in Wordsworth himself as a child. But to say that universally 
 this instinct is mighty in childhood, and tends to die away afterwards, is to say 
 
128 NOTES TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 what is extremely doubtful. In many people, perhaps with the majority of edu- 
 cated persons, the love of nature is nearly imperceptible at ten years old, but 
 strong and operative at thirty. In general we may say of these high instincts of 
 early childhood, the base of the alleged systematic philosophy of Wordsworth, 
 what Thucydides says of the early achievements of the Greek race: " It is im- 
 possible to speak with certainty of what is so remote ; but from all that we can 
 really investigate, I should say that they were no very great things." ' — Matthew 
 Arnold : Essay on Wordsworth. 
 
 See also remarks by J. S. Mill, quoted in Notes on Tintern Abbey, 35-49. 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 Had the man who wrote this Ode lived in the days of Ahab the son of Omri 
 he would have rested under the juniper-tree with Elijah the Tishbite and would 
 have ascended with him unto Horeb the mount of God. 
 
 Had he lived in days of Milton, stoutly would he have fought against the pro- 
 fane Cavalier, the word of the Lord in his mouth and a two-edged sword in his 
 hand. 
 
 When the bugle-call of Duty sounds, such men are Ready ! Aye Ready ! I 
 they fall, they fall with face to foe; their names shine forth imperishable, em- 
 blazoned forever in the Book of The Hero and The Martyr! 
 
 SONNET. —TO MILTON. 
 
 This Sonnet was written in 1S02. No one acquainted with the social con- 
 dition of England then, can deny the truthfulness of Wordsworth's picture. — In 
 both the matter and the manner of this Sonnet we see Wordsworth at his best ; 
 we have here a fine illustration of one part of Arnold's oft-quoted criticism : 
 ' Wordsworth's poetry is great because of the extraordinary power with which 
 Wordsworth feels the joy offered to us in nature, the joy offered to us in the sim- 
 ple primary affections and duties ; and because of the extraordinary power with 
 which, in case after case, he shows us this joy, and renders it so as to make us 
 share it.' 
 
LIFE AND BIBLIOGRAPHY. 129 
 
 MACAULAY, 
 
 Thomas Babington Macaulay was born in 1800. His father, Zachary 
 Macaulay, was the friend and co-adjutor of Wilberforce. At fifteen Macaulay 
 had read widely enough to deliver a critical judgment on the comparative merits 
 of Chaucer and Boccaccio; at Cambridge (1818-1822) he detested mathematics, 
 but took prizes in the classics and in English. His Edinburgh Review articles 
 on Milton (1825) and on Mill (1829) made him famous; the Whigs were glad 
 to secure so promising a recruit and in 1830 he entered Parliament under their 
 patronage. The debates on the Reform Bill of 1832 showed him to be a match 
 for the most experienced orators of the day ; after four years of intense political 
 and literary activity, he accepted the lucrative position of Member of the Su- 
 preme Council of India, with the honorable motive of assisting his younger 
 brothers and sisters, and of making possible for himself a purely literary life. 
 Returning to England in 1838, he was induced to assume, for three years more, 
 the ' wasteful drudgery of oiifice ; ' this delayed the publication of the Lays until 
 1842, and of the first two volumes of the History of England until 1848. In 1852 
 his health began to fail, but he worked on manfully, publishing occasional 
 Essays and the third and fourth volumes of his History. He was raised to the 
 peerage in 1857, but lived to enjoy his well-earned honors a short time only. 
 He passed quietly to rest on the 28th of December, 1859. 
 
 Truthfully may we apply to him almost the very words he wrote of Johnson : 
 The more we know of his private life, the more is our conviction strengthened 
 that he was not only a great but a good man. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — The sincerity and sweetness of Macaulay's character 
 portray themselves in his Life and Letters edited by his nephew G. Otto 
 Trevelyan. No one can afford to be ignorant of this delightful book. Mori- 
 son's Macaulay (E. M. L.) is more critical than biographical. Thackeray's 
 Nil Nisi Bonitm (in his Roundabout Papers) contains an affecting tribute to 
 Macaulay by one who knew and loved him well. For the History, see Ma- 
 caulay's Speeches ; Spencer Walpole's History of England, Cap. vii. - xiv. 
 (1820-1837) ; McCarthy's History of Our Own Times, Cap. i.-xl. (1837-1859). 
 
 Criticism (on the Poetry). — y. 6'. Mill in the Westminster Review ; Vol. 
 xxxix. (Old Series) ; Leslie Stephen in Hours in a Library, Third Series ; J. 
 Cotter Morison in his Life of Macaulay, Cap. iv. Those who desire to study 
 Macaulay's Poems with a copious and scholarly commentary, can find it in the 
 excellent edition of the Lays by Professor J. C. Rolfe ( Harpers) . 
 
130 NOTES TO MAC AULA Y. 
 
 HORATIUS. 
 
 In his General Preface to The Lays of Ancient Rome, Macaulay writes: 
 
 ' In the following poems the author speaks, not in his own person, but in the 
 persons of ancient minstrels who know only what a Roman citizen, born three 
 or four hundred years before the Christian era, maybe supposed to have known, 
 and who are in nowise above the passions and prejudices of their age and nation. 
 To these imaginary poets must be ascribed some blunders which are so obvious 
 that it is unnecessary to point them out. The real blunder would have been to 
 represent these old poets as deeply versed in general history, and studious of 
 chronological accuracy. To them must also be attributed the illiberal sneers at 
 the Greeks, the furious party-spirit, the contempt for the arts of peace, the love 
 of war for its own sake, the ungenerous exultation over the vanquished, which 
 the reader will sometimes observe. To portray a Roman of the age of Camillus 
 or Curius as superior to national antipathies, as mourning over the devastation 
 and slaughter by which empire and triumphs were to be won, as looking on 
 human suffering with the sympathy of Howard, or as treating conquered enemies 
 with the delicacy of the Black Prince, would be to violate all dramatic propriety. 
 The old Romans had some great virtues, fortitude, temperance, veracity, spirit 
 to resist oppression, respect for legitimate authority, fidelity in the observing of 
 contracts, disinterestedness, ardent patriotism ; but Christian charity and chival- 
 rous generosity were alike unknown to them. 
 
 ' It would have been obviously improper to mimic the manner of any particular 
 age or country. Something has been borrowed, however, from our own old 
 ballads, and more from Sir Walter Scott, the great restorer of our ballad-poetry. 
 To the Iliad still greater obligations are due; and those obligations have been 
 contracted with the less hesitation, because there is reason to believe that some of 
 the old Latin minstrels really had recourse to that inexhaustible store of poetical 
 images. 
 
 ' It would have been easy to swell this little volume to a very considerable bulk, 
 by appending notes filled with quotations ; but to a learned reader such notes 
 are not necessary ; for an unlearned reader they would have little interest ; and 
 the judgment passed both by the learned and by the unlearned on a work of the 
 imagination will always depend much more on the general character and spirit 
 of such a work than on minute details.' 
 
 Macaulay's Preface to Horatius is as follows : 
 
 ' There can be little doubt that among those parts of early Roman history 
 which had a poetical origin was the legend of Horatius Codes. We have 
 several versions of the story, and these versions differ from each other in 
 points of no small importance. Polybius, there is reason to believe, heard 
 the tale recited over the remains of some Consul or Praetor descended from the 
 old Horatian patricians; for he introduces it as a specimen of the narratives 
 with which the Romans were in the habit of embellishing their funeral oratory. 
 It is remarkable that, according to him, Horatius defended the bridge alone, and 
 perished in the waters. According to the chronicles which Livy and Dionysius 
 followed, Horatius had two companions, swam safe to shore, and was loaded 
 with honours and rewards. 
 
 ' These discrepancies are easily explained. Our own literature, indeed, will 
 
HORATIUS. 131 
 
 furnish an exact parallel to what may have taken place at Rome. It is highly 
 probable that the memory of the war of Porsena was preserved by compositions 
 much resembling the two ballads which stand first in the Relics of Ancient Eng- 
 lish Poetry. In both those ballads the English, commanded by the Percy, fight 
 with the Scots, commanded by the Douglas. In one of the ballads the Douglas is 
 killed by a nameless English archer, and the Percy by a Scottish spearman : in 
 the other, the Percy slays the Douglas in a single combat, and is himself made 
 prisoner. In the former. Sir Hugh Montgomery is shot through the heart by a 
 Northumbrian bowman : in the latter, he is taken, and exchanged for the Percy. 
 Yet both the ballads relate to the same event, and that an event which probably 
 took place within the memory of persons who were alive when both the ballads 
 were made. One of the minstrels says : 
 
 'Old men that knowen the groundc well yenoughe 
 Call it the battell of Otterburn : 
 At Otterburn began this spurne 
 Upon a monnyn day. 
 Ther was the dougghte Doglas slean : 
 The Perse never went away.' 
 
 ' The other poet sums up the event in the following lines: 
 
 ' Thys fmye bygan at Otterborne 
 Bytwene the nyghte and the day: 
 Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyfe. 
 And the Percy was lede away.' 
 
 ' It is by no means unlikely that there were two old Roman lays about the 
 defence of the bridge ; and that, while the story which Livy has transmitted to 
 us was preferred by the multitude, the other, whicli ascribed the whole glory to 
 Horatius alone, may have been the favourite with the Horatian house. 
 
 ' The following ballad is supposed to have been made about a hundred and 
 twenty years after tlie war which it celebrates, and just before the taking of Rome 
 by the Gauls. The author seems to have been an honest citizen, proud of the 
 military glory of his country, sick of the disputes of factions, and much given to 
 pining after good old times which had never really existed. The allusion, how- 
 ever, to the partial manner in which the public lands were allotted could pro- 
 ceed only from a plebeian ; and the allusion to the fraudulent sale of spoils 
 marks the date of the poem, and shows that the poet shared in the general dis- 
 content with which the proceedings of Camillus, after the taking of Veil, were 
 regarded. 
 
 ' The penultimate syllable of the name Porsena has been shortened in spite of 
 the authority of Niebuhr, who pronounces, without assigning any ground for 
 his opinion, that Martial was guilty of a decided blunder in the line, 
 
 ' Hanc spectare inanuni Porsena non potuit.' 
 
 ' It is not easy to understand how any modern scholar, whatever his attain- 
 ments may be, — and those of Niebuhr were undoubtedly immense, — can vent- 
 ure to pronounce that Martial did not know the quantity of a word which he 
 must have uttered and heard uttered a hundred times before he left school. 
 
132 NOTES TO MACAU LAY. 
 
 Niebuhr seems also to have forgotten that Martial has fellow-culprits to keep 
 him in countenance. Horace has committed the same decided blunder; for 
 he gives us, as a pure iambic line, 
 
 ' Minncis aut Etrusca Porsenx inaniis.' 
 
 ' Silius Italicus has repeatedly offended in the same way, as when he says, 
 
 'Cernilur eflugiens arcientfin Porsena dexlram;' 
 
 and again, 
 
 'Clusinoin vulgus, cum, Porsi-na magne, jiibebas.' 
 
 A modern writer may be content to err in such company. 
 
 ' Niebuhr's supposition, that each of the three defenders of the bridge was the 
 representative of one of the three patrician tribes, is both ingenious and prob- 
 able and has been adopted in the following poem.' 
 
 1-17. Lars (English, I^ord)\ a title of the Etruscan Kings, as 
 ' Pharaoli " was of the Egyptian. See note on Aruns, line 323. 
 Clusium ; at this time the most important of the Etruscan cities. 
 Tarquin. The Tarquins (an Etruscan family) were expelled proba- 
 bly during the sixth century B.C. Tradition has assigned the exact 
 date — 509. Etruscan. The Etruscans were not a Latin race and 
 their origin is not detinitely known. 
 
 18-41. With the exception of Massiiia, all the towns mentioned 
 in these lines can easily be located on the Jiiap of Etruria. Volater- 
 rae (Volterra) still shows the ruins of massive Etruscan fortifica- 
 tions. Populonia became a manufacturing city in earh' times, 
 drawing its iron-ore from the island of Ilva (see line 304). Pisse ; 
 the modern Pisa. Massiiia ; Marseilles. The fair-haired slaves 
 must have been Gauls. Clanis ; a tributary of the Tiber. Cortona ; 
 near lake Trasimenus. Remains of the ancient walls are still to 1k- 
 seen. 
 
 42-57. Auser ; the Ciminian hill (Monte Cimino); Volsinian 
 mere (Lago di Bolsena) ; in Etruria. Clitumnus; in Umbria. 
 
 Byron has a beautiful description of this stream in Childe Harold iv. 
 66-68. Macaulay's lines 54-55 are from the 5th and 6th lines of 
 Byron's Stanza 66. 
 
 58-65. Arretium (Arezzo) in Etnuia was early famous for its 
 pottery. In later times it became celebrated as the home of Mae- 
 cenas and the birthplace of Petrarch. Umbro (Ombrone); next 
 to the Arnus (Arno), the largest river in Etruria. Luna, the 
 most northerly city of Etruria, famed for its wine, cheese and 
 marble. 
 
 66-80. verses = prophecies. See the story of the Sibyl in .Eneid 
 iii. 441-460. Traced from the right: the Etruscan manner of 
 
H OR ATI us. 133 
 
 writing. The Chinese write in vertical columns, beginning at what 
 we should call the end of the book. Nurscia ; the Etruscan 
 
 Fortuna. Her temple was at Volsinii. See line 49. golden shields. 
 See Rich, article Aticile. 
 
 81-97. tale. See note on this word in L'Allegro, 67. Sutrium 
 (Sutri); about thirty miles north-west of Rome. Mamilius, 
 
 son-in-law of Tarquinus Superbus and the most powerful of the 
 Latin princes. His home, Tusculum, was only fifteen miles from 
 Rome. It was situated among the hills and in later daj^s became a 
 favorite resort for wealth}' Romans. Here Cicero had a villa and 
 here he composed his Tusculan Disputations. 
 
 98-121. champaign = flat, open country. The English words 
 chaiufaigH, Champagne, campaign, camp; the French, ciampagne, 
 campague, campagnard, champ ^ the Italian campagtia, are all from 
 the Latin campus. Trace the extensions of ineaning. litters (for 
 
 travelers) and skins (for carrying wine) are commonly used in the 
 Madeira Islands to-day. roaring gate. Compare Tennyson's 
 
 Now thy Forum roars no longer, 
 fallen every purple Ccesar's dome — 
 
 Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm 
 
 sound for ever of Imperial Rome — 
 
 To Vergil ; 15-16. 
 
 122-153. Tarpeian. For the legend, see Classical Dictionary, 
 article ' Tarpeia.' The Fathers of the City; the Senate (^^^wc.v) 
 
 or Patres Conscripti. Crustumerium ; a Latin city some ten 
 
 miles north-east of Rome. 
 
 Five citjes forge their arms, the Atinian powers, 
 Antemnae, Tybur with her lofty towers, 
 Ardea the proud, the Crustumerian town ; 
 All these of old were places of renown. 
 
 Dryden's Translation of the .Eneid; vii. 871-874. 
 
 Verbenna; Astur : invented by Macaulay. Ostia; once the 
 
 bustling seaport of Roine, sixteen miles to the south-west of the city. 
 Centin-ies of alUuial deposits have left the ancient site three iniles 
 inland. Janiculum ; a fortified hill opposite Rome, on the west bank 
 of the Tiber ; connected with the city by the Pons Sublicius. See 
 CI. Myths, p. 359, and CI. Dictionary, article Janus. I wis = I 
 
 know. This is a spurious form, arising from a confusion between 
 the Old English verb xvitan (to know) and the Middle English 
 adverb i-xvis (certainly), incorrectly written in the manuscripts i -mis 
 
134 NOTES TO MAC AULA Y. 
 
 or / w/.<. they girded up their gowns. When the Trojans 
 
 dragged the wooden horse into their cit}-, Vergil tells us that ' all gird 
 themselves for the work' {acctngutif omiies opert, ^neid, ii. 235). 
 The phrase is common in the Old Testament; seel. Kings xviii. 46, 
 where Elijah ' girded up his loins and ran before Ahab to the entrance 
 of Jezreel.' 
 
 154-191. Sir. This abbreviated form has acquired such comtuon- 
 place, nineteenth-century associations, that it seems inappropriate 
 here. On the other hand, it is used in Julius Cassar (iv. 3, 246 and 
 250) and in mediaeval ballads, whose style Macaulay is imitating. 
 Umbrian. The Umbrians preceded the Etruscans in the supremacy 
 of Northern Italy. port = bearing, carriage. vest = gar- 
 
 ment, dress. Lucumo. An Etruscan word, meaning ' one in- 
 
 spired,' hence a Priest or Prince, and b}' extension of meaning, any 
 Etruscan. Cilnius. Mtecenas was of the family of the Cilnii; 
 
 see note on Arretium, line 58. fourfold shield; made of four 
 
 thicknesses of ox-hide. Tolumnius. There was a king of the 
 
 Veientes of this name, who was slain in war with the Romans in 438 
 B.C. Thrasymene [Trasimenus] ; the largest lake in Etruria. 
 
 The Romans were heavily defeated here by Hannibal in 217 B.C. 
 
 192-248. Fast by = near to. Fast in this sense is from the Old 
 English adjective 'F3est'= fixed, firm. In lines 219-230 Macaulay 
 has given poetical expression, both just and noble, to the spirit -that 
 made Rome great. the holy maidens ; the Vestal Virgins. See 
 
 CI. Myths, § 42. Ramnian; Titian. The three original patri- 
 
 cian tribes of Rome were the Ramnes, the Titles and the Luceres. 
 Horatius is represented as belonging to the Luceres. See the last 
 paragraph of Macaulay's Introduction to Horatius. 
 
 249-280. Then lands were fairly portioned. A certain portion of 
 the land of conquered enemies was set aside by the Romans and 
 called ager publicus. The income from this was supposed to go to 
 the State, but by means of what we should call a Credit Mobilier, the 
 patricians managed to turn most of the proceeds into their own 
 purses. Spoils. A reference to the charge of peculation 
 
 brought against the patrician dictator Camillus. See CI. Dictionary, 
 under his name. the Tribunes, (originally two, afterwards ten) 
 
 were first appointed in 494 B.C. It was their duty to protect the 
 rights of the plebeians against the encroachments of the patricians ; 
 thej' gradually became the most influential magistrates of Rome. 
 They instituted the veto power, which has been adopted, in one form 
 or another, by all modern republics. 
 
 281-310. Tifernum; in the northern part of Umbria. Annus 
 
 is invented for the occasion ; Seius and Picus are Roman names, but 
 
MORA TIUS. 135 
 
 there is no reference here to the historical or legendary personages 
 Avho bore these names. Ilva (Elba). See note on Populonia, line 
 30. Nequinum, in Umbria, fifty-six miles north of Rome. 
 
 After the Roman conquest (299 B.C.), it was called Narnia. The 
 waters of the Nar are impregnated with sulphur; hence, pale. 
 
 311-347. Ocnus ; Lausulus. See remarks on Seius and Picus, 
 above. Aruns is an Etruscan word used as a title for younger 
 
 sons, the elder being called Lar or Lars. See note on that word, 
 line I. Falerii ; Volsinium [ Volsinii] ; Cosa : all cities of south- 
 
 ern Etruria. See line 49. Urgo or Gorgon (Gorgona) ; a small 
 island between Etruria and Corsica. The river Albinia enters the 
 sea near Cosa. 
 
 348-373. Astur. See lines 136-137 and note. Luna. See 
 
 line 62 and note. she-wolf's litter; an allusion to the well- 
 
 known legend that Romulus and Remus were suckled by a she- 
 wolf. 
 
 374-397. In this fine and spirited description of Action, it would 
 be difficult to better a word. It will not suffer by comparison with 
 that other splendid description of Combat, — -the fight between Fitz 
 James and Roderick Dhu, in the Fifth Canto of The Lady of the 
 Lake. Alvernus ; near the source of the Tiber. 
 
 398-499. Palatinus ; the first-settled of the seven hills of Rome. 
 See notes on Bjiron's Manfred. Macaulay was in Rome in the wintei 
 of 1838. He writes in his Journal : ' I then went to the river, to the 
 spot where the old Pons Sublicius stood, and looked about to see 
 how my Horatius agrees with the topography. Pretty well ; but 
 his house must have been on Mount Palatine, for he could never see 
 Mount Coelius from the spot where he fought.' father Tiber 
 
 See CI. Myths, p. 357, and CI. Dictionary, article, Tiberis. 
 
 500-541. I ween (51S) =1 think, suppose; very common in 
 Chaucer, as 
 
 I vvol with lusty herte fresshe and grene 
 Seyn yow a song to glade yow, I wane. 
 
 Clerkes Tale, 1 173-4. 
 
 Bare bravely up his chin (525). Here Macaulay quotes as follows ■ 
 
 Our ladye bare upp her chinne. 
 
 Ballad of Childe Waters. 
 Never heavier man and horse 
 Stemmed a midnight torrent's force ; 
 
 Yet, through good heart and our Lady's grace 
 At length he gained the landing place. 
 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel, i. [29]. 
 
136 NOTES TO MACAU LAY. 
 
 542-589. Corn-land. See note on line 261. a molten image. 
 
 A. Gellius tells us {Nodes Atticce, iv. 5) that this statue was once 
 struck by lightning. Etruscan soothsayers being consulted as to 
 the meaning of this prodigy, treacherously advised that the statue 
 be placed in a sheltered spot where the sun's rays could not shine 
 on it. Their treachery being discovered, the soothsayers were put 
 to death and the statue was placed in an elevated spot on the Vul- 
 canal : this brought the state good luck again. Comitium. An 
 
 enclosed space at the foot of the Palatine hill where elections were 
 lield and justice administered. It is sometimes spoken of as in- 
 cluded in the Forum Romanum. See Rich, articles Comitium and 
 Forum. Volscian. The territory of the Volsci touched that of 
 
 the Romans on the south and east. The two peoples were engaged 
 in almost constant border warfare, the Volsci being finally subdued 
 in 338 B.C. See the legend of Coriolanus, as treated by Shake- 
 speare. Juno. CI. Myths, § 34. Algidus (= Cold); a 
 mountain in Latium. From Horace it appears that this mountain 
 was sacred to Diana (Carmen Saeculare, 69), and that oak-timber 
 grew there (Odes, iv. 4. 57-58). 
 
 Some critics, who find nothing so good but they must have better, claim that 
 Horatlus is not poetry. We must allow that the versification, if correct, is some- 
 what mechanical and that the epithets show a poor eye for color, but having 
 admitted this much, we have admitted about all that can fairly be said in dis- 
 praise of Ho>-atius. The theme chosen ' is one admirably adapted to poetic 
 treatment, the action is well sustained, the characters are thoroughly human 
 and real, the imagery and diction are appropriate to the subject ; above all, the 
 sentiment that pervades this poem is national and noble. In this respect 
 Macaulay reaches a higher ethical level than Scott, ' the great restorer of our 
 ballad-poetry," who can seldom rise to anything loftier than the idea of feudal 
 allegiance. 
 
 1 No such easy matter, this finding of a subject ! Look at Shelley's numerous 
 failures. 
 
LIFE AND BIBLIOGRAPHY. 137 
 
 CLOUGH. 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough was born at Liverpool in 1819. When four years 
 old his parents took him to Charleston, South Carolina, where they lived some 
 four years. Returning to England, he had the good fortune to spend seven years 
 at Rugby under Dr. Arnold. At Oxford he paid more attention to independent 
 reading than to required studies ; in spite of this he was elected Fellow and 
 appointed Tutor of Oriel College. These positions he resigned in 1848 on 
 account of conscientious scruples, glad to be free from what he called his 
 'bondage in Egypt.' Instead of defending his action, as was expected, by a 
 polemic against the Thirty-nine Articles, Clough delighted his friends and 
 puzzled his enemies by publishing his charming Highland pastoral. The Bothie 
 of Tober-na-Vuolich [The Hut of the Bearded Well]. The form of this was 
 suggested by reading Longfellow's Evangeline. A visit to Rome during the 
 stormy days of '49 produced the Amours de Voyage ; a visit to Venice gave the 
 background for Dipsychus, — The Man of Two Souls, whose conscience struggles 
 with the Spirit of the World. In 1852 Clough went to seek his literary fortunes 
 in Boston, making the voyage in the same vessel with Thackeray and Lowell. 
 To this voyage we owe the Songs in Absence and the best parts of the Mari 
 Alagno. In a few months he returned to England to accept a position in the 
 Education Department of the Government. His remaining years brought him 
 the happiness that comes from the love of a good woman and from the conscious- 
 ness of even lowly work faithfully performed. He died at Florence in November, 
 1861, and was buried in the little Protestant cemetery there. That same 
 resting-place, a few months before, had received the remains of Mrs. Brown- 
 ing ; three years later, the aged Landor came to lay his bones beside theirs. 
 
 Mr. Lowell has said : ' We have a foreboding that Clough, imperfect as he 
 was in many respects, and dying before he had subdued his sensitive tempera- 
 ment to the requirements of his art, will be thought a hundred years hence to 
 have been the truest expression in verse of the moral and intellectual tendencies, 
 the doubt and struggle tovvards settled convictions, of the period in which he 
 lived." 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — Clough taught in verse the old but oft -forgotten philoso- 
 phy that Carlyle taught in prose : While the doing of your nearest duty may not 
 solve the problem of Life, other solution is there none. Unlike Carlyle, Clough 
 practised what he preached : this comes out clearly and beautifully in his Prose 
 Remains, with a Selection from his Letters and a Memoir : Edited by his Wife. 
 
138 NOTES TO C LOUGH. 
 
 (Macmillan.) Waddington's C/ough, a Monograph (Bell) is a sympathetic and 
 scholarly study of Clough's life as illustrated by his poems. 
 
 Criticism. — Bagehot: Literary Studies, Vol. ii.; Mr. Clough's Poems 
 Maintains that Clough was the ' one in a thousand ' for whom the influence of 
 Arnold was not beneficial ; that it disturbed the development of Clough as a 
 thinker and a poet. 
 
 Hutton : Essays in Literary Criticism ; Arthur Hugh Clough. Shows the 
 influence of Goethe and Wordsworth on Clough ; traces his resemblance to 
 Chaucer, and points out his habit of leaving half-solved nearly every intellectual 
 problem he touched. 
 
 Coventry Patmore : Principle in Art; Arthur Hugh Clough. Places a low 
 value upon Clough's metaphysical poems, but considers the Bothie ' healthy, 
 human and original.' 
 
 Matthew Arnold : Thyrsis ; A Monody, to commemorate the Author s friend 
 Arthur Hugh Clough, who died at Florence, 1861. One of the most beautiful 
 elegiac poems in English. The scenery is the same as in The Scholar-Gypsy 
 (p. 241 of this book). At the end of his lectures On Translating Homer (Es- 
 says in Criticism, First Series) Mr. Arnold has a touching tribute to the sincerity 
 and simplicity of Clough's character. 
 
 QLTA CURSUM VENTUS. 
 
 This lyric represents the emotions of two friends who, meeting accidentally after 
 the lapse of years, find they have drifted far apart in thought and feeling. The 
 imagery is free and noble ; the concluding chord is struck with a hand firmer and 
 bolder than is usual with Clough. 
 
 MARI MAGNO, OR TALES ON BOARD. — [PROLOGUE.] 
 
 Mrs. Clough tells us these Tales were written only a few months before the 
 author's death and had not been revised by him. 
 
 1-23. These lines, of course, refer to Clough's voyage to the 
 United States in 1852. 
 
 24-33. This description seems meant for Mr. Lowell. Time 
 could not dull his youthful spirit. In 1SS2, — thirty years after 
 these lines were written, — I had the honor of a twenty-minute talk 
 with Mr. Lowell in London, and found him just as here described — 
 save that his tales were not then of Yankeeland but of Cockneyland. 
 
 33-52. This sketch of a Nineteenth Century Parson is as good in 
 its way as Chaucer's Fourteenth Century Parson or Dryden's Seven- 
 teenth Century Parson. Canon ; a dignitary in the Church of 
 England connected wath a cathedral or collegiate church. With 
 the Dean, the Canons form the Chapter or governing body of the 
 cathedral. Quarter-Sessions; A Criminal Court held quarterly 
 in boroughs and counties. 
 
THE LAIVYER'S FIRST TALE. 139 
 
 53-76. Slow rises worth in lawyer's gown compressed ; an 
 
 adaptation of Johnson's London, line 173, 
 
 Slow rises worth by poverty depressed. 
 
 76-100. The Yankee friend plays the part played by the Hoste in 
 Chaucer's Prologue; see lines 788-809 of that poem. Indeed it is 
 impossible not to be reminded of Chaucer in reading Clough : there 
 is the same slj humor, the same power of character-drawing and 
 the same directness of phrase. 
 
 In the early editions of Clough the Prologue ends here. In the latest edition 
 these eight lines are added : 
 
 ' Infaiidum jubes ! 'tis of long ago 
 If tell I must, I tell the tale I know: 
 Yet the first person using for the freak 
 Don't rashly judge that of myself I speak.' 
 So to his tale; if of himself or not 
 I never learnt ; we thought so on the spot. 
 Lightly he told it as a thing of old, 
 And lightly I repeat it as he told. 
 
 THE LAWYER'S FIRST TALE. 
 
 A tale called PrimiticB or Third Cousins is, in the most recent edition, 
 assigned to the Lawyer as his First Tale; while what in our text is called The 
 Lawyer's First Tale is there called The Clergyman's First Tale. It would be 
 interesting to know whether the changes in Clough texts are based upon ms. 
 authority, or whether they are due to the caprice of the editor. 
 
 135-143. This seems to be a bit of autobiography. 
 
 169-173. Here we have Shelley's Rule for Right Living, which 
 may be briefly stated as : If you see a thing you want, take it. — It 
 is the application of this principle that makes Penitentiaries a social 
 necessity. 
 
 176-180. The influence of Wordsworth is perceptible here. Com- 
 pare tlie Ode on the Intimations of Immortality. 
 
 183-184. Compare Clough's poem Wen Gott Betriigt, 1st Wohl 
 Betrogen (Whom God Beguiles, Is Well Beguiled). 
 
 191-199. Compare Byroi^'s 
 
 Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 'Tis woman's whole existence. 
 
 205-210. Compare Tennyson's Locksley Hall, 17-20. 
 
140 NOTES TO CLOUGH. 
 
 273-274. Compare Portia's soul-portraying speech beginning, 
 
 You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
 Such as I am : — 
 
 Merchant of Venice, iii. 2. 
 
 278-279. love-in-idleness. See the Midsummer Night's Dream, 
 ii. 2, 106-109. 
 
 Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell. 
 
 It fell upon a little western flower, — 
 
 Before, milk-white ; now purple with love's wound 
 
 And maidens call it love-in-idleness. 
 
 301-302. gave. This is certainly a slip for ^/t'f. 
 
 321-322. The rime sliows the common pronunciation of clerk in 
 England. 
 
 352. They met — I know not — in each other's arms. Keats 
 would have ended the poem at tliis line. But Clough saw deeper 
 into life than tlie poet wlio summed up his philosophy in 
 
 Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 
 
LIFE OF ARNOLD. 141 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 Matthew Arnold, eldest son of Dr. Thomas Arnold of Rugby, was born 
 in 1822. He was educated at Winchester, Rugby and Oxford. Like his friend 
 Clough, Arnold was elected a Fellow of Oriel College, but resigned this position 
 within two years. His Strayed Reveller and Other Poems, published in 1848, 
 show Hellenic form and Wordsvvorthian sentiment. In 1851 he was appointed 
 a Government Inspector of Schools; in this occupation he spent more than 
 thirty years of his life and rendered good service in elevating the tone of primary 
 and secondary education in England. His unsparing criticism of the vulgarity 
 and sordidness of middle-class life earned him the desirable hatred of the Philis- 
 tines, to whom he never grew weary of preaching their crying need for Culture, 
 for Sweetness and for Light. From 1857-1867 he was Professor of Poetry at 
 Oxford ; his Essays (published under various titles) set a new standard for Criti- 
 cism in England as Sainte-Beuve had already done for France. His numerous 
 theological writings attempt to supply a ttoO o-tu> for those who feel the ground of 
 old beliefs cut from under them by the sharp-dividing spade of Science ; his 
 limitations as a political philosopher may be illustrated by noting that the most 
 interesting thing in his Irish Essays is the little critique on The French Play in 
 London. In 1883 and 1886 he visited our country : in his Civilization in the 
 United States he did not hesitate to tell us some unpleasant but wholesome 
 truths about ourselves. His Complete Poems, were collected in 1885; by these 
 his memory will be preserved, more effectually perhaps than even by his literary 
 criticism. His death (1888) was sudden, — thus fulfilling almost literally the 
 desire he had expressed in his poem, A Wish : 
 
 I ask not that my bed of death 
 
 From bands of greedy heirs be free ; 
 For these besiege the latest breath 
 
 Of fortune's favored sons, not me. 
 
 Spare me the whispering, crowded room. 
 The friends who come, and gape, and go ; 
 
 The ceremonious air of gloom, — 
 
 All which makes death a hideous show! 
 
 Nor bring, to see me cease to live 
 Some doctor full of phrase and fame, 
 
 To shake his sapient head, and give 
 The ill he cannot cure a name. 
 
142 LIFE AND BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Bring none of these ; but let me be, 
 While all around in silence lies, 
 
 Moved to the window near, and see 
 Once more, before my dying eyes, — 
 
 Bathed in the sacred dews of morn 
 The wide aerial landscape spread, — 
 
 The world which was ere I was born, 
 The world which lasts when I am dead; 
 
 There let me gaze till I become 
 
 In soul, with what I gaze on, wed ! 
 To feel the universe my home ; 
 
 Thus feeling, gazing, might I grow 
 Composed, refreshed, ennobled, clear; 
 
 Then willing let my spirit go 
 
 To work or wait elsewhere or here ! 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — For biographical articles, see Poole's Index under the 
 year of Mr. Arnold's death (1888). Most easily accessible to American read- 
 ers are the article on p. 41 of Appleton's Annual Cyclopcsdia for 1888 and the 
 article by Augustine Birrell in Scribner's Magazine, November, 1888 (reprinted 
 with additions in his Res Judicata;). For the History, see McCarthy's History 
 of our Own Times: Cap. xli.-lxvii. and Appendix (1859-1886). 
 
 Criticism. — Clough : Review of i^ome Poems by Alexander Smith and Mat- 
 thezo Arnold (N. A. Review, ytily, i8jj. Reprinted in the Prose Remains.) 
 Interesting chiefly on account of the close personal relations of Clough and 
 Arnold. Condemns the Empedocles (a judgment in which the author con- 
 curred) and the general 'poetic dubiousness' of the poet's tone. Perhaps to 
 this frank and just criticism is due, in part, the clearer form and firmer treat- 
 ment of Arnold's later verse. 
 
 Hutton : Essays in Literary Criticism ; The Poetry of Mattheiv Arnold. Points 
 out how the poet recognizes (with Goethe) the spiritual unrest of the day, and 
 how (with Wordsworth) he finds, in the contemplation of Nature, calm for this 
 unrest ; decides that his power of expression lies in a certain ' delicate simplicity 
 of taste,' and in a nobly rhetorical cast of thought. (This fine essay is a long 
 and thought-compelling piece of exposition, which no summary can represent 
 even faintly). 
 
 Swinburne : Essays and Studies ; Matthew Arnold's New Poems. This Essay 
 was (fortunately) written before the Shelley-Byron-Arnold-Swinburne contro- 
 versy; it does full justice — more than justice — to the form of Arnold's verse, 
 abounding in such exaggerated (and awkwardly expressed) sentiments as this: 
 ' No poem in any language can be more perfect [than Thyrsis] as a model 
 of style, unsurpassable certainly, it may Ix; unattainable.' This essay also 
 
THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 143 
 
 condemns unrimed lyrics and English hexameters ; it criticises with just sever- 
 ity Arnold's limited appreciation of the great French poets. 
 
 Birrell: Res 'JiidicatiB ; Mattheio Arnold. For popular reading, a pleas- 
 ant resume of Arnold as poet, theologian and critic. 
 
 THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 
 
 1-30. cotes = sheep-folds. The line in which this word occurs 
 is evidentl\' a reminiscence of Conius, 344 : 
 
 The folded flocks, penned in their wattled cotes. 
 
 cross ; recross : infinitives depending upon seen. cruse. For 
 
 the story with wliich tliis \\ord is commonly associated, see I. Kings 
 xvii. 8-16. Oxford's towers. Though a severe critic of the relig- 
 ious faith wliich Oxford represents, Mr. Arnold never freed himself 
 — nor wished to free himself — from the spell which Oxford must 
 exercise over poetic minds. ' Beautiful city ! ' he writes ; ' 'so 
 venerable, so lovely, so unravaged by the fierce intellectual life of 
 our century, so serene I 
 
 ' There are our young barbarians, all at play I And yet, steeped 
 in sentiment as she lies, spreading her gardens to the moonlight, 
 and whispering from her towers the last enchantments of the Middle 
 Age, who will deny that Oxford, by her ineffable charm, keeps ever 
 calling us near to the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to perfec- 
 tion, — to beauty, in a word, which is only truth seen from another 
 side ? — nearer, perhaps, than all the science of Tiibingen. Adorable 
 dreamer, whose heart has been so romantic ! who hast given thyself 
 so prodigally, given thyself to sides and to heroes not mine, only 
 never to the Philistines! home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, 
 and unpopular names, and impossible loyalties ! what example could 
 ever keep down the Philistine in ourselves, what teacher could ever 
 so save us from that bondage to which we are all prone, that bondage 
 which Goethe, in those incomparable lines on the death of Schiller, 
 makes it his friend's highest praise (and nobly did Schiller deserve 
 the praise) to have left miles out of sight behind him; — the bond- 
 age of -was uns alle bdyidigt, das Gemeinc ? ' 
 
 31-70. Glanvil. ' There was very lately a lad in the University 
 of Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there ; 
 and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gypsies. 
 Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his 
 
 1 Preface to the Essays in Criticism, First Series. 
 
144 NOTES TO ARNOLD. 
 
 carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that 
 thej discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty 
 while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of 
 scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They quickly 
 spied out their old friend among the gypsies ; and he gave them an 
 account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and 
 told them that the people he went with were not such impostors as 
 they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning 
 among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, 
 their fancy binding that of others ; that himself had learned much ot 
 their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, 
 he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account 
 of what he had learned.' — Glanvil's Vanity of Dogmatizing, 
 1661. 
 
 71-130. Mr. Arnold's theory of an ethical standard as the best test 
 for poetry receives no help from his practice in these lines. Mr. 
 Courthope is quick to see this, and pertinently questions : ' ' . 
 will Mr. Arnold ever persuade any reader of average sensibility that 
 what ought to be enjoyed in the Scholar-Gipsy is rather the moral 
 of the poem, than the beautiful and affecting images of the Oxford- 
 shire landscape with which the poet has surrounded the story.' 
 Never!' Christ-Church (129): the largest college of the Uni- 
 
 versity. The chapel of Christ-Church is also the cathedral of the 
 diocese of Oxford. 
 
 131-140. yew-tree. The yew is commonly planted in English 
 grave-jards. It grows slowly, lives long, and has thick dark foliage. 
 With this line compare Wordsworth's splendid poem, Yew-Trees, no 
 portion of which can be torn from its context without irreparable 
 loss. 
 
 141-170. This note of lassitude is struck often — perhaps too 
 often — in Arnold's poems. See the Stanzas in Memory of the Au- 
 thor of Obermann. For the author's less desponding mood, see his 
 Rugby Chapel. teen (147) = grief, sorrow; from the Old Eng- 
 
 lish ' teona' = injury. Line 165 = Which many attempts and many 
 failures bring. 
 
 171-180. it, in line iSo, refers to spark from heaven in line 171. 
 
 181-190. This seems to fit Carlyle as well as any one, but it is 
 probably intended for a type rather than for an individual. 
 
 191-230. Averse as Dido. 
 
 In vain he thus attempts her mind to move 
 With tears and prayers and late repenting love; 
 
 1 The Liberal Movement in English Literature, Essay I. 
 
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. 145 
 
 Disdainfully she looked, then turning round 
 But fixed her eyes unmoved upon the ground, 
 And what he says and swears regards no more 
 Than the deaf rocks when the loud billows roar. 
 
 (Dryden's Translation.) 
 
 Kor the entire episode, see ^Eneid vi. 450-476. 
 
 231-250. Notice the force of this elaborate and exquisitely sus- 
 tained image ; how the mind is carried back from these turbid 
 days of sick unrest to the clear dawn of a fresh and healthy civiliza- 
 tion. For another example of a poem that closes with a figure not 
 less beautiful and not less ennobling, see Arnold's Sohrab and 
 Rustum. 
 
 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. 
 
 The title of this poem inevitably brings to mind Tennyson's two poems. The 
 Merman and The Mermaid. A comparison will show that, in this instance at 
 least, the Oxford poet has touched his subject not less melodiously and with finer 
 and deeper feeling. — Margaret will not listen to her 
 
 Children's voices wild with pain;^ 
 
 dearer to her is the selfish desire to save her own soul than is the light in the 
 eyes of her little Mermaiden, dearer than the love of the king of the sea who 
 yearns for her with sorrow-laden heart. Here is there an infinite tenderness 
 and an infinite tragedy. 
 
146 NOTES TO BROWNING. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 The father of Robert Browning was a clerk in the Bank of England whose 
 ear was attuned to other melodies than the chink of gold upon the counter : the 
 companions of his leisure hours were Horace, Anacreon and the Talmud. The 
 poet was born in London in 1812. Shelley and Keats first stirred the singing 
 spirit within him ; their influence is easily perceptible in Pauline (1833). In 
 Paracelsus (1835) he found a congenial subject, — the History of a Soul : upon 
 this theme he constructed the first in his long series of psychological epics. For 
 Macready he wrote his first play, Strafford (1837), followed in the next eight 
 years by six other plays. The devotees of Browning assure us that on the rare 
 occasions when any of these plays have been acted, they have succeeded. Is 
 it so ? Why then so rare ? — ^ In the preface to Sordello, Browning clearly states 
 his poetic belief: ' My stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul : 
 little else is worth study.' Mrs. Carlyle read this poem (?) and declared herself 
 unable to make out whether Sordello was a man, a city or a book; other read- 
 ers not less intelligent, had even more disastrous experiences. The 21,116 lines 
 (to be exact) in that Realistic Romance of the Police Court, The Ring and The 
 Book, argue an astonishing perseverance in both author and reader, but for the 
 few and evil days allotted man upon this earth, most people will prefer the lyrics 
 in Pippa Passes and the incomparable portraits in Alen and Women (1855) and 
 in Dramatis Personae (1864). In 1846 Browning married Elizabeth Barrett and 
 from that time until her death (1861) resided principally in Italy. The poems 
 of these fifteen years are full of rich Italian coloring. During the last twenty- 
 five years of his life Browning wrote a large amount of religious and metaphys- 
 ical verse, but very little poetry, save when he rendered into English the Alkcstis 
 of Euripides and the Agamemnon of yEschylus. To compensate him for the 
 decline of his poetic faculty, he enjoyed perfect health, an easy fortune, unbound- 
 ing faith in God, Immortality and Humanity, and the worship of the apprecia- 
 tive and the undiscriminating banded together in the Browning Society. He 
 died in Venice in 1889 and was duly honored with a grave in Westminster 
 Abbey. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — The innumerable magazine articles that appeared at 
 Browning's death will be found classified in Poole's Index for iSgo. Sharp's 
 Life of Robert Browning (Gt. Wr.) is written by one who knew the poet well : 
 while it has the charm of a story told by an eye-witness and a disciple, it is yet 
 free from that hero-worship which makes so much Browning-talk a weariness 
 
A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES. 147 
 
 to the flesh. The Life and Letters of Robert Broiming, by Mrs. Southerland 
 Orr, indulges in much personalia, and contains some interesting remarks by 
 Browning on his own works. 
 
 Criticism. —The world of Browning Criticism is so wide that any explora- 
 tion of it in these Notes would be quite impossible. All that can here be done 
 is to indicate some safe guides for those who would climb its sublimities, de- 
 scend into its abysses, and skirt around its banalities. 
 
 F. Mary Wilson : A Primer of Browning. Contains a brief account of the 
 life of the poet, of the characteristics of his poetry, and a series of simple 
 introductions to the poems. 
 
 W. J. Alexafider: Introduction to the Poetry of Browning. Somewhat 
 more advanced in thought and style than the foregoing : contains a statement 
 of the scope of Browning's philosophy, with careful interpretation of a few of 
 the principal poems. 
 
 G. \ V. Cooke : A Guide Book to the Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert 
 Browning. Contains, among other things, (i) a carefully selected and (necessa- 
 rily) short Bibliography of the Best Things said of Browning ; (2) mention of the 
 dates, places, and circumstances under which the poems were written ; (3) sources 
 of the poems; (4) Browning's own explanations of his poems ; (5) explanations 
 of many historical, biographical, and artistic allusions ; (6) descriptions of the 
 principal characters in Brownings poems ; (7) accounts of the stage presentation 
 of such dramas as have been acted. 
 
 Edward Berdoe : The Browning Cyclopczdia. An exhaustive Dictionary of 
 the sources of the poems and of the historical and literary material and allu- 
 sions necessary to an understanding of them. Contains also a Bibliography 
 (much inferior to that in Cooke) and a Table of Contents of the publications 
 of the Browning Society. 
 
 A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES. 
 
 The full title of the poem from which this extract is taken is Balaustion's 
 Adventure, Including a Transcript from Euripides. The scene is laid in the 
 year 413 B.C., when the inhabitants of Rhodes determined to transfer their 
 allegiance from Athens to Sparta. Balaustion (Wild-pomegranate-flower), a 
 maiden of Kameiros in Rhodes, was so loyal to the Athenian tradition, that she 
 persuaded her family to fly with her to Athens. Driven out of their course by 
 a storm, they were chased by a pirate to the entrance of the port of Syracuse. 
 The hostile Syracusans, cherishing bitter memories of the recent Athenian 
 expedition against their city, refused harborage to the vessel carrying Balaustion 
 and her friends ; in despair, they were about to turn and face death from the 
 pirate, when the Syracusans demanded if any on board could recite verses 
 from Euripides. Balaustion knew the Alkestis almost by heart : — 
 
 We landed ; the whole city, soon astir 
 Came rushing out of gates in common joy 
 To the suburb temple ; there they stationed nic 
 O' the topmost step : and plain I told the play. 
 Just as 1 saw it; what the actors said, 
 And what I saw, or thought I saw the while, 
 
 h 
 
148 NOTES TO BROWNING. 
 
 At our Kameiros theatre, clean-scooped 
 Out of a hill-side, with the sky above 
 And sea before our seats in marble row : 
 Told it, and, two days more, repeated it, 
 Until they sent us on our way again 
 With good words and great wishes. — 
 
 See note on Childe Harold, iv. i6, for the incident in Plutarch on which 
 Balaustion's adventure is founded. 
 
 Non-classical readers who are interested to notice in what respects Browning 
 has departed from his original, should consult Potter's Translation of Euripi- 
 des (Morley's Universal Library, No. 54) ; R. G.Moultons Brozuning's Balaus- 
 iion, a Beautiful Perversion of Euripides' Alcestis (Browning Society's 
 Papers, Part xiii. No. 67) ; J. R. Dennett in the N. Y. Nation, xiii. 178. 
 
 1-3. Admetos. King Admetos had been sick unto death : at 
 the request of Apollo, the Fates had agreed to spare his life, on 
 condition that some one would die in his stead. Of all his friends 
 and dependents, his faithful wife Alkestis was the only one found 
 willing to save him. This sacrifice Admetos meanly accepted. 
 The play opens on the day appointed for her death. — For the story 
 in full see CI. Myths, § 80-Si. 
 
 4-33- Chorus of Ancient Servitors. Pelias : CI. Myths, 
 
 § 147. Paian (Paeon): in Homer, the god of Mealing. (See 
 
 Iliad V. 900-904). Later, used as here, as an epithet of Apollo, 
 dipt locks (25). Compare ^Eneid iv. 693-706, from which we 
 gather it was a common belief that no one could die until Proserpina 
 had dipt a lock from the head and thus consigned the soul to Pluto. 
 
 34-52. lolkos (lolcus) : an ancient city of Thessaly. The Argo- 
 nautic expedition started thence. 
 
 53-54. Here Admetos speaks. 55-60: Alkestis. In 58-60 she 
 ([uotes the words of Ciiaron. 60-63 : Admetos. 64-69: Alkestis. 
 70-72: Admetos. 73-78: Alkestis. 79-86: Admetos. 
 
 87-149. Passages of such pathos as this, make Euripides the 
 most modern in tone of all the Greek poets. 
 
 150-178. A little care in study will show the lines appropriate to 
 each character. In line 166, Alkestis means it is not necessary that 
 Admetos should sacrifice himself : her death is suflicient to appease 
 the Fates. 
 
 179-200. There is nothing in the original to correspond with 
 these lines: they are, of course, the interpretation of Balaustion. 
 A great voice : the voice of Ilerakles. this dispirited old age : the 
 chorus of Ancient Servitors. 
 
 201-203. Herakles and Admetos were bound by ties of long friend- 
 ship. 
 
 204-227. Balaustion again, — and so in many subsequent places 
 
A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES. U9 
 
 that will hardly need indication. their monarch tried, etc. (218) 
 
 = their monarch tried to discover if any loved him more than he 
 loved them. 
 
 228-248. In the lines omitted after line 24S, Admetos gives ambig- 
 uous answers to Herakles' questions as to the cause of grief. This 
 is a weak point in the play : Admetos admits that he ' must inter a 
 certain corpse to-day,' and the dramatist must dower Herakles with 
 preternatural stupidity to keep him fi-om stumbling on the true ex- 
 planation. 
 
 249-271. In this episode the character of Admetos appears in its 
 most favorable light. In the main, he is a contemptible fellow. 
 
 272-293. the snake : the Lernean Hydra. the lion's hide : the 
 
 Nemean lion. For the exploits of Herakles, see CI. Myths, § 139- 
 
 H3- 
 
 294-331. Chaplet (317); myrtle-sprays (318). See Alexander's 
 Feast, line 7, and note thereon. 
 
 332-359. Tiruns (Tiryns) a city in Argolis, where Herakles made 
 his home during the twelve years in which he was accomplishing 
 his Twelve Labors. Hence he is sometimes called Tirynthius. 
 boltered = clotted. This is a very rare word that seems to have 
 survived only in the Warwickshire dialect. Shakespeare (a War- 
 wickshire man) uses it in Macbeth, iv. i. 123. 
 
 For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me. 
 
 Kore (Core) = The Maiden, a title of Persephone (Proserpina). 
 
 360-397. By the stand-still : by the stopping of the funeral proces- 
 sion on its return from the tomb. peplos (peplum) : an upper 
 garment worn over one arm and draped at will around the body : 
 richer and more voluminous than the kimation. 
 
 398-419. Too late Admetos recognizes his own selfishness and 
 the worth of her he had lost. 
 
 420-482. the king o' the Bistones = Diomedes. His horses lived 
 on human t^esh ; to capture them was the eighth labor of Herakles. 
 
 483-535. This is certainly a strong dramatic situation. Com- 
 pare Shakespeare's treatment of a similar theme in the Winter's 
 Tale, v. 3. 
 
 536-588. Do we feel assured that the soul of Admetos is 
 thoroughlj' purified by suffering.'' He says so, but he is not put to 
 the proof by action. 
 
 589-702. And save, that sire, his offspring (659) = And may that 
 sire [Zeus] save his offspring. the son of Sthenelos (683) = 
 
 Eurystheus, to whom Herakles was made subject by the gods for 
 the space of twelve years. See note on Tiruns, line 334. 
 
150 NOTES TO BROWNING. 
 
 703-718. Sophokles : generally acknowledged to be a much greater 
 dramatist than Euripides. Of the 130 plays ascribed to him, only 
 seven have come down to us ; the Alkestis is not among these. The 
 only direct evidence we have that Sophocles wrote a play on this 
 subject, is a line which Plutarch quotes in his Treatise on Oracles 
 (xiv.) and which he ascribes to a play of Sophocles called Admctos. 
 Dionusiac. The Alkestis of Euripides was first performed at Athens 
 in 43S B.C. in the theatre dedicated to Dionysus (Bacchus). Aris- 
 totle, in his Poetics, tells us that Tragedy originated with the leaders 
 of the Dithyramb, — originally nothing more than the song of 
 peasants celebrating the vintage. See CI. Myths, § 46. crater, 
 
 in its original (Greek) meaning of ' goblet.' The Human with 
 
 his droppings of warm tears. This line is from Mrs. Browning's 
 Wine of Cyprus. 
 
 Despite jagged and uncouth lines not a few, every reader of Browning must 
 feel how much that poet gains \Xi presentation when he brings himself under the 
 clarifying and restraining power of even so ordinary a stylist as Euripides- Ex- 
 perience seems to show plainly that no poetry lacking in clearness of expres- 
 sion and beauty of form can exercise any wide-spread or permanent influence; 
 Browning either was unable or was too careless to give this form and this ex- 
 pression to the great majority of his verses : we may be tolerably sure, then, 
 that a volume or two will contain all of his poetry that future ages (less realistic 
 than this) will care to read. Theologians and metaphysicians may long con- 
 tinue to gain ideas from him, but neither theology nor metaphysics is the prov- 
 ince of poetry. If this judgment be wrong, I err in good company : Matthew 
 Arnold did not consider it worth while to read any of Browning's later works, 
 and Schopenhauer asserts, even too emphatically perhaps, that everything has 
 been sung, everything has been cursed in due order, and that with poetry every- 
 thing is now a matter of style. 
 
LIFE OF TENNYSON. 151 
 
 TENNYSON 
 
 Alfred Tennyson, the son of a country clergyman, was born at Somersby 
 Rectory in Lincolnshire in 1809 (the same year as Mr. Gladstone). In his 
 twelfth year he composed an epic of four or five thousand lines, — fortunately 
 lost. He missed the doubtful blessing of rough school-boy life at Eton or 
 Harrow, receiving instead thorough classical instruction from his father, and a 
 thousand pleasant lessons from Nature, who unclasped for him her illuminated 
 missal as he roamed by hill-side, brook and sea-shore. At Cambridge (1827- 
 1831) he took the Chancellor's Prize for the best English poem ; among his 
 competitors were Arthur Henry Hallam and Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord 
 Houghton). In 1830 appeared his Poems, C/i/<?/?y Z/Wca/, among which were 
 many pieces now famous : Cla?-ibel, Mariana, The Poet, Oriana, Recollections 
 of the Arabian Nights. Two years later came another volume ; in this we find 
 The Miller's Daughter, QLiione, A Dream of Fair Women, The Lotus Eaters. 
 These were written in Tennyson's twenty-third year ; among our great poets 
 only Milton and Keats have shown such maturity at such an early age. Some 
 of the poems in this volume were not without defects; passing over their 
 virtues, the Quarterly seized upon these defects and held them up to ridicule. 
 Unnecessarily hurt by these strictures, Tennyson remained silent for ten 
 years : in 1842 he gave to the world another volume in which (to mention only 
 the best) were Ulysses, Locksley Hall and Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. 
 Emerson's criticism on this volume is wisdom in a nutshell : Tennyson, he says, 
 ' is endowed precisely in the points where Wordsworth wanted. There is no 
 finer ear nor more command over the keys of language. Color, like the dawn, 
 flows over the horizon from his pencil in waves so rich that we do not miss the 
 central form.' — Tennyson's reputation was now firmly established ; The Princess, 
 (1847), if we excise the lyrics, hardly added to it, nor dXAMaud (1855). In 1850, 
 upon the death of Wordsworth, he was appointed Poet Laureate and in the same 
 year published In Memoriam. Four Idylls of the A'iVz^ appeared in 1859 ; others 
 were added at varying intervals, rounding the episodes into a complete Epic. 
 The weak-motived, slow-evolving dramas that Tennyson put forth during his 
 old age, make us feel that his reputation would have been higher had he lived 
 no longer than did Shakespeare. In the idealizing epic, with an ornate grace 
 all his own, he is but little below the masters ; in the lyric he is unsurpassed ; in 
 the drama — in that highest form of literary art, where character is painted in 
 with the colors of both emotion and action — -in this he is deficient. 
 
 Tennyson was raised to the peerage in 1884 and died, full of years and honors 
 in October, 1892. 
 
152 NOTES TO TENNYSON. 
 
 Here is Carlyle's portrait of him in his prime : ' A great shock of rough, dusty- 
 dark hair ; bright, laughing, hazel eyes ; massive, aquiline face, most massive, 
 yet most delicate; of sallow brown complexion, almost Indian-looking; clothes, 
 cynically loose, free and easy; smokes infinite tobacco. His voice is musically 
 metallic — fit for loud laughter and piercing wail, and all that may lie between; 
 speech and speculation free and plenteous. I do not meet, in these late decades i 
 such company over a pipe.' — Letter to Emerson, 1847. 
 
 Friends — Arthur Henry Hallam, Trench, Thackeray, Dickens, Carlyle, 
 Browning, Gladstone. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Times. — Tennyson's family have not yet authorized the publica- 
 tion of any life of the poet. Until this appears, we can find a vade mecum 
 sufficient for our purpose in Alfred Tennyso?i, A Study of his Life and Work by 
 Arthur Waugh (London, 1893). Those to whom this book is inaccessible may 
 consult a sorry substitute in the article on Tennyson by Mrs. H. K. Johnson in 
 Appleton's Annual CyclopcBdia for i8gj. Mrs. Anne Thackeray Ritchie has 
 some interesting reminiscences in Harper's Magazine for December, i8Sj, while 
 the ever-faithful Poole will unlock the flood-gates of periodical literature. 
 
 Criticism. — Tennyson reflects so perfectly nineteenth century thought and 
 emotion, that little help is needed to get at his meaning. Yet the following 
 books will be found useful for illustration : 
 
 Littledale : Essays on Lord Tennyson's Idylls of the King. This gives in 
 simple and popular form, an account of the historical sources of the Idylls 
 and an interpretation of such allegory as Tennyson may (or may not) have 
 intended to put into them. 
 
 Van Dyke : The Poetry of Tennyson : An excellent exposition of Tennyson's 
 poetic development from 1827 to 1889. Contains also a Bibliography that 
 separates the slag from the gold, and a List of Biblical Quotations and Allusions 
 Found in the Works of Tennyson. 
 
 y. Churton Collins : Illustrations of Tennyson. Traces Tennyson's imita- 
 tions and transferences to their sources, with the object of illustrating the 
 connection of English Literature with the Literatures of Greece, Rome, and 
 Modern Italy. 
 
 Bagehot: Literary Studies ; I'ol.ll. Wordsworth, Tennyson and Brozoning; 
 or Pure, Ornate and Grotesque Art in English Poetry. A most subtle and 
 delicate piece of criticism : within the field to which it confines itself, by far the 
 best thing that has been written on Tennyson. 
 
 CENONE. 
 
 OSnone was the wife whom Paris deserted for Helen. — Notice with what 
 delicate art, in this poem, the landscape is set to reflect the feeling. This 
 landscape-setting is a poetical device almost unknown to the ancients; Ten- 
 nyson has had many imitators, but no equals in this method of treating classi- 
 cal subjects. 
 
(EN ONE. 153 
 
 I-2I. Ida. A mountain-range near Trov. C lough writes in a 
 letter from the Pyrenees, Sept. i, 1861 : ' CEnone, he [Tennyson] 
 said was written on the inspiration of the Pyrenees, which stood for 
 Ida.' topmost Gargarus : a Latinism, on the model of sumnius 
 
 mons = the top of the mountain. See Allen and Greenough, Latin 
 Grammar, § 193. Gargarus was the highest peak of Ida. forlorn 
 
 of Paris: another Latinism; a kind of genitive of specification, 
 like integer vitcv = upright in life. A. and G., § 218 (c). 
 
 22-32. many-fountained Ida. ' So fared he [Zeus] to many- 
 fountained Ida, mother of wild beasts, even unto Gargaros, where 
 is his demesne and fragrant altar.' — Iliad, viii, 47-48. the 
 
 noon-day quiet held the hill. ' The noon-day quiet held the 
 
 hill.' — • Callimachus, Lavacrum Palladis, 72.' The lizard, with 
 
 his shadow on the stone. ' When, indeed, the very lizard is sleep- 
 ing on the loose stones of the wall' — Theocritus, vii. 22. Mine 
 eyes are full of tears, my heart of love. ' Mine eyes are full of 
 tears, my heart of grief.' — 2 Henr\ w. ii. 3. 17. 
 
 33-51. a River-God : Cebren. as yonder walls Rose slowly to 
 a music slowly breathed. According to a legend in Ovid (Epistulae, 
 XV. 1 79-1 So) the walls of Troy rose to the music of Apollo's lyre. 
 Simois : a river of the Troad. 
 
 52-74. Hesperian gold. The Hesperides (Daughters of the 
 West) guarded the golden apples which Ge (the Earth) gave to 
 Here on her wedding. To obtain possession of these apples was the 
 eleventh labor of Hercules. See Tennyson's poem. The Hesper- 
 ides. Oread = Mountain-nymphs. 
 
 75-88. For the details of this story, see CI. Myths, § 167. 
 
 89-100. The original of this lovely passage is to be found in 
 Iliad, xiv. 347-351: 'And beneath them the divine earth sent 
 forth fresh new grass, and dewy lotus, and crocus, and hyacinth, 
 thick and soft, that raised them aloft from the ground. Therein 
 they lay, and were clad o'er with a fair golden cloud, whence fell 
 drops of glittering dew.' 
 
 101-130. champaign. See note on this word in Macaulay's 
 Horatius, line 100. 
 
 131-167. The character of Pallas, as portraved here, is in admi- 
 rable keeping with Homer's conception of her, in the Odyssey, as 
 the friend of Odysseus. 
 
 168-igo. Italian Aphrodite. Idalium or Idalia was a mountain 
 (also a city) in Cyprus, sacred to Venus. Paphian. Paphos was 
 
 another city in Cyprus sacred to Venus. 
 
 1 For this and for the illustration from Theocritus, I am indebted to Mr. Churton 
 Collins' book. 
 
154 NOTES TO TENNYSON. 
 
 191-225. plume (205); trembling. Notice the picture in this 
 first word, and the accuracy of observation in the second. The 
 
 Abominable: the goddess Eris (Discord). 
 
 226-264. Cassandra: one of the daughters of Priam. Apollo 
 gave her the gift of prophecy, but with it the penalty that her 
 prophecies should never be believed. 
 
 In his old age Tennyson continued this subject in his Death of Qinone. The 
 sequel is not worthy of the original : CEnone is depicted as embittered and re- 
 vengeful ; she loses that sweet womanliness and despairing tenderness that make 
 her so pathetic a figure in the first poem. 
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Tennyson is remarkable for the curious felicity with which he reproduces the 
 characteristics of other poets, at the same time adding something hard to define, 
 yet unmistakably his own. In QSnone we have the sensuousnessand the color- 
 ing of Keats; in The Miller's Daughter, \he thoroughly English tone and the 
 deep joy in domestic affection that appear so often in Wordsworth, — combined 
 with a lilt and melody that Wordsworth seldom attained to. 
 
 The lyric ' It is the miller's daughter' (169), is closely imitated from the clos- 
 ing octette of Ronsard's Odes, iv. 26. 
 
 [Literal Translation.] 
 Je voudrois estre le riban I would be the ribbon 
 
 Qui serre ta belle poitnne; That presses thy beautiful breast; 
 
 Je voudrois estre le carquan I would be the necklace 
 
 Qui orne ta gorge yvorine; That graces thy ivory throat; ■ 
 
 Je voudrois estre lout autour I would be indeed 
 
 Le coral qui tes levres touche, The coral [coralline rouge] that touches 
 
 Afin de baiser, nuict et jour, thy lips 
 
 Tes belles levres et ta bouche. That I might kiss, night and day, 
 
 Thy beautiful lips and Ihy mouth. 
 
 Ronsard, in his turn, took the thought from a fragment in the Pseudo-Anacreon, 
 thus rendered by Mr. Collins : ' Would I were a mirror, that thou mightest be 
 ever gazing at me ; would that I were a tunic, that thou mightest always wear 
 me; and thy breast band ; and would I were a sandal; only trample me with 
 thy feet.' See note on Burns' To a Mountain Daisy, 39-54. The third stanza 
 of Tennyson's song also contains suggestion of the sextet in Keats' Last Sonnet. 
 
 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 
 
 The greater part of this poem (lines 170-440) was published in 1842, under 
 the title of Morte D' Arthur. Lines 1-169 and 441-469 were added many years 
 later to connect this Idyll with Guinevere and to frame into one picture the 
 scattered mosaics which the author had cut from various materials. When read 
 in the following order — The Coining 0/ Arthur, Gareth and Lynette, The Mar- 
 riage of Geraint, Gerai?it and Enid, Balin and Balan, Merlin and Vivien, 
 Lancelot and Elaine, The Holy Grail, Pelleas and Ettarre, The Last Tourna- 
 ment, Guinevere, The Passing of Arthur — the Idylls are seen to constitute a 
 
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 155 
 
 kind of Epic in twelve books, — an Epic deficient, certainly, in Unity of Action, 
 but not deficient in Spiritual Unity. In his Epilogue to the Idylls Tennyson 
 calls his work 
 
 this old iinperffct tale 
 New-old, and shadowing- Sense at war with Soul 
 Rather than that gray king, whose name, a ghost 
 Streams like a Cloud, man-shaped, trom mountain peak, 
 And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; — 
 
 Acting on the hint in these lines, some commentators have constructed elabo- 
 rate interpretations of the Idylls as Allegories. While allegorical passages un- 
 doubtedly occur in the Idylls, any attempt to interpret them throughout as an 
 allegory breaks down at vital points. Nor is such an interpretation either neces- 
 sary or desirable: it weakens the pathetic and purifying effect which the Idylls 
 convey when viewed in their proper light — as a work of Art. 
 
 1-8. their march to westward. Throughout this poem Tennyson 
 varies the incidents only slightly from those in Malory's Morte 
 D'Arthur, Book xxi. Cap. 3-5. 
 
 9-28. These lines are a late addition of the poet's, no they, in' 
 this place, add anything to the effect of the poem.' 
 
 29-49. Gawain : according to Malory (xxi. 2) the nephew of 
 King Arthur and, after Launcelot, his favorite knight. Tennyson 
 characterizes him differently in Launcelot and Elaine, 542-54S : 
 
 a Prince 
 In the mid-night and flourish of his May 
 Gawain, surnamed the courteous, fair and strong 
 And after Launcelot, Tristram and Geraint 
 And Lamorack a good knight, but therewithal 
 Sir Modred's brother, of a crafty house 
 Nor o'"ten loyal to his word. 
 
 like wild birds that change Their season in the night. From 
 Dante's Inferno, v. 40-49. 
 
 And as the wings of starlings bear them on 
 
 In the cold season in large band and full, 
 
 So doth that blast the spirits maledict ; 
 It hither, thither, downward, upward drives them ; 
 
 No hope doth comfort them for evermore, 
 
 Not of repose, but even of lesser pain. 
 And as the cranes go chanting forth their lays, 
 
 Making in air a long line of Themselves, 
 
 vSo saw I coming, uttering lamentations. 
 Shadows borne onward by the aforesaid stress. 
 
 (Longfellow.) 
 
156 NOTES TO TENNYSON. 
 
 50-64. Modred. Malory represents him as the King's son. For 
 his character in the Idxlls, see The Coming of Arthur, 200-202 ; 
 Gareth and Lvnette, 28-31, 409; Pelleas and Ettarre, last line; The 
 Last Tournament, 166; Guinevere, /(755/;«. 
 
 65-78. The legendary wars here referred to are related in Malory, 
 Books i. and v. See The Coming of Arthur, last 16 lines. Almes- 
 bury; in Wiltshire. The reference is, of course, to Guinevere. 
 
 79-117. Lyonesse. A mythical country, west of Cornwall. The 
 Scilly Islands are doubtless the origin of this myth. Malory says 
 the battle took place ' upon a down beside Salisbury and not far 
 from the sea-side,' and declares, ' Never was there seen a more 
 dolefuller battle in no Christian land.' 
 
 ii8-i6g. Excalibur (168). For the description of this famous 
 weapon, see The Coming of Arthur, 238-264. 
 
 170-205. Camelot: probably Qiieen-Camel in Somersetshire, 
 but the Arthurian geography is as vincertain as the Odyssean. For 
 a description of the Hall at Camelot, see The Holy Grail, 225-257. 
 Merlin. See the Coming of Arthur and Merlin and Vivien. 
 
 206-432. In this pathetic episode, Tennyson follows Malory 
 closely, yet adds little touches of his own that light up the dim 
 narrative of the old knight as the jewels lit up the haft of Excalibur. 
 What these touches are, will best be seen by letting Malory speak 
 for himself : he is no mean story-teller, in his own quaint way. 
 
 But my time hieth fast, said the king. Therefore, said Arthur, take thou 
 Excalibur, my good sword, and go with it to yonder water side, and when thou 
 comest there, I charge thee throw my sword in that water, and come again, 
 and tell me what thou there seest. My lord, said Bedivere, your command- 
 ment shall be done, and lightly bring you word again. So Sir Bedivere depart- 
 ed, and by the way he beheld tliat noble sword, that the pommel and haft were 
 all of precious stones, and then he said to himself. If I throw this rich sword 
 in the water, thereof shall never come good, but harm and loss. And then Sir 
 Bedivere hid Excalibur under a tree. And as soon as he might he came again 
 unto the king, and said he had been at the water, and had thrown the sword 
 into the water. What sawest thou there? said the king. Sir, he said, I saw 
 nothing but waves and winds. That is untruly said of thee, said the king; 
 therefore go thou lightly again, and do my command as thou art to me lief and 
 dear, spare not, but throw it in. Then Sir Bedivere returned again, and took 
 the sword in his hand ; and then him thought sin and shame to throw away 
 that noble sword ; and so eft he hid the sword, and returned again, and told to 
 the king that he had been at the water, and done his commandment. What 
 saw thou there ? said the king. Sir, he said, I saw nothing but the waters wap 
 and the waves wan. Ah traitor, untrue, said king Arthur, now hast thou be- 
 trayed me twice. Who would have wend that thou that hast been to me so lief 
 and dear, and thou art named a noble knight, and would betray me for the 
 riches of the sword. But now go again lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me 
 
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 157 
 
 in great jeopardy of my life, for I have taken cold. And but if thou do now as 
 I bid thee, if ever I may see thee, I shall slay thee with mine own hands, for thou 
 wouldst for my rich sword see me dead. Then Sir Bedivere departed, and 
 went to the sword, and lightly took it up, and went to the water side, and there 
 he bound the girdle about the hilts, and then he threw the sword as far into the 
 water as he might, and there came an arm and an hand above the water, and 
 met it, and caught it, and so shook it thrice and brandished, and then vanished 
 away the hand with the sword in the water. So Sir Bedivere came again to the 
 king, and told him what he saw. Alas, said the king, help me hence, for I dread 
 me I have tarried over long. Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back, 
 and so went with him to the water side. And when they were at the water side, 
 even fast by the bank hoved a little barge, with many fair ladies in it, and among 
 them all was a queen, and all they had black hoods, and all they wept and 
 shrieked when they saw king Arthur. Now put me into the barge, said the 
 king : and so he did softly. And there received him three queens with great 
 mourning, and so they set him down, and in one of their laps king Arthur laid 
 his head, and then that queen said. Ah, dear brother, why have ye tarried so 
 long from me ? Alas, this wound on your head hath caught over much cold. 
 And so then they rowed from the land ; and Sir Bedivere beheld all those ladies 
 go from him. Then Sir Bedivere cried, Ah, my lord Arthur, what shall become 
 of me now ye go from me, and leave me here alone among mine enemies. 
 Comfort thyself, said the king, and do as well as thou mayest, for in me is no 
 trust for to trust in. For I will into the vale of Avilion, to heal me of my griev- 
 ous wound. And if thou hear never more of me, pray for my soul. 
 
 This way and that dividing the swift mind (228). This is line 285 
 of Aeneid iv. : 
 
 Atque animum nunc hue celerem, nunc dividit illuc. 
 
 Notice the onomatopoetic elifect in 238-239 and in 354-35S. Three 
 Queens (366) : Faith, Hope and Charity ( .''). But see lines 452-456. 
 The holy Elders (401). See Matthew ii. 1-12. Bound by gold 
 
 chains about the feet of God (423). See note on Dryden's Charac- 
 ter of a Good Parson, 14-24. 
 
 433-469. the weird rime. See The Coming of Arthur, 352-366. 
 yon dark Queens. See The Coming of Arthur, 327-337. 
 
 The line of hope, with whi,ch Tennyson closes his poem, is worthy the noble 
 character he has depicted. What matter if King Arthur is an anachronism? 
 So is Odysseus, so is Satan in Paradise Lost, so is Vergil in the Divine Comedy- 
 — King Arthur interests us because he is a man, tried at all points like unto our- 
 selves, struggling with Sense at war with Soul, beaten apparently in the conflict 
 but kaving behind an imperishable Ideal around which future ages shall build 
 a purer and a better Reality. 
 
 So to live is heaven : 
 To make undying- music in the world, 
 Breathing as beauteous order that controls 
 With growing sway the growing life of man. 
 
158 NOTES TO TENNYSON. 
 
 THE SPLENDOR FALLS. 
 
 This exquisite song comes between the third and fourth parts of The Princess, 
 and is one of the polished gems that redeem from mediocrity that curious med- 
 ley. — Notice the details of the poet's art : The first stanza carries the mind back 
 into the historic past ; a picture rises before us of Chivalry, with its blazonry of love 
 and glory ; we see the mediaeval castle, the mountains in the distance, with the lake 
 sleeping at their feet and the white cataract smitten to gold by the rays of the 
 setting sun. The second stanza completely etherializes this picture ; transfers 
 it to the Realm of Faerie. The third stanza carries the mind forward, suggesting 
 Love, Immortality, Eternity. — The charm added to the whole by the refrain 
 of the bugle-notes, I shall not attempt to analyze. 
 
 HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD. 
 
 This song comes between the fifth and sixth parts of The Princess. It is a 
 lyrical rendering of an incident in Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, i. 9. 
 
 In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier 
 
 The warlike foresters had bent; 
 And many a flower, and many a tear, 
 
 Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent : 
 But o'er her warrior's bloody bier 
 
 The Ladye dropp'd nor flower nor tear ! 
 Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, 
 
 Had lock'd the source of softer woe ; 
 And burning pride, and high disdain, 
 
 Forbade the rising tear to flow ; 
 Until, amid his sorrowing clan. 
 
 Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee — 
 'And if I live to be a man. 
 
 My father's death revenged shall be ! ' 
 Then fast the mother's tears did seek 
 
 To dew the infant's kindling cheek. 
 
 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 
 
 Arthur Henry Hallam died in 1833 and was buried in Clevedon Churchyard, 
 on the coast of Somerset. This lyric appeared in the first collection of poems 
 that Tennyson published after his friend's death.- The sentiment, the imagery 
 and the date of publication would all seem to point to Clevedon as the source of 
 this lyric's inspiration : as to its actual composition, — ' It was made,' said Tenny- 
 son, ' in a Lincolnshire lane at five o'clock in the morning.' 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 ' On the north [of Somersby Rectory] a straggling road winds up the steep 
 hill towards the summit of the wold, while on the south a pebbly brook bubbles 
 along close to the edge of the garden. Not at all the sort of scenery one asso- 
 ciates with the fen-country : instead of dreary waters and low-lying levels, the 
 
CROSSING THE BAR. 159 
 
 landscape sweeps up into hills and drops into valleys, full of the sights and 
 sounds of country life, and rich in fiowery hollows and patches of tangled 
 meadow-land. It requires no strain of imagination to catch the spirit of Tenny- 
 son's song here, where the little brook of his poem dances along through the 
 heart of the country, chattering as it goes.' — Waugh's Tennyson, Cap. i. 
 
 CROSSING THE BAR. 
 
 This poem was published in 1889 when Tennyson was in his eighty-first year. 
 It stands last in the volume entitled Demeter and Other Poems. Tennyson's 
 friend, Arthur Waugh, has spoken a word thereon to which it would be hard to 
 add anything of value: 'And last, yet incomparably first stands that perfect 
 poem which is above criticism — composed (it is said) during the poet's passage 
 across the Solent — ' Crossing the Bar.' It has been translated into Greek and 
 Latin, and set to music ; but no alien note was needed to complete the dignified 
 perfection of its harmony. There is no more beautiful utterance in all the range 
 of English verse.' 
 
160 SOME ATTEMPTS TO DEFINE POETRY. 
 
 SOME ATTEMPTS TO DEFINE POETRY. 
 
 I. Poetry in general seems to have originated from two causes, 
 both natural ones; it is innate in men from childhood (i) to imitate 
 
 — and herein we differ from other animals, in that we are the most 
 imitative and acquire our first knowledge through imitation — and 
 (2) to delight in imitations. Poetry is the province either of a man 
 that is clever or of one who is in an enthusiasm akin to madness. — 
 Aristotle; Poetics: iv. 2 and xvii. j. 
 
 II. To which [Logic and Rhetoric] poetry would be made sub- 
 sequent, or indeed rather precedent, as being less subtile and line, 
 but more simple, sensuous and passionate. I mean not here the 
 prosody of a verse, which they could not but have hit on before 
 among the rudiments of grammar ; but that sublime art which in 
 Aristotle's Poetics, in Horace . . . and others, teaches us what 
 the laws are of a true epic poem, what of a dramatic, what of a 
 lyric, what decorum is, which is the grand masterpiece to observe. 
 
 — Milton ; On Education. 
 
 III. A Poem is that species of composition, which is opposed to 
 works of science, hy proposing for its immediate object pleasure, 
 not truth ; and from all other species — (having this object in com- 
 mon with it) — it is discriminated by proposing to itself such de- 
 light fi-om the Ti'/iole as is compatible with a distinct gratification 
 from each component ^cr/. — Coleridge; Biographia Literaria, 
 Cap. xiv. 
 
 IV. All good poetry is the spontaneous overflow o. powerful 
 feeling. — Wordsworth ; Pre/ace to the Lyrical Ballads. 
 
 V. Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the 
 happiest and best minds. — Shelley ; Defense of Poetry. 
 
 VI. Poetry is the suggestion, by the imagination, of noble 
 grounds for the noble emotions. — Ruskin; Modern Painters: Part 
 iv. Cap. i, § /J. 
 
 VII. It is important, tnerefore, to hold fast to this : that poetry 
 is at bottom a criticism of life ; that the greatness of a poet lies in 
 his powerful and beautiful application of ideas to life, — to the 
 question : How to live. — Matthetv Arnold; Essay on Wordsxvorth. 
 
 VIII. Poetry is simply the most delightful and perfect form of 
 utterance that human words can reach. Its rhythm and measure, 
 elevated to a regularity, certainty, and force very different from that 
 of the rhythm and measure which can pervade prose, are a part of 
 its perfection. — Matthe-w Arnold ; The French Play in London. 
 
 IX. Poetry, which is a glorified representation of all that is seen, 
 felt, thought, or done, by man, perforce includes Religion and 
 
SOME ATTEMPTS TO DEFINE POETRY. IGl 
 
 Philosophy among the materials reflected in its magic mirror. But 
 it has no mission to replace them; its function being not to super- 
 sede, but to transfigure. — Alfred Austin; On the Position and 
 Prospects of Poetry (Preface to the Humati Tragedy). 
 
 X. By poetry I mean the art of pi-oducing pleasure by the just 
 expression of imaginative thought, and feeling in metrical lan- 
 guage. — Coiirthope ; The Liberal Alovement in English Literature, 
 Essay i. 
 
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