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LITERATURE, 1896. 
 
 / 
 
 SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM 
 
 WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, CAMPBELL 
 AND LONGEELLOW 
 
 KUITKI) WITH 
 
 INTRODUCTION, LITERARY ESTIMATE AND NOTES 
 
 BY 
 
 WM. PA KEN HAM, B.A., 
 
 Head Master Brockville Collegiate Institute^ 
 
 AND 
 
 JOHN MARSHALL, M.A., 
 
 EngUsh Master St. TAo/ucu Collegiate Institute. 
 
 TORONTO : 
 THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED. 
 
Entered accordiiiif to Act of the Parliament o( Canada, in the year one thousand 
 eight hundrwl and ninety-five, by Thk Copp, Clark Compant, Limited, Toronto, 
 Ontario, in the Offlce of the Minister of Agriculture. 
 
I 
 
 ■i 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Influer ^ed by the modern demand on behalf of students for 
 "no notes " or *' few notes," the editors of these Selections have 
 been bold enough to depart, both in the subject-matter and 
 the form of this book, from the orthwlox conceptions of a 
 literature text, and to speak to the teaeliei.s as well as the 
 students. This is done, however, with no presumptuous fancy 
 that they are able to bring positive value to the teacher, rather 
 with the assurance from pei'sonal exjieriences that they do 
 bring suggestions for profitable modes and lines of work. Tn 
 the evolutionary development c^' an author's powers, with its 
 natural corollary, a comparati\e analysis of his work, is found, 
 they feel, the key-note of modern literary studies. 
 
 But they must offer apologies not so much for what they 
 planned to do as for what they did. Lack of time — the work 
 was undertaken late in the spring, lack of opportunity — 
 burdens are not foreign to a High School Master's life in May 
 and June, rendered impossible a practical apjilication of the 
 principles of the Introductory Chapter to the study of selected 
 poems, and left somewhat imperfect and incomplete the treat- 
 ment of Campbell and Longfellow. For the rest, let lack of 
 power speak. 
 
 Toronto, Jtily, 1895. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Paqb 
 
 Prkpaoe iii 
 
 Introductory Chaffkr, — 
 
 Literary (Jriticism v-xxix 
 
 WoRUSWOKTU, — 
 
 Biographical Skeivh I 
 
 Chronological List of Works 2 
 
 Development of His Thought and Style 31 
 
 His View of Life 32 
 
 Selections 41 
 
 Notes 51 
 
 Colrrii)<;k, — 
 
 Biographical Sketch 71 
 
 Chronological [jist of Works 72 
 
 Development of His Thought and Style 73 
 
 Estimate of Value of His Work 100 
 
 Selections 107 
 
 Notes 133 
 
 Campbell,— 
 
 Biographical Sketch 147 
 
 Chronological List of VVorkf? 147 
 
 Development of His Thouglit and Style 1-^9 
 
 Estimate of Value of His Work 157 
 
 Selections IGl 
 
 Notes I«i7 
 
 LONGFKLLOW, — 
 
 Biographical Sketch 1 73 
 
 Chronological List of Works 174 
 
 Literary Life and Thought 175 
 
 Selections 11)5 
 
 Notes '-'79 
 
 Bibliography 2'Jd 
 

THE EVOLUTION OF LITERARY (lUTIClSM. 
 
 Of all forms of intellectual activity the least satisfactory, 
 inotho<lical and scientific is literary criticism. In our new- 
 born zeal for the study of literature there is indri'd no lack of 
 utterance on literary matters : estimates of the lives and 
 woiks of men of letters fill the magazines, whih^ introductions, 
 expositions, critiques and commentaries are poured fr(>m the 
 j)ress in endless profusion. But how rarely do we feel that any 
 current criticism has disengaged the stimulus which we are 
 sure the author contains for us, and brought us into immt^diate 
 contact with genius itself to ol)tain the incentive, the true 
 and the excellent, which it is the function of a work of genius 
 to impart. 
 
 The popular demand for this sort of work is no proof of its 
 scientific method. It is quite possible to write; of poets and 
 poetry afresh, to combat received oj)inions concerning them, 
 and to interest the average intelligent reader in so doing, 
 without the writer's applying or the i-eader's being called 
 on to comprehend one intelligible canon of criticism. The 
 average reader is like one of George Eliot's characters: " 'What 
 is the truth 1 ' asked Lady Chettani of Mrs. Cadwallader in 
 Middlemurch. 'The truth 1 he is as bad as the wrong physic 
 — nasty to take and sure to disagree.' ' There could not be 
 anything worse than that,' said Lady Chettam with so vivid 
 a conception of the physic that she seemed to have learned 
 something exact about Mr. Ca.saubon's di. sad vantages." Give 
 the man just emerging into the intellectual life plenty of 
 effusion tricked out in copious metaphorical drapery like the 
 
VI 
 
 THK KVOLUTION OF LITKKAKY CHITICISM. 
 
 ;^i 
 
 following passage from a well known Shaksperean editor's 
 coMiniciit on Kiv<f Lear : " I am not cloar whotluTthe inspired 
 antics that sparkh^ from the surface of liis mind are in more 
 impressive contrast witli the da^k tragic scones into which 
 they are thrown like rockets into a midnight tempest or with 
 the nndercurrent of deep tragic thoughtfulness, out of which 
 they falteriiigly issue and play" — give the average reader 
 plenty of such figurative criticism and like Lady Chettam he 
 will have such a vivid conception of the figures that nothing 
 in the heavens above, in the earth beneath, or in the waters 
 under the earth will convince hira that he is really no wiser 
 than at first, that such verbal delirium will never bring him a 
 step nearer the understanding of a poet or his work. 
 
 The defect of current critical writing is its want of scientific 
 method. Critics so voluminously productive must feel the 
 excellence of the authors or works studied, like Andrea Del 
 Sarto's artistic contemporaries, must enter the heaven of poetic 
 interpretation, enter and take their place there sure enough, 
 though they come back and cannot tell the world. And they 
 ■will never tell the world until they come to some agreement 
 as to the nature of poetry. Edgar Allen Poe, Theodore 
 Watts, llossetti, Swinburne, and the rest of the festhetic 
 school define poetry as an app'^al to the sensuous love of the 
 beautiful. "I would define in brief the poetry of words," 
 says Poe, " as the rhythmical creation of beauty ; its solo 
 arbiter is taste ; with the intellect or with the conscience it 
 has only collateral relations ; unless incidentally, it has no 
 concern whatever with duty or truth." Many admirers of 
 Milton, althougli that is not the only characteristic of Milton's 
 genius, make poetry the act of conveying impressively " ideas 
 of worship, praise and supplication." Others, nourished on 
 Dryden and Pope, define poetry as the language of wit and 
 epigram and ratiocination. Emerson, Coleridge a,nd the 
 transcendentalists or romanticists deride ratiocinative poetry, 
 
TIIR EVOLUTION OP LITKUARY CUITICISM. 
 
 Nil 
 
 and strive to limit the; t<;rin poetry to tlio iMni'loyiiUMit f)f 
 seiiso conceptions as symbols of a drcpor spiritual tiiitli por- 
 oeptihie to the imagination only. "The poot (li.sc(»vers," says 
 EnuTson, "tliat what men value as auhstanctis Iuino a higher 
 value as symbols, that nature is the immense shadow of man." 
 
 Tn each of these views th(!re is a portion of truth. They 
 are not contradictory but correlative. In the evolution of 
 criticism they liave been successively isolated and emphasized, 
 and therefore made to a])pear too anta;.,'onistic, but tlu- ! i 'her 
 synthesis in which full justice is done to each contending 
 principle has already been suggested. The development of 
 thought is everywhere the same — first, a vaguely uneei\«'d 
 whole; then the anal -sis of this whole and the emphasiziu^,' in 
 succession, even to the point of contraaiction, of eacli of its 
 elements; o-jid finally the synthesizing conception wh;wh 
 reconciles the apparent contradictions. 
 
 From the Socratic philosophy, for example, came both the 
 idealism of Plato and the materialism of the Cyrenaic school, 
 each isolating, emphasizing and therefore bringing into clearer 
 consciousness one aspect of the master's thought to the exclu- 
 sion of all the others, and then came the masterly synthesis of 
 Aristotle, in which th^ warring princi])les of the various schools 
 found their reconciliation. English criticism has obeyed a 
 simila:' law. Beginning with Sidney's Defence of I'o'ifiie, in 
 which all subsequent criticism was contained in germ, English 
 criticism has passed successively through the sensuous, the 
 moral and religious, the ratiooinative and the romantic stages, 
 and now awaits the synthesis which will give these various 
 aspects their due place in a total view of poetry. Taking the 
 flexible intelligence of Greece as the highest all-round develop- 
 ment of human nature that the world has seen, and the 
 Hebrew, the Latin and the Gothic minds as relatively partial 
 and imperfect, we may conveniently consider the history of 
 
via 
 
 TIIK KVOLUTION OF I.ITKRAKY CRITICISM. 
 
 English criticism under tlie following heads : Premature 
 Helh-nisni, JFebraism, Latinisni, Romanticism and the Keturn- 
 ing Hellenism of IVFatthew Arnold, Stopford Brooke and oi/her 
 recent criticism. 
 
 Premature Hkllenism. 
 
 iVlediievalisra, the prevalent theory of life prior to the 
 lienaissance, may briefly be descrihed as otherworldliness. Tt 
 originated as a wholesome reaction against the terrible colossal 
 materialism which, under the lioman Empire, threatem^d the 
 annihilation of all the intellectual grandeur of mankind. In 
 this lioman world the flesh had bect)me so insolent that 
 Ch'-istian disci{)line was needed to chasten it. After the 
 carnival of sensuality of later Home there was need of the 
 preaching of the gospel of self-denial, continence, renunciation. 
 But like every other movement, rational and ])eneficent in 
 its origin, it came to be pursued fanatically and mechani- 
 cally, and of course was carried to extremes. All flesh 
 was condemned ; aiid not only was the supremacy of spirit 
 over llesh admitted, but the latter was mortified in order 
 to gratify the former. Through the odium cast on the 
 flesli the most innocent gratifications of the senses were 
 accounted sins; and, as it was impossible to be entirely 
 spiritual, the growth of hypocrisy became inevitable ; des- 
 potic and arbitrary forms of government found their most 
 ethcacious support in medijevalism, through its teaching th(^ 
 renunciation of all earthly pleasures and the cultivation of 
 the virtues of abject humility and angelic patience; while 
 its insistence on the complete subordination of reason to 
 faith opposed an almost insupera])le barrier to the advance- 
 ment of science and perpetuated for centuries the reign 
 of ignoi'ant credulity. Assuming an absolute separation 
 between the world of nature and that of spirit as if 
 gome lesser god had made the world and had not force to 
 
 k 
 
THE EVOLUTION OP LITERARY CRITICISM. 
 
 shape it as he would, or indeed as if Satan himself were the 
 lord of this lower world, mediaeval ism forbade, as Taine 
 says, "a life of nature and worldly hopes; erected monasti- 
 cism into the ideal for actual life ; and ended by replacing 
 spontaneity or originality, whether of thought or of action, by 
 submission, reducing religious enthusiasm to fixed religious 
 practices, the morality of the heart to outward nu'ohanical 
 discipline, and thinking *^o a mere mnemonic exercise." Gro- 
 tesqueness, hideousness and gloom in art, hypocrisy in life, 
 and conduct and credulity in matters of science were the 
 earmarks of mediaeval ism. 
 
 Against all this the great movement of thought and feeling 
 which thrilled the whole of Europe in the lOth century was 
 a protest, and it therefore exhibited in most countries three 
 main phases — aesthetic, religious and intellectual. In England 
 there was a quickening in turn of the national imagination, 
 will and reason corresponding to the influence of Greece, of 
 Judea and of Rome, which were then, through the revived 
 interest in the Bible and in the (iroek and Latin classics, 
 beginning to modify English insularity, [t would be a mis- 
 take, of course, to suppose that the national glow of life and 
 thought which characterized the age of Elizabeth was wholly 
 owing to foreign or external influence. No individual or race 
 can be influenced by another race or individual unless the 
 former have some spiritual kinship with the latter. The 
 abundance and excellence of Anglo-Saxon i)oetry and pro.se; 
 the freshness and vigour, the sparkling wit and genial humour 
 of the literature of the transition, of 77ie Oicl cnul the 
 NitilitiiKjale for exanqilc ; the abiding power and charm of 
 Chaucer's verse ; the ancient and inbj-ed integrity, piety, good 
 nature and good humour oi the English people sufliciently 
 prove the native vitality of the race, its imaginative, intellec- 
 tual and moral kinship, before mediicvalism laid the dead hand 
 upon it, with Greece, Home and Judea at their best. At the 
 
THE EVOLUTION OP LITERARY CRITICISM. 
 
 same time when the spirit of a people is finely touched thoy 
 eagerly go out of thems<^lves to seize upon whatever may 
 sustain the flame of their own glowing life and derive great 
 help from contact with olde*' and more pei'fect civilizations 
 than their own. Though the English spirit was touched by 
 each of the three great ancient civilizations, it was to the 
 influence of Athens that England first responded, thougli the 
 other tendencies opei'ated ev(;n then as undercurrents and 
 were destined to emerge in turn as the dominating tendencies 
 of the nation. 
 
 The Attic or Hellenic genius, as described by Professor 
 Curtius, the famous historian of Greece, was characterized by 
 a love of clear thinking and fearless discussion, a gay social 
 temper, an ease and lightness, a gracious flexil)i]ity, a sense of 
 energy that abhorred every kind of waste of time, a sense (^f 
 measure that avoided bombast and redundancy, a clear intelli- 
 gence foreign to everything partaking of obscurity or vague- 
 ness, and a dialect characterized by superior seriousness, 
 manliness and vigour of language, a habit in short in all 
 things of advancing directly and resolutely to the goal. The 
 Greek ideal was no less than complete human perfection, and 
 the Greek genius at. its best inckided the definiteness and 
 practical enerL'y of the Roman with the moi'al fervor of the 
 Jew, while the Roman and the Jew sacrificed flexibility, 
 imagination — ^the one to his political, the otlun- to his moral 
 and religious bent. 
 
 In the 16th century an almost Athenian tuin for gaiety, 
 wit and fearless thinking arose, an Athenian impatience of 
 restraint, of all stiffness, hardness, narrowness, prejudice, and 
 want of amiability. Shakspere at his best is a Greek in 
 radiant clearness and pregnancy of utterance. In critical 
 as in creative writing, the clear, appreciative, Hellenic bent 
 appeared. Sidney's Defence, of Poesie, written between loS.l- 
 1595, is one of the monuments of the noblest pliase of perhaps 
 
The evolution of litrrary criticism. 
 
 XI 
 
 the noblest movement of English thought. Filled with a 
 longing for perfection beyond the thought of any but ra poet, 
 Sidney gives us the poetry, rather than the theory, of criticism, 
 and is the standing proof in his own age, as Shelley is in ours, 
 that there must be brought to the interpretati(Mi of poetry 
 some measure of the same delicacy and spontaneity of con- 
 sciousness as went to its production. He would not have the 
 poet's golden moments, those gleams like the flashing of a 
 shield when earth and the connnon face of Natuvc speak to 
 him of rememberable things, those blessed moods in which the 
 burthen and the mystery, the heavy and weary weight of all 
 this unintelligil)le world is lightened, when this earth he w;dks 
 on seems not earth, this light that strikes his ey(>))all is not 
 light, this air that smites his forehead is not air but vision — 
 yea, his very hand and foot, in moments when he feels he can- 
 not die, ami knows himself no vision to himself nor the high 
 (jrod, a vision, — Sidney would not have those evanescent gleams 
 of spirit which it is the poet's function to seize and fix in shin- 
 ing lines for our consolation and stay, tesled by the sordid 
 and narrow experience of the comfortable worldling or the 
 siiallow and conceited dilettante. " Disdaining to l)e tied to any 
 such subjection and lifted by the vigour of his own invention 
 into another nature, the poet is not enclosed," ho says, " witliin 
 the narrow warrant of Nature's gifts, but freely ranges within 
 the zodiac of liis own wit." Yet his enthusiasm never becomes 
 romantic idealism, never lets go its hold of the fact; if he peaks 
 of the imagination it is not of a fa,culty different from and 
 antagonistic to the reason, but simply the reason in a glow, 
 the reason lighted up with emotion, becoming enamoured of the 
 truth which it perceives. When we can feel with Keats that 
 " Beauty is truth, truth beauty," then reason has become 
 imagination. This is the relation that Sidney saw hetween 
 the two faculties : " There is no art delivered unto mankind," 
 he says, " that hath not the works of Nature for its principal 
 
Xll 
 
 THE EVOLUTION OP LlTERARf CRITICISM. 
 
 object." Poetry, that is to say, is just the breath and finer 
 spirit ui all knowledge. A good composition cannot be con- 
 trary to rules. It may be contrary to certain principles sup- 
 posed in ignorance to be general, but every good composition 
 is in perfect harmony with all known and true rules, and 
 thousands of others so delicate that they can never be formu- 
 lated, and can be traced only by the most apprehensive deli- 
 cacy of eye, ear or thought. The same largeness of view, the 
 same catholicity of taste, is shown in his treatment of form. 
 His classic sympathy appears in his references to Sackville's 
 Gorbodnc, which, while praising for climbing to the height of 
 Seneca's style, and as full of notable morality, he censures for 
 violations of the unities, both by Aristotle's precept and com- 
 mon reason. But he was also the eloquent champion of the 
 Eufrlish laniruajie and verse : " Since the modern fo! ii de- 
 lights," he says, " though in its own way it obtaineth the same 
 purpose ; there being in either sweetness ; wanting in neither, 
 majesty." From this it is evident that form and study of 
 form were regarded by Si<lney not as ends in themselves, as 
 with many a later poet and critic, but as means to an end, the 
 spiritual interpretation of life. In virtue of his preference for 
 the things of the spii-it, his comparative indiiierence to matters 
 of form, the ardour of his morality and the intensity of his 
 enthusiasm, Sidney has spoken to the fine spirits of all ages, 
 and his book is an enduring call to high thinking. 
 
 Work like Shakspere's in the creative and Sidney's in the 
 critical sphere makes us with whom flexibility of mind and 
 fearless thinking are only now after many vicissitudes coming 
 into honour again, to feel often as if we were only catching up 
 to the Elizabethan age, as if in Arnold's phrase the English 
 spirit had entered the prison of Puritanism in the 17th cen- 
 tury and turned the key upon itself for two hundred years. 
 But this beautiful apparition of Hellenism was a premature 
 appearance, as its earlier manifestation in Athens itself was 
 
 I' 
 
THE EVOLUTION Of MTERArY CRITICISM. 
 
 XUl 
 
 also premature. The Greek genius hreatlied like spring for a 
 few lovely day.s over western Europe, and the thickets were all 
 becoming alive with jubilant voices when returning winter 
 struck sadness into the heart of the year and hu.shed all the 
 joyous melody. And the cause of the failure of the Greek 
 spirit to maintain itself in the IGti) century was the same as 
 in the 3rd century before Christ : the moral and religious fibre 
 in humanity was not sufliciently braced. Indeed, its failure 
 was perhaps more inevitable in Elizabethan England than in 
 ancient Athens. The fearless thinking and flexible intelli- 
 gence of the Athenians were the gradual conquests of several 
 generations of progress, while the intellectual liberation of 
 England was, comparatively, an affair of a moment. Men 
 restored to liberty or having suddeidy recovered the u.se of a 
 limb, usually express their joy in all sorts of fantastic capers. 
 Many Elizabethans strike one as acting in a similar manner. 
 Suddenly emerging from the prison house of the middle ages 
 they cut the queerest intellectual capers, as if solely to demon- 
 strate their own enfranchiseuient. Shakspere, the sanest poet 
 of the period, is not free from conceits that can be regarded 
 only as a sort of intellectual gymnastics. 
 
 They tliat have power to Imrl uiid will do none, 
 
 That do not do the thin;; they iiuisl do show, 
 
 That moving others are themselves as stone, 
 
 Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow ; 
 
 They rightly do inherit heaven's ;,''raies, 
 
 And husband nature's riches from expense ; 
 
 They are the lords and owners of their faces, 
 
 Others b 'it stewards of their excellence. 
 
 The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, 
 
 Thouj^h to itself it only live and die ; 
 
 But if that flower with bast' infectioFi meet, 
 
 The basest weed outbraves its diifnity ; 
 
 For sweetest thinjjfs turn sourest by their deeds ; 
 
 Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. 
 
 Examples of this curious, fanciful subtilizatiou of thought 
 
XIV 
 
 THE RVOHJTION OP LITKRARY CRITICISM. 
 
 J 
 
 are abundantly found in Sliakspere. Lady Macbeth's speeches, 
 for example : 
 
 and again — 
 
 Meiiory, the warder of the brain, 
 
 Shall be a fume and the receipt of reason, 
 
 A limbeck only. 
 
 When you durst do that you were a man, 
 And to be more than what you were you would 
 He 80 much more the man. 
 
 This, which is a marked but not an essential feature of Shak- 
 spero's style, is characteristic of his lesser contemporaries, 
 among whom such atrocities as the following are common 
 enough : 
 
 Fate shall fail to vent her gall 
 Till mine vent thousaiida. 
 
 The nation whose poets produce such conceits must pui-ify 
 itself seven times in the tire, must expel its nature with a fork 
 before tliey are adequate to the highest spiritual effort, to the 
 noble simplicity and high sereneness of the greatest poetry. 
 It was not their fancifulness, though a strong current of 
 opposition to all this extravagance of sentiment and language 
 had been t)[)erating from the beginning, but their licentious- 
 ness tliat tirst rous(Hl the strong ethical conunon sense of the 
 English peoples In other words, it was not the influence of 
 Home but of Judea that first superseded that of Greece. 
 
 Hebraism. 
 
 Puritanism was the reaction of the conscience and moral 
 sense of our race against the moral indifference and lax rules 
 of conduct which came in with the Renaissance. Even apart 
 from the moral relaxation of the Renaissance, Puritanism had 
 so assimilated Bible ideas and phraseology "names," says 
 Matthew Arnold, "like Ebeuezer and notions like hewing 
 
THE EVOLUTrON OF LITKHARY CUITICISM. 
 
 XV 
 
 i,aiage 
 
 1 
 
 itious- 
 pf the 
 
 i 
 
 ice of 
 
 M 
 
 noral 
 
 rules 
 
 [apart 
 
 \\ had 
 
 says 
 
 I wing 
 
 Agag in pieces became so natural that tlie sense of aftinily 
 ])et\vcen the Hebrew and the Teutonic nature was quite strong, 
 and a middle class Anglo-Saxon much more readily imagined 
 himself Ehud's cousin than Soj)hocles' or Euripides'." " Puri- 
 tanism, in short, was," Arnold says again, " the reaction of 
 Hebraism against Hellenism manifesting itself as was natural 
 in a people with a signal atEnity for the bent which was the 
 master bent of Hebrew life — an overp<nvering sense of righte- 
 ousness. It undoubtedly checked and changed the movement 
 uf the Renaissance which we see producing in the reign of 
 J'^lizabeth such wonderful fruits. Undoubtedly it stopped the 
 prominent rule and direct development of Hellenism and gave 
 ])rominence to another order of ideas. But the defeat of 
 Hellenism proves that its ascendancy at that moment would 
 not have been for the world's good." Puritanism was the 
 appointed discipline for the licentiousness of the later Eliza- 
 l)ethan period. We have been singing the praises of flexible 
 intelligence, conduct is also deserving of praise. The idea of 
 a moral order of the universe which it is man's hap})inoss to go 
 along with and his misery to go counter to is an idea capable 
 of arousing the emotions and giving rise to poetry, and Puri- 
 tanism, too, bi-ought forth its poet and man of letters — Milton. 
 We are all supposed to be familiar with Milton's poetry. His 
 criticism, though meagre, had the same grand austerity 
 as his poetry — somewhat limited intellectually and a;sthetic, 
 but pure as the naked heavens, sonorous as the sea. 
 
 Puritanism, like Hellenism, however, soon showed its latent 
 faults, and England felt the imperious need of freeing itself 
 from the tyrannous pre-occupation with religion which the 
 Puritan age had exercised. The same instinct of self- 
 preservation which prompted the race to reject the civilization 
 of Home when it became licentious and materialistic, niedite- 
 valism, when it developed into excessive otherworldliness, 
 and Hellenism, when its flexibility proved a menace to moral 
 
XVI 
 
 THK EVOLUTION OF LITKKAKV CRITICISM. 
 
 onltT niu] rij^lit, now protcstfMl against Puritanism itself--its 
 want of measure and sanity, its mysticism and fanaticism. 
 
 Classicism, 
 
 Cloarnoss of tliouij^ht and clearness of utterance were the 
 watchwords of the Augustans. They resolutely closed their 
 senses to all f(^iliii<,'s of mystery and awe. to all ideas of 
 unseen and eternal nalities so constantly pi-esent to the 
 Puritan mind. The boundless inia^'i nation, unsj)eakable as- 
 j)iration, rtvcitlowint,' enthusiasm of the Renaissance, and the 
 l^ui'ititn's vivid I'lvdi/ation of the su.persensual world were 
 e(|ually unintelli,i,Ml»le, eipially I'egarded as morbid or diseased. 
 Connnoii sense and iitilitarian points of view were everywhere 
 adopted. It was tiu; j^reat age of prose and reason The 
 scientific spirit, which now became domin.int, was from the 
 first «»tic of the undercurrents of the Rt-nais.sance movement. 
 From tin; earliei' part of the Ifith century we find distinct 
 traces of an eil'ort to define the rules of the mother tongue. 
 Cox's li/irforic, published in I5."50, seems to have been the tiist 
 of the manuals that have to do with the English language. 
 In ir»S() IJuiiokai- could speak of iiis JJref Gi'dmwdr as the 
 fii'st gi-annnai' of English that ever was. Ascham in his 
 JSchoohndNff'- (ir)70) argues vigorously for classic regularity, 
 and disparages the use of rhyme then coming in. Spenser 
 and Harvey were also opposed to the use of rhyme, and en- 
 thusiastic believers in the possibility of establishing through 
 the authority of })ai'liament a uniforui orthogi-ajihy and 
 prosody. Daniels, in his defence of rhyme, indicates a change 
 of opinion regarding rhyme, but he is (piite in harmony with 
 the writers already mentioned in his insistence on regulai-ity 
 and law in language and versification. Gascoigiie in 1575 al- 
 most anticipates the latei' classical school in his rule: Finish 
 llic meaning at the end of every staff' when you write staves, 
 and at the end of every two lines when you write ia 
 
 ■^'f 
 
 I 
 
 ■'4, 
 
t 
 
 THK EVOLUTION OP LITKHARY CIUTUISM. 
 
 XVll 
 
 If— its 
 in. 
 
 f»t 
 
 re the 
 
 1 
 
 I tlu'ir 
 
 
 ejis of 
 
 
 to the 
 
 
 :)le as- 
 
 
 lul the 
 
 
 1 wei'e 
 
 
 seased. 
 
 
 ywliere 
 
 
 L The 
 
 
 (till tlie 
 
 
 etueut. 
 
 ,■ 
 
 listiiu't 
 
 
 toiiiiiic. 
 
 ^'l 
 
 he lirst 
 
 
 i^'Uii^^e. 
 
 
 as the 
 
 
 ill his 
 
 
 iilarity, 
 
 
 >})enser 
 
 
 111(1 eu- 
 
 
 hrodgh 
 
 
 y and 
 
 1% 
 
 change 
 
 1 
 
 ly with 
 
 
 ularity 
 575 al- 
 
 ii 
 
 Finish 
 
 '■ ,1 
 
 staves, 
 
 
 ite iu 
 
 '""> 
 * 
 
 Unlets, ruttenhain's Art of Enylish J'ocsi/, puhHshcd in 
 1581), shows a praiseworthy effort in its division int<) tliree 
 books, the first of p(jets and poesie, the second of propor- 
 ti(jn, the third <»f oinanicnt. It defines one huiuh'ed and 
 seven figures, insists on proper a(X'entuation and ortho- 
 graphy, and defends rhyme as couii^ensating for tiie loss of 
 (juantity. The next important contribution to the develop- 
 ment of criticism wtus Hen .lonson's Tiniburs or Discovn'ifH ; 
 indeed, the Vwok may be said to contain a little of the liter 
 classicism. Jcmson tried to make good the long-felt w; n of 
 an English grammar, and he again and again says he would 
 have the poet such as he is or should be, by natur(», by exer- 
 cis(s by imitation, by study, brought through the disciplines 
 of grammar, logic, rhetoric and ethics. Consciousness of pur- 
 pose, deference to tlu^ past, accej>tance of reason, as the 
 suprtinc authority, mark Jonson's poetry and criticism. 
 Ij{ingl)aiiie, Dennis, \\'alsh, "the muse's judge and friend," 
 Mr. Rymer, whose judicious observation Dryden and Pojjc 
 both j)raise, carried forward the classical movement, but 
 Diyden is tlie truest interpreter of the new spirit; in liim 
 tliere culminated a century and a lialf oi critical progress, a 
 progress towards the end of the period very much (juickened 
 by contact with France, for it is noteworthy that while in the 
 Hellenizing period the literature of Greece was the source of 
 inspiration and in the Hebraizing time, the Bible, France, the 
 inlieritor of Latin culture, was the source of stimulus at a time 
 when clearness and rationality were the guiding ideas. A 
 movement having for its object the freeing of the national mind 
 from its absorbing preoccupation with religimi and the attain- 
 ing of regularity, uniformity, precision, and balance l)oth in 
 thought and in expression must be ex[)ected to bring some 
 negative excess, some touch of fr(jst to the imagination ; the 
 men of letters whose destiny it may be to bring their nation to 
 the attainment of fit and regular vehicles of expression, must 
 
 ^s 
 
xvin 
 
 TIIR EVOUITrON OF LITKRARY CRITICISM. 
 
 of tuH;(;ssit/y, wIksMkii' llusy work in proso or verso, give a pre- 
 (loriiinatiii",' mivI aliiiost exclusive Jittont/ion to the (|Uiilili(^s 
 moutioriod, ami this must involve some repi'essin<^ and silc^ncing 
 of poetry, I)rv(hMi, from his nearness to the great age of 
 Elizabeth, had a wide intellectual and artistic sympathy, but 
 there is sulUcient iwidence in his Essaif on Drauuitic Poetr// tmd 
 in his later preface^s that a predominant interest in form had 
 bi'ought a narrowing and numbing of imagination. Kthieal 
 aim, simple thought, regular rhythm, correct diction, sober im- 
 agination and respect for the authority of tlie past were what 
 he required of the poet. Poetry, they believed, should be 
 practical in purpose, definite in thought and lucid in expres- 
 sion. In Sidney, as we raw, form is comparatively insignifi- 
 cant, spirituality everything ; in Diyden, form is fully half. 
 From this on the interest in form is more and more exclusive, 
 criticism comes to be a regular occupation, reviewing arises, 
 the passion and passionate How of poetry become an increasing 
 im[)ei'tinence to the professional critic, who values nothing but 
 the glare and glitter of a perpetual yet broken and hetero- 
 geneous imag(My, or rather an ami)hibious something made up 
 lialf of image and half of abstract meaning of which the 
 following is only a more ludicrous instance : 
 
 No more will I endure love's pleasinj,' pain, 
 Or round my heart's leg tie his galling chain. 
 
 Romanticism. 
 
 Form witliout meaning, like every other sham, like MedijB- 
 valism when it had degenerated into hypocrisy, Hellenism 
 when its fiexibilitv had become moral inditrerence, or Puritan- 
 ism when its religious enthusiasm became faruitical, had to go, 
 and men tried to get back the passion and passionate flow of 
 poetry without form, if need be. That the movement from 
 classicism was revolutionary rather than evolutionary or 
 gradual, must be ascribed to the pernicious influence of the 
 
THE F.VOLl'TION OP LITEKARY CRITICISM. 
 
 XIX 
 
 Ledia;- 
 leiiisin 
 liritan- 
 
 to go, 
 low of 
 from 
 
 •y or 
 
 )f the 
 
 I 
 
 ^1 
 
 roviows. I'rofcs.sioiiiil criticism, from tliu natiiro of the cast;, 
 loves dchiiite staiidai-ds iti tlioiijL,'ht and styh-i, and the revic'ws 
 were, in conse(|ueiice, the stroiii^diolds of classicism, and clas- 
 sicism in its most wooden foi-m. 'J'he great reading public, 
 which the estahlishment of neswspapers and reviews and the 
 general advance of knowledge were creating, dso liked definite- 
 ness. To one just enuM-ging into tlu; irit( -lectual life, just 
 beginning to take an interest in language ;t.i<l stylt?, suchgiart; 
 and glitter of heterogeneous imagery as the reviews inculcat<'d 
 an admiration for, is the height of poetical achievement. Any 
 one who has ever taught (;omj)osition or read the composition 
 of a beginnei" attentively, will admit the truth of this. In 
 the reviews, then, and in a class of general readtM's just enH!rg- 
 ing into intellectuality, a narrow classicism unable or unwilling 
 to adopt more delicate tests of poetical excellence was strongly 
 entrenched. 
 
 In the meantime, however, the scientific movement w;is 
 bringing to the finer spirit of tlu; time a cure for its own 
 materialism. The simpler and more mechanical conceptions 
 of the earlier stages of the scientific movement were proving 
 their inadequacy to explain eveiy phase of life and a more 
 complex, more evolutionary, moi-e modern view of life and 
 progress was in some quarters already finding acceptance. The 
 experimental philosophei-s, by a constant criticism of tlie 
 sources of knowledge and an extending inclusion of the mental 
 faculties, had indicated their own need of a more thorough 
 p.s3^chology, and opened the way to th(! idealism of our day. 
 An emotional intensity, an enthusiasm which fifty years 
 earlier would have been laughed at, began to mingle with the 
 earlier reasonableness of judgm<?nt, to guide the nation's grow- 
 ing sense of human interdependence, the exactcr aiialysi.^ (f 
 philosophy, and the splendid dcxclopint'iit, of scicnct', and to 
 drive the new [England to natur(i and humanity for i-elief fiom 
 its own shallow and artificial philosophy and art. In the 
 
XX 
 
 TIIK KVOLUTION OF MTKHAIIY (RITiriSM. 
 
 midst of (hr ^'rcalcst. of (ln^ classirists tlitTc wjis growijm up 
 in otlitT words a (iritiL-ism at once afititlic^ti'' and coMipif 
 nmntary to tln'ir tcacliiiit;. In snjiport of this statcnuMjt it is 
 omIv nt'CJ'ssaiy to rct'cr to siicli wtitcrs as Addison, (^-oxall, 
 I'ai'nrll, Tli(»nipson, Allan Uainsay and ^Jray, to such works 
 as Percy's collection of ancit'nt liallads, and to the continuous 
 innlation of the Spenseriati stan/a and the Miltonic; hiank 
 verse. In i'ai'iieH's poetry there is a ;;enuinc feeling; for 
 nature very uidike th(^ Auj^ustan spirit and very suggestive of 
 Wordsworth : 
 
 How luip yon azure dyes the wky 
 
 Where orlw of K'>I'l unniiiul)crecl lie, 
 
 While thro' tlieir ranks in silver pride 
 
 The nether crescent seems to K'lide ! » 
 
 The shiniberiny l)reeze forjfeta to hreathe, 
 
 The lake is sniootti and elear Ixineatli, 
 
 Wliere once aj,'ain the sjian^led show 
 
 Deweiitls to meet our eyes l)elow. 
 
 Parnell's Iltfinu to Contentny'tit also shows true nature feel- 
 ing, and again seems to foreshadow Wordsworth : 
 
 The Sim that walks his airy way 
 
 To lij;ht the world and give the day, 
 
 Tile moon that shines with borrowed Ii},'hi, 
 
 The seas that roll mnmmhered waves, 
 
 The woml tliat spreads its shady leaves, 
 
 The tleld whose ears conceal the ^'rain. 
 
 The yellow treasure of the plain. 
 
 All of these and all I see, 
 
 Should he sun^' and muiih- of me ; 
 
 They speak their maker as they can. 
 
 But want and a.sk the ton^^ue of man. 
 
 His Fairy Tale contains a breath of real romanticism 
 
 In Britain's Isle and Arthur's days, 
 When midni<,'ht fairies danced the maze, 
 Livetl Kdwin of the Green 
 Edwin I wis a j^entle youth. 
 Endowed with courage, sense and truth, 
 Though badly shaped had been. 
 
TIIK KVOLI'TION OF LITKKAUY CKITKISM. 
 
 XM 
 
 SjMico will not jifiniif tlic illiistnition nf flu- ^'r<n\tli nf 
 lum.uiticisiii, liut tVoiii riiiiH'Jl to (Iniy tin' stu-am luntiimcd 
 Ut <i;r<»w iti \olimu' iiii<l inclndy. Wlial is (•ailed llicyiavc- 
 yacd lilciature <»t' tin* last (eiitiiry is aiiot lit-i- t'\ idrtu'c of this 
 ti'iidciicv loiii;, iTtlfct iv«' vci'sos on (K'atli and iiimioital;ty 
 whicli, if nut cxat'tly roniatitic in tVclinj;, wen' akin 1<> Kunian 
 ticisni, and ccrtaiidy react iuiiary to tins Augustan sj>iiit, which 
 strove to exclude all shad(»\vs of the iji'aNc and all mystery of 
 tin' future. lUair and ^'oiin,' are f he chief ••xainples of this 
 school. Pei'cv's collection of hallad liteiat ure also indicated 
 an incj'easin;,' interest in times and conditions remote from his 
 (twn. Still another .n-ation was the cont iipious imitat ion 
 of Sj)ensei-'s stanza form an<l the many attem)tts to catch 
 something of the nu^lody of the Miltonic hiank \crse. Thou,i,'h 
 the heroic cou})let or iamltic pentametei- runnint,' in couples 
 was the standai'd \crse form of the classicists, we tind men 
 like Pi'ior. Thompson, C\iinl)ridij;<!, West, Shenstone, Wartou, 
 Mende/. and I)entoii fi"om time to time dui'in:,' the whoh^ 
 classical pei-iod trying experiments in Spenser's and Milton's 
 favourite verse foruis. 
 
 (Jray, peneti-ated by tlu; spii-it of tlu^ future, hut true to the 
 logic and clearness of the old order, nught hasc made the 
 course of critical development much more ecjnahlc and gi'adua! 
 if he had oidy been able to speak out. Arnold calls Griiy the 
 man who nexcr spoke (tut in another sense, it is true : but it is 
 equally applicable to him as a i-i'itic. A narrow classicism 
 entrenched in the reviews had set itself against tbe encroach- 
 ments of the new romantic s])irit, though from time comjx-lled 
 to make grudging concessions to it, as for examjile in Shak- 
 spei'can criticism. Had Gi'ay spoken out, a happy mairiage 
 of classical and r-omantii-ism might luive occurred, the n-'W 
 criticism might have kt'j)t the best of the past, might have 
 been progressive and evolutionary inst(>ad of violent and 
 reactiouary ; might have retained from the start that apprecia- 
 
XXll 
 
 THE EVOLUTION OF LITKKARY ORITICISM. 
 
 tion of th(! vii-tues of tlio classicists wliich we are only now 
 coming to admit, and the failure to see and admit which has 
 been very d(;triniental. As it was, lio\v(n'er, Gray never spoke 
 out; the cr-itics, on the principle that whom the gods destroy 
 they first make mad, grow more arrogant, aiid the attempt of 
 Jeffroy to put down Wordsworth prHci})itated the revolt in 
 which the whole classic tradition was swept away and a 
 triumphant romanticism established in its stead. 
 
 Romanticism is characterized by mysticism, subjectivity,, 
 emotional intensity, love of the picturesque, love of the remote 
 either in space or time. The romantic writer is fond of ivy- 
 mantled towers and moonlit water, of old castles, of mountains, 
 of sunrises and sunsets. I [e is intenisted in the curious phases 
 of human emotion and often has a passion for the unnatural 
 and the horrible, as in tales of ghosts or deeds of blood. 
 
 As Romanticism was a native Teutonic or Gothic upheaval, 
 Germany, the Teutonic fatherhmd, naturally becam the centre 
 of influence, and Cohn-idge, by native temperame*.;. and inter- 
 course with Germany, the critic of the movement. Coleridge 
 had a mind .-.u})tle, sensitive and of great range and delicacy, 
 and his int(M'[)retation oi .special passages from Wordsworth's 
 and other pnctty in the /)io(/ra/>hia Llturaria has done more 
 than any other single influence to inspire moilern criticism 
 witli finenes.s, delicacy and spirituality. The most musical 
 and philosophical poet of the centur}'' could not bring his 
 poetic intuition to bear on the critical study of literature 
 without enriching for all time our c<mception of its spirit and 
 purpose. His suggestive etymologizing or discussion of the 
 origin and meaning of words has opened our eyes to the latent 
 poetry of words which in our ordinary employment of them, 
 like the sounds of nature referred to \)y the musician in Abt 
 Vo'jJci\ seem in no way remarkable, but brought together by 
 the poet have the power from their complementary associa- 
 
TTIR KVOLUTION OF LITKHAUY CIUTICISM. 
 
 xxm 
 
 ! only now 
 which has 
 lever si)oke 
 :)ds destroy 
 attempt of 
 e revolt in 
 kvay and a 
 
 ubjectivity,. 
 the remote 
 bnd of ivy- 
 mountains, 
 •ious phases 
 5 unnatural 
 looii. 
 
 LC upheaval, 
 the centi'c 
 and inter- 
 Coleridge 
 delicacy, 
 jrdsworth's 
 done more 
 criticism 
 ;t musical 
 ^.jring his 
 literature 
 spirit and 
 ion of the 
 the latent 
 of them, 
 ian in Abt 
 ether by 
 assouiur 
 
 tions, cnmpleinentary imaginative content — call it wliat you 
 will — of stirring our deepest emotional being. 
 
 Anil I know not if, save in tliin, such ^'il't iie allowrd to man, 
 That out of Oirce sounds lie frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. 
 ConsidiT it w ell : each tone of our scale in itself is '.lotight ; 
 It is everywhere in the world —loud, soft, and all is said: 
 Give it to me to use ! I mix it with two in my thouj,'ht, 
 ^^ And, there ! Ye have heard and seen : consider and bow the head I 
 
 Such power belongs to the poet as well as to the musician, 
 illustrations of which can be picked up anywhere : 
 
 listen, for the vale prof )und 
 Is overflowing' with the sound. 
 
 That orlied maiden with white fire laden, 
 Whom mortals call the moon. 
 Glides plimmerinjf o'er mj' fleece-like floor 
 By the midnight breezes strewn. 
 
 But it was Coleridge who first turned our attention to the 
 poetical content, of old and homely words usc^d in new and 
 suggestive arrangements. He was the first, too, to state 
 explicitly — the poets of course always felt it instinctively — • 
 that metre in itself in the hands of a great poet has a wonder- 
 ful power of suggestiveness, of expressing the poet's criticism 
 of life, and therefore that metre and rhvthm must be studied 
 afiTsli in ••(ilation to the poet's main thought and emotion. 
 Finally, and almost as a neces.sary corollary of the latter, he 
 first pointed out the ethical value of poetry in spite of, per- 
 haps even in virtue of, its having no direct ethical })urposc. 
 
 But he had his limitations ; his criticism was not sulFi- 
 ciently inductive. There is no hard and fast line between 
 inductive and deductive re;isoning, the principles of the 
 deductive syllogism being oidy llic results of complete induc- 
 tion, but for practical purposes it makes considerable (lilfer- 
 ence whether one's mental habit is inductivt; (ir deduct i\('. 
 Coleridge's habit was deductive. By an examination of the 
 
^f 
 
 . "1 
 
 XXIV 
 
 TIIK KVOI.niON OF I.ITKRAUY {'KITICISM. 
 
 faculties of the lunuuu inind, wliicli in tlio case of every 
 psyclioloi^'ist means his own individual mind, Ite hoped to get 
 a universal test for poetry iu the discovery of a distinct poeti- 
 cal faculty. His famous distinction between the fancy and 
 tiu; imagination was the i-esult — the former only the common 
 understanding mascpiei'ading in poetical dress, the latter the 
 gtuuiine organ of poetry. I5ut the distinction means no more 
 than that to Colei-idge certain poems were fanciful, while 
 others were imaginative, and this again means only tliat 
 trained, as he tells us himself, to prefer Hom(!r to Vii'gil, 
 Thucydides and Demosthenes to Livy and Cice;o, and Hhaks- 
 pei"e and MiltDU to Dryden and Pope, his sympathies did 
 U(jt go out to th(^ classicists. In r>ther words, as the psycholo- 
 gist's data are after all only his own mental [)roc(^sses, tlie 
 att(Mnpt to find an ahsolute test for poetry hy })sychoh)gical 
 analysis can mean only that the critic arrests his development 
 at a certain [)oint, rcigai'ds his incomplete development as per- 
 fect culture and formulates his own likes and disUkes as 
 univi'rsal principles of iestlietics. If we had wills of perfect 
 steadiness and heads of perfect clearness, and li\-ed to he as 
 old as Methusaleh, it might he possihle to reach a stage whei'e 
 we could safely formulate laws from our (»wn inner consciousness, 
 but within the bi'i(!f limits <»f a human life it is hardly p(»ssible 
 to get a familiarity with poetry and art sutliciently wide to 
 make our subjictive judgments at all times pei'fectly sure and 
 true. That the method hampered C'oleiidge so little, tiuit his 
 ci'iticism was so catholic, pi'oxcs the width and sympathy of 
 liis mind ; l)ut it did hamj)er him to some extent. It jiar- 
 rowed his sympathies for tlu; classicists and gave him an 
 overfondness for mysticisiu. Now surely Dryden and Pope 
 had good in them, and more good than bad. Since Coleridge's 
 time the (f pviori method has become more and more (hscred- 
 ited, and C(»leridge's influence on subsetpient criticism lias 
 been niuinly to throw it into the chaotic condition mentioned 
 
TEIK KVOLUTION OF IJTKRAHY rRITICISM. 
 
 X\V 
 
 every 
 
 fis per- 
 
 Ikes as 
 
 )erfect 
 
 l)e <as 
 
 wliei-e 
 
 usiiess, 
 
 tssihle 
 
 ide t(» 
 
 re and 
 
 it liis 
 
 lliy of 
 
 t iiar- 
 
 in an 
 
 Pope 
 
 •id^ce's 
 
 scred- 
 
 M Jias 
 
 ioned 
 
 at tlic outset. 'I'lic distinction Ix'tween fancy and inia,i,dnation 
 lia\in'4 liccn <liscr('<litc(l. tlieic remained of Colei'idi;e's work 
 on'iv liis insistence in conunon \\it!i tl^e 1 {onianticists <,'eneially 
 on feeliiit;'. iUit as 'me man's t'eelini,' is not anollier mans, 
 i-riiici^in lias reached a condition which seem-, in justify tht; 
 L.uin (hctuin, ''de i;ustil>us noil disputan(hnn,"' one critic 
 makiiiL;" the test ( f ])oet ry its liowci- to ph'ase hy its music and 
 sen-uou- l)(>auty, another its did, ictic purpose, another, its 
 insight into Jil'e and cliai'acier ; one ihiidcin^' it should he 
 clear and definite, another that it sliould he full of allegory 
 and syuiholisHi. 
 
 Thk Nkw Hellfnism. 
 
 It is in the prf)se prefaces of ^^'o!•ds\vol■th I'athei' than in the 
 critical writings of Coleridge that we first meet with traces of 
 the I'eturning Helh'nistie conception of the matter and nietlied 
 of [loetrv. '• I'oeti'v," savs AA'ordsworth in one j)lace, "is the 
 impassioned exjiression whch is in the face of all science;"" 
 and in another. " Toe try is the hreath and liner spirit of all 
 kn<.wledg(\"" As regaids its nu'thod ..r style, he held tint 
 thei'e was im essential ditVereiice ht^twceii the l.uiguage and 
 the movement of poetry and those df gdod prose. In the 
 prose work of Matthew .\ri:old these hints li.ivc heen 
 de\-eloped into a systematic theory and practice of critii-ism. 
 Arnold discar(ls Coleridge's ti-mscendental distinction hetwcen 
 jthcfioineiia or appearances and things in themseKcs. To him 
 tlu^ ideal or nol)le :s not < li.it of which we can |)redicate only 
 its complete dissimilarity from the actual world of our experi- 
 ence. As he says in tlie preface to the Mi.rrJ A'ssai/y, " the ideal 
 life is, in soliei' and practical truth, none otliei- than man's 
 normal life as we shall one day know it." The ideal and (he 
 actual are not opposjtes l)ut coi'idat ive aspects \t^ 'he one 
 reality, the convex and I he conca\'e sides of t he same shield. 
 Ix't us illustrate from luatheuiatics. John Stuart Mill argued 
 
XXVI 
 
 THR EVOLUTION OP LITERARY CRITIOISM. 
 
 that, as it was iinpossiblo for tlie inathoinatioian to draw a 
 figure in whicli microsco])ic examitiation would not detect 
 irregularity, the conclusions of mathtMnatics rested upon incom- 
 plete induction, and could not, tlierefore, be shown to be 
 universal and necessary. What Mill overlooked was that 
 niathematical reasoning is based not upoti (Ju; actual diagi-aui, 
 which undoubtedly falls short of ideal perfec-tion, but upon the 
 Cuncepti(jn of a pcn'fect figure, by comparison with which the 
 actual figure is judgeil to be iinpei'fect If this is so, as 
 obviously it is so, there is no such thing as a pure particular. 
 Every object has two aspects, the pai'ticular and the universal. 
 Every obj(ict is at once a finite object, existing at a particular 
 time and in a particular place, and an illustr-ation of a law 
 which is universal. This is Arnold's theory of life. The 
 ideal or noble is just the perfection latent in imperfection, 
 and towards which the imperfect tends constantly to appi-oxi- 
 mate, the eternal law or reason which manifests itself in the 
 fleeting and transitory phencnnena. ?]verything has a neces- 
 sary mode of existence, or, as Arnold says, a true law of its 
 being and its highest fruition is to be obtained only in obedi- 
 ence to this law. Man's true felicity, foi- e.xample, consists in 
 realizing here and now the possibilities of intelligence, order, 
 courtesy and retinemt^nt that are im[)lanted in his nature. 
 This is for him the ideal earthly life. Here is his present 
 heaven if he has a mind to make it so. 
 
 With the rejection of the otherworldliness of Coleridge and 
 his fellow mystics there is necessarily involved the denial of 
 any fun<lameutal distinction betweeii fancy and imagination, 
 reason and faith. For the perce[)tion of the ideal significance, 
 the spii'itual element in things, there is needed not a difi\ir(}nt 
 faculty from that em[)]oy(Ml in scientific inv(!stigation, but only 
 a greater intensity of soul. The objects of the poet's continn- 
 plati(tn are those which engage tiie attention of the man of 
 science. Only whereas the uiiXA of science treats them as 
 
THE EVOLUTION OF MTKRARY CRITICISM. 
 
 XX\Il 
 
 merely imiividual thiiigs or beings, the puet- clothes ihein with 
 a " li<>;ht that nfiver was on sea or land." Science abstracts, 
 isolates, breaks off portions from tlie roiuuled whole of truth. 
 The sense of ideal unity which scientitic analysis thus tends to 
 diistroy, poetiy, with its direct intuitive glance into the eternal 
 relations of things, attempts to restore. Science forces us to 
 regard particular things not as ideals, but examples merely of 
 general classes. Poetry treats the same particulai'S as in 
 Shelley's Cloud, for example, as symbols of some d(;eper s{)iri- 
 tual truth. Poetry is always on the watch for those brief 
 monu.'nts caught from fleeting time which exhibit the apjuo- 
 priate calm of blest eternity, for those happy combinations of 
 lime, place, pei'son antl circumstances which seem to point to 
 somt'tliing n\(»re universal. When an ol)ject or a situation has 
 been thus vividly apprehended by the poet he is com})e]led to 
 find a vehicle for his emotion in some form of artistic expi'es- 
 sion. He instinctively employs a heightened diction and a 
 more melodious movement, and the emotions of his hearers or 
 readers as instinctively respond to tliose modes of expi-ession. 
 Hence, as Arnold says, poetry is simply the most telling ci-iti- 
 cism of life. Keats' description of the forward-bending lover 
 on the Grecian urn — 
 
 Ire and 
 liial of 
 lation, 
 bailee, 
 I'erent 
 It only 
 Int.em- 
 lan of 
 iin as 
 
 Bold lover, never, never canst tliou ki^s, 
 Thoutfh winning near the troal— yet, do not <?ri(;ve ; 
 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
 For ever wilt thou luve and she be fair I 
 
 is the most telling way of suggesting that while in human 
 lives youth and beauty and love are transitory and fleeting, in 
 their own natures they are eternal and imptu'ishable. " In the 
 l)est poetry," says Arnold, "the substance and matter on the 
 oiii' hand an<l the style ar.d manner on the other, have a mark, 
 an accejit of high beauty, worth and power." " The substance 
 and matter of the best poetry," he goes on, '■ ac<(uire their 
 special character from possessing in an eminent degree truth 
 
XXVIU 
 
 TIIK KVOI-UTION OK rjTKKAKY CRITICISM. 
 
 I 
 
 find scfioiisiK^ss To (lie style ;ui(l niriniicr of 
 
 the lu'st jxK'tiy, tlicir sficcial cliai'.u't or, their ficccnt, is ufiveu 
 hy tlioir (lictioii, jiiid yt't iiioie by their irK)venient, and thou^di 
 we distin.Lfiiish hetween the two ehanicters, the two accents, of 
 siH)eriocily, }et they ace ae\ eitheless Aitally eonnecterl one 
 with theothei'. "^Phe .sU|iei'ioi' character of truth and .••(pious- 
 ness ill tht' inatl(M' and substance of the best poetiy is in- 
 separable from the superif)rity of diction and movement 
 marking its style and mannei". The two superiorities are 
 closely related and ar<^ in steadfast proportion one t.^ the 
 other. So far as hi lib j)oetic truth and seriousness are want- 
 ing to a ])oet s mattei- and substance, so fai* also we nja\' be; 
 sure will a \\']<^\\ poetic stani]) of diction and mo\emetit bo 
 wanting to his style and manner. In {)i'oportion as the liigh 
 stamj) of dii't ion and moNcment again is absent from a poet's 
 style and manner, wt^ shall find also that high poetic truth and 
 seriousness are absent from his sul)stance and matter." 
 
 Hero we ha\t! tlu^ true Hellenic view of art wdiich, now 
 again emerging aftei* many vicissitudes, we may hope to see 
 prevail. Sjiiritual freedom and classic restraint are its watch- 
 words ; flexibility, delicacy, ideality, and withal, order and 
 sanity, its characteristics. All the charms that have ever 
 been felt in poetry Hellenism feels, but in their proper rela- 
 tive importances It admits the charm of the poetry which 
 the iesthetic school admires, 
 
 I.ifj^ht feet, dark violet, eyes and parted lii)s, 
 
 Soft dimpled hands, white necVt and creamy t)reast, 
 
 admits that such lines contain a criticism of life, but deiues 
 f (, 'e:''i/.ing or divinization of })leasui'e alone can give 
 
 . ;! V liighest poetry. Hellenism adiriits the grandeur 
 ti •.. . ■ ^le of the moi'ai order of the universe and its 
 
 power oi ..! Ululating races and individuals to splendid bursts 
 of poetry, but reminds the lovers of grave and serious poetry 
 
TtIK KVoLUTloS* OF MTKHAHY Ci; ITiriSM. 
 
 X \ 1 X 
 
 mci" of 
 ■^ Ljivoii 
 though 
 outs, of 
 ('(1 one 
 .'■:(n'ious- 
 •y is In- 
 )venK'iit 
 
 ics are 
 
 to the 
 t> wiint- 
 
 may \n) 
 net! I )h! 
 blie high 
 
 a poet's 
 •uth and 
 
 ich, now 
 
 to S('<' 
 
 watcli 
 
 t>f and 
 
 ve over 
 
 tior reki- 
 
 V which 
 
 denies 
 
 an <i;ivii 
 
 1 
 
 raudeiif 
 
 'A 
 
 anil its 
 
 '"'i 
 
 ! bufsts 
 
 3- 
 
 p(»etry 
 
 iH 
 
 that there are other aspects of (he :;nt mirscKcs Itcsidcs the 
 mitral ord(.'r, tlu; world of science and ait, tor ex unjile, wiiicli 
 have hft'ii no less capable of insj)iring other laees and indi- 
 \ iduals. With Kmerson, Coleridge and the transeendentalists, 
 it admires in poetry the elejiient of mystery and wonder, but 
 then where everything is wonderful, everything providential, 
 everything miraculous, there is no room for exceptional eases. 
 The new cj'iticism has all the spirituality, the sensitiveness to 
 subtlf^ gleams of meaning, of the critical work of Colei'idg(i 
 without Coleridge's tui'gidity and mysticisni, all tiie ordei- and 
 sanity of the classicists without their woodenness. 'riic new 
 criticism more and more tends to take as the proper basis of 
 poetry not phantasy or superstition, nor yet connnon st^nse and 
 wit, but the imaginative reason. Oriental laces uv.iy continue 
 to rest their poetry on the sensuous imagination, society verse 
 may spai'kle with antithesis and epigram, Semitit- poeti \ may 
 separate the ideal and the actual, the human and the divine, 
 and place its ideal world in a life beyond the grave, the Indo- 
 l'iUroi)ean mind is increasingly coming to believe that the 
 ideal is but the true law towards which the actual constantly 
 approximates, to believe that all of animated nature arc but 
 oi'ganic harps 
 
 diversely framed 
 That tremble into tlKuit;tii as o'er them sweeps, 
 Plastic and vast, one intelleiliial bree/.e, 
 At once the soul of each and Qod of all, 
 
 to place its ideal in opposition to Semiticism in this woild, to 
 t'onsider all excessive synd)olism, all mysticism and (»ther- 
 worldliness as mor*^ or less of an iin[iertinence and to regai'd 
 jioetry as a rt^xclation through the ujedium of the music of 
 \erse and the subtle suggestiveness of language of the latent 
 beauty and spirituality of the world around us. 
 
WTLIJAM WOKDSWOllTII. 
 
 [Williuni Wordsworth was born April 7, 1770, at Cockernioiitl), a 
 town on tho Derwent River, at the foot of the Cumherland high- 
 lands. ITis parents, who were both of hardy northern stock, died 
 while he was yet but a boy. At Hawkshead, a neighbouring town, 
 he passed his early school days, aud these were days of great free- 
 dom in reading and playing. In 1787, Wordsworth entered St. 
 Jolm'.s College, Cambridge, and in 1701, having secured his degree 
 after a college course by no means reniarkalde for scholastic aohieve- 
 nu'nts, he left Cambridge for France, whither he had gone with a 
 c .: go friend during his last vacation. His enthusiasm for the 
 ""/I' lution kept him across the Channel for a year, when tbe Keign 
 of Terror, and, [)erhaj>s, pressure from home, drove him l)ack to 
 Kngland. "VN'ith no definite plans for the future he went to London 
 ill 17'.»2, and si)ent the summer of 1703 in the Isle of Wight. In 
 1705, with his sister, Dorothy, he settled at Kacedown, in Dorset- 
 shire, whence in 1707, to be near Coleridge at Nether Htowey, he 
 ji'inovcd to Alfox<len, in Somersetshire. In 1703, Wordsworth had 
 pul)li.shed a small volume of poems, and, in conjunction with Cole- 
 ridge, he issued at Bristol in 1708 the first edition of the famoua 
 Lyrical Jkdlads. In the same year, the two friends went to Ger- 
 many, Wordsworth with his sister spending the winter at Goslar, 
 where several of his best known shorter poems were written. 
 Returning to England in 1700, he finally settled with his sister in 
 th') North Country, at firsf at Grasmere, where in 1800 he [)ul)lished 
 the second edition of the Lijriml HnUmh. In 1802 he married Mary 
 Hutchinson. Until 18l;5 he lived in various houses in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Grasmcrt', but after tliat date, with the excepti()n of 
 vacation tours in Wales, Scotland and on the Continent, his remain- 
 ing years were j)assed at R3'dal Mount. After 1800, Wordsworth's 
 poetic career was a steady ami productive one. Many short poems, 
 suggested by the incidents and feelings of the day, were published 
 between 1803 and 1840. In 1700, whilst in Germany, he begin the 
 
 [1] 
 
i 
 
 2 
 
 LII'K Ol' WILMAM WoilDSWoUTir. 
 
 J'reiii/O', iutiindnv^ U> iii.ikc^ il" tliu iiitrd.liiotiuii to a ;^reiit pliiloso- 
 phioiil poom, tlio Hrcht.'H', of wliicli only a piirfc, tho Excursion, 'vus 
 coiiipletud. L!ir;;c colltictioiis of somiots wv.vo the products of the 
 years IHOa-lH'jr). In 17'''»-<», lio attoiii[»ted dramatic ooinpoHitiun in 
 his Borderers, with indilForeiit success. In liis i)rofacu.s to his 
 various puhlicatious, in essays and pauiphU'ts upon the social and 
 political <|ui!stions (tf the day, he [)nived iiJMiielf to he an impas- 
 sioned and forcil)le prose writer. In IS.'V,), he was futlnisiastieally 
 honoured hy the University of Oxford, in ISl;? lie l^eeainc I*oet- 
 Laureate, and in 1850, after a long and singularly hai)py life, he 
 died at Rydal Moiuit.] 
 
 I Tin 
 17()S 
 
 181U 
 
 IS(i(» 
 l.SOli 
 
 Chronological Table of Works with Dates of Publication. 
 
 [It must be notel that tho onior licru ijjivoii is oiilv ,ip|)ro<iniatnly correi.'t Iti tho 
 case of several lotiyrer poein-t ami 'joiiipilatioua wlio.sii production was tho work of 
 years.) 
 
 Evening Walk "j 
 
 Descriptive Sketi'ln'.^ ^ 
 
 The Female Vagrant I 
 
 Lyrical Ballads ( Kirst Edition) . . . . 
 
 Peter Bell ^ 
 
 The Wagoner j 
 
 Lyrical Ballails (Second E'litioii) 
 
 Memorials of a Tour in Scotlaii 1 . 
 
 Prelude ISr.O 
 
 Ode— Intiniatioiis of limiioitality {''.) 
 
 Poems ... 1 SOT 
 
 The Whi'-e \)ui; of JJyLst'.ne 18 lo 
 
 Miscellaneous Somuits 
 
 Prose Pamphlets 180!» 
 
 The Excursion , 'j 
 
 - 1 8 1 4 
 Memorials of a Tonr in Scotland ..... j 
 
 Thanksgiving Ode . 1810 
 
 Sonnets on the Itiver Dnddon . . .... . 18-0 
 
 Memorials of a To u- on the Continent . . 1820, 22 
 
 Ecclesiastical iSketche.-i "j 
 
 Description of the Scenery of the Lakes / 
 
 Yarrow Ke visited ami Other Poems KS.SI 
 
 Minor Pieces 
 
 Ode on Liatallatiun of Prince AHiltL 1847 
 
 I82'. 
 
GEXEKAL ESTIMATE 
 
 One of the moHt strikini,' cliarfKrtoristics of tlio nineteenth 
 cciritury is, as ah-eady pointed out, its interest, in the >turiy of 
 
 ontrins. 
 
 B 
 
 e<';nii 
 
 '\n<i with the natural s(^iene«'S, the idea of 
 
 evolution or d<;velo[)inent has invaded and revivilie(l, i-eron- 
 structed and transfoi-niod all depart ini'iits of Imniaii kno\vled,u;e 
 or is now i-aj)idly doing so, The study of litcu'atui-e, though 
 most conservative in its methods, has at length liegun to yield 
 to the evohitionary trend of all niodcrn thougiit. ( )nce, 
 criticism was regarded as the study of literary style only. 
 An advance was niad(! wjicn t(t the study of mere style there 
 was added a study of thought, Ihough only for the pur})ose of 
 showing the harmony between thought and style. The n(;xt 
 step was to recjuire from a writer not merely a harm(^)ny of 
 thought and expression hut a correspond(!nee l)etween iiis 
 thought and the laws of universal logic. Fn our day we are 
 coming to see that a writer's deviations f['(»m alisolutc logic, 
 tlu! personal or subjective element in his work, his powers and 
 his limitations can be fairly estimated oidy by viewing his life 
 as a process. 
 
 We no longer coufuK; our attention to a single point, '' the 
 culminating and exceptional point; the sunnnary, fictitious 
 and arbitraiy, (»f a thought and of a woi"k." Poeta 7i(iscitnr 
 ?io>i y/<, a dictum which has done moi'e tliaii anything else in 
 the past to block the investigation of lit eraiy origins, is not by 
 
 [3] 
 
1 'I 
 
 4 WOltDSWOKlit. 
 
 US so niiicli ri';,';irfl(«(l. Tlic tft'iiius is iiu loiij^or "a god scaled 
 imiii')val)h; amidst Ids jxirt'cft, \vt>rk, liUc! Jiipitcir on ()lym})us," 
 nor Ids work a llawlcss |troduot issidni; rcady-nmdo from tliafc 
 (li\ irie head. We wisli to soe a pliysioffiioiny and not a li.do, 
 a man ratlwr (Iian a statue, to tr-aco for our profit, tli(5 l.-dxtiir, 
 the att(!mpts, (,lio vveaknesses and the faihires, t-o l)o shown 
 how the thini; is dono, Jiot to Ih; asked to venerate a model of 
 unapproacliahlo excellence. 
 
 '\'\u' seeds of f^onius, we frt'l, art- wichily scattered. There 
 is no one who, in youth or early matdiood, has not frequently 
 btien startled by intimations of some 
 
 Sweet straiii^ro mystery 
 Of what l)c.\ orid tliesc thin^rg ni;iy Iiu 
 And vt't remain unseen ; 
 
 atid I ho j^lory of life is that we never entirely lose the power 
 of lu'ing thus impressed by the mystery of the world about us. 
 
 l)Ut the majoi'ity of men allow their first eivative sensibility 
 to dwindle from disuse, their souls are soon subdued to the 
 I'egular action of the woi-ld, their nobhist possihilities become 
 overlaid with an immense (h'posit of conventional habits and 
 Aiews. The average man is sectjirian in religion, partizan 
 in politics, conventional in his belicjfs and pni-c ice, a mere 
 pin, rounded and polished on society's great j l-uushion, indis- 
 tinguishable from the thousands of others. Therj are some, 
 however, who strive 
 
 Not without action to die 
 Fruitless, but sometliing' to snatch 
 From dull oMivion nor all 
 Glut the devouring grave. 
 
 These, the great original spirits, differ from the rest of man- 
 
 U: 
 
GKNKItAr, KSTIMATR. 
 
 (1 H('lll»'<l 
 yinpus," 
 •um tliiifc 
 
 5 lal)t»ur, 
 o shown 
 iikmIoI of 
 
 . TIhmv 
 equontly 
 
 ,he powor 
 about, us. 
 
 ^nsibility 
 ('(1 to tlie 
 s becoino 
 ibits and 
 
 pai'tiziiu 
 , a mero 
 
 »n, iiulis- 
 ire some, 
 
 of man- 
 
 kind, lint at first in ^'rrat«'r s('nsiti\»'n«'ss to undnlyin^' truth 
 ami IxNiuty, liut in early rt'roj;niy.in^', dimly nmu^'h perhaps, 
 llic sustainin;L^ and fonsolim; inlhirncc df those lirst transitory 
 •fleams of s[)irit and in resohiiii,' at all hazards to dierish them 
 until thev Imtomic a constant powci'. 
 
 Three main i|uestions are tlierefoi'e iiiNohcd in the study of 
 aiivirreat ixtel, the answer to which mii^l l)e sought in a chron- 
 (doiiical ari'anifement and examination of his works such as Mr. 
 Sidpfoi'd Urooke has ^'i veil us in liis "Tennyson," su|»plemenled 
 bv \\liatc\ci' binirrapiiical of autobiotjraphical details are avail- 
 able : (I) What was the nature of the stiu^;;le tlii-oUL(h which 
 his sjtrcial sensitiveness was de\c|(tpe(|? (J) ^\'hat powers of 
 style did he aopiire for the ex|iression (»f his deepei' view of 
 life? (.i) ^^'hat nia\' be rci^'arded as his ult iniate pronounce 
 rncnt on the three ^rreat themes of all ai't and thought : 
 nature, man, and Cnxl ? 
 
 I. — WoKDSWORTIl's PSVCIIOLOGIC.M- ] )KVF.L0PME\T. 
 
 The /'I'l/tide, a poem in fourteen bcioks, intended for an 
 ii\t I'o'luct ion to tlie uncoiiiplete(l /lerlm^e, contains Wctrds- 
 worths spiritual autobiograj)liy. The poem is of nioderalc 
 literary but <;'reat psyeliolo,i;ical \alue, al)oundin,G[ in passai,'es 
 (if e\t|uisite beauty in which tli(! poet has caught and lixed in 
 shinimr lines tln^ almost incommunicable intluonces leadim; him 
 to nat ure and devrlo[jin^" this feclin;j; into a faculty of inter- 
 j)retati(Ui. The main points to notice in the /'rc/wir are : I. 
 Oritjiit and (jroirfh : (I) thi' mysterious ori^^in of soul ; ('2) the 
 importance of cireumstanct s not in creating- faculty but in 
 <,d\ing it it.s bent ; (3) the su!tjeeti\e ajid egoistic impurity of 
 
6 
 
 WOKDSWOIITH. 
 
 his (vu'lici' fccliiiLf foi' iifitiin; ; (I) tlie tracos cxcn in tliat, 
 furlii'r- tiiiK! of a less personal and pun;!' feelini,'. II. The, 
 strmjfjle irith loimr teiidencles : (1) thn beginning' \n school 
 time of a conscious efVort to fostiM- and cherish his j)urer feel- 
 ings; ('_') th(^ ne<fativ(i inlliuMice of Canibriolge ; (3) the repres- 
 sion of obtruding mechanical aims; (4) the dedication of his 
 p(»\\('is: (5) a transitory and superficial interest in the active 
 and di'amatic sid(> of life — London and Paris. TIT. Serduitij: 
 (1) the I'ecognition of his limitations ("the common growth of 
 mother earth suHices m(! ") ; (2) the strengthening and deepen- 
 ing, undt-r liis sister's inlluence, of his fciding for nature ajid 
 for peasant lite. 
 
 OniGIN AND (JliOWTir. 
 
 Tt can scai'cely be doubted that there ar*; innate and here- 
 ditary (hspositious as a rule unitiul with markiul dillerences in 
 temjjerament and structure of body, which man biings with 
 him into the world, or that AVoi'dswoi-th, sprung from hardy 
 >fortli of England stock', received from both parents tluj inhei'i- 
 tance of a moi'al nature, healthy, frugal and robust. J lis 
 mother especially possessed 
 
 Of luodi'st mi'fkiic'ss, simple iiiinilfdiu'sa, 
 A heart that found l)eiiij,'-iiity and liope 
 Hehi;,' itself lieiii;;ii. 
 
 This, howcN'ei, is uncertain gr<»iind. W'ordswo.t h on the 
 whole lays no great stress on heredity. lOach man is a new 
 creation, a fresh incarnatio^i of (lu^ divin(^ spirit, amiiaeh,' 
 whose Ijeginning transcends our ])owers of exi>lauation : 
 
 Hard task, vain hope to analyze the mind 
 If eai'h most ohvious and partieular thon;;ht, 
 Not in a mystical and iille sense, 
 But in the words of reason, deeply wei|j;hed, 
 Hath no heginnin^'. 
 
gi:nki: \i. Ivstim ati;. 
 
 ill that 
 II. Th', 
 
 S('h<M»l- 
 
 rcr ivx'\- 
 'i repres- 
 iii of liis 
 le active; 
 Serenit/j: 
 row til of 
 1 deepen- 
 ture and 
 
 ,nd heie- 
 
 [nmces in 
 
 j^s with 
 
 hardy 
 
 inhcri- 
 
 st. His 
 
 on thc! 
 s a new 
 iiiiiacle 
 
 All that Ik' call sav for cfrfaiii is that, coiisciousiicss bciLjins 
 with (lie a|)|ii';',ra!ict' of a power (jf corirlahiig and (list'l'inii- 
 iiatiiii,^ the iiiatiifoM of ('\]('! iciicc. 
 
 nn-^t lis wi! aw tlic iiiii tal sjiiril '^rows 
 
 Like liannoiiy in laiisic : ihcif is ;i durk 
 IiiHcnitalilc \v()ikiii:iiislii|) that recomilus 
 Disforiliuit cliiiK'iiis, iiiiiUes thcni iliiiLf rofi'ftlier 
 In one suriety. 
 
 \\'liil(' it iiiav 1)(! iiiipossil)l(' t(» say imu-h a.l)out the orij^'in of 
 i^i'iiius or to (IfliiH' genius itself as othtM- than a <(rt!at(M' energy 
 of soul, W'liiiUw (trill lias no doiilit of t he im])ortance of early 
 associations in (leteiinininn' l)i> heiit. I lis inhei'ited energy of 
 iiat (ire ini^lit uniler (hlVen nt eiiuMiiiistaiices have made him a 
 great aihiiinist rator, or warrior : as it was, his mind was early 
 tilled with ail ahsorltiiiLi" interest in the forms, colour's, sounds 
 aiid fragrancies of the great ohjectix,' world around him. 
 
 One, Mie fiiiiest of all ri\»M's, |(i\c(l 
 To lilcinl his nianniirs with my nurse's sonij 
 
 Mailf (^eas'lfss iiuisic. tiiat coiiiiKisi'd luy ni(i(i;u:tits 
 
 To more Ihiui infant suflntss, ui\iii;,' mo 
 
 Aliiii! the ficlfnl iiurlliii:;s (if niaiikilid 
 
 A foretaste, a dim (■iriie-t. of the calm 
 
 Tlia' nature hreathcs aminu' li>'r liilN and 'jroxcs. 
 
 At a reiiiarkahly early age he exliiliitcd a teiulency towards 
 solitary coiiiiiuiiiion with nature, to find a joy in her splend(jur 
 and silences : 
 
 ( 111, many a t imc ha\ e I, a |i\ c yeai's cliilil. 
 In a small mill raio >e\ei('d from his ^l|■eanl, 
 .Made one lon^' hailiin;; ( f a summer's day ; 
 
 si'nnre(| 
 The sandy fields, lea)>iiiu thnm^rh flowery proves 
 Of \ello\v rairwiirl ; or u ln-n rock and hill. 
 The woods and di-laiit Sloddaw 's lofty hci;.dif 
 Were hroiized with di'e|iesl radiance, stood ulonc 
 
 llenetith the sk.\ 
 
 t'air seed-time hid ni\ Mial. 
 
8 
 
 WOUDSWOUTII. 
 
 As he grew older ;in(l widened the range of his sports, he 
 began to impress upon all forms of nature 
 
 the characters 
 Of (laiiKor and (k'sire ; and thns did make 
 The surface of ilie universal eartli 
 With triuni]>li and deli;,'lit, w itli liope and fear 
 Work like a sea. 
 
 He Ix'gan to be conscious of nature as an awful external 
 presence rebuking injustice and curlnng his irregular passions. 
 
 Ere I had told 
 Ten Ijirthday.s, . . . 'twas my joy 
 Witli store of siirinj,'-es over my shoulder hung 
 To raii<;o itic ojien lieij^hts where woodcocks run 
 
 Alonj,' tlu; smootii green turf 
 
 Mdoa and .stars 
 
 Were o'er mij head. I was alone 
 
 A nd seemed a trouble to the peace 
 
 2'hat dwelt anioiii) them. Sometimes it befell 
 
 In these iii^dit \vanderinj,'s that a stroii;,' desire 
 
 tVcrpowered my better reason, and the bird 
 
 Which was the captive of another's toil 
 
 Hccame my prey ; and ichen the deed was done 
 
 1 heard among the solitanj hills 
 
 Low hrvathin<is comiiifj after me, and sounds 
 
 Of ■inidi,-<tia;ntii<hul)le DKjtion, steits almost as silent 
 
 As the turf then trod. 
 
 
 !-< 
 
 i' 
 
 Of a similar nature are his feelings after taking the boat 
 that did not belong to him : 
 
 I dipped my oars into the silent lake 
 And, as I rose upon tlie stroke, my boat 
 Went heavinj; throuf,4i the water like a swan ; 
 When, from behind that craj^gy steep, till then 
 The horizon's buiuid, a huge peak, black and huge, 
 As if with voluntary power instinct 
 Upreared its head. I struck and struck again, 
 And growing still in stature tlie grim sha]>f> 
 Towered n[) between me and the stars, and still. 
 For so it seemed, with piu'pose of its own 
 And measured motion like a li\ ing thing. 
 Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned, 
 And through the silent waters stole my way 
 Back to the co\ ert of the willow tree ; 
 
ports, he 
 
 external 
 pasHious. 
 
 Itlie boat 
 
 i 
 
 M 
 
 m 
 
 '4r:f 
 
 m 
 
 "w 
 
 ■■H 
 
 GKXRKAL ESTIMATE. 9 
 
 for many days, my l)rain 
 Worlu'cl with a dim and uiuleterniiiied sense 
 Of nnknowii modes of Ix-'iny ; .... 
 
 hiitre anil mitilily forms, that do not live 
 Like living; men, moved slowly tlironjfh the mind 
 By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. 
 
 These T>a.ssaires show tliat Wordswortli's creative sensiljiUtv 
 earlv liegan to react upon nature, but they also show the sub- 
 jt'ctive impurity of this early feeling. Nature in both cases is 
 an external and minatory existence standing over against the 
 nature of man. The skating scene, though less impure in 
 feeling, especially in the lines 
 
 Far distant hills 
 Into the tuimilt sent an alien sound 
 Of melancholy not unnoticed, 
 
 is not by any means even in those lines the puicand uiiegoistic 
 expression of nature's rehition to the human mind that we 
 find in such lines as 
 
 The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 The sleep that is amoiij^- the lonely hills. 
 
 The bu()}aiiev of youth and the expansion of the ])hysical 
 litV mafle it inipo^sil)l(! for his imagination to be ([uite free ni 
 this time from a fault which Siielley to the end of his life failed 
 to eliminate — the fault of reading into nature his own feelings 
 of the moment. 
 
 We hissed along the polished ice in games, 
 Confe(lerate, imitative of the chase 
 And woodland pleasures 
 
 witli the din 
 
 Smitten, the precipices raii;^' aloud 
 
 while far distant hills 
 
 Into the tumult sent an alien smmd 
 Of melancholy, not unnoticed, 
 

 
 WOUD.SWOHTII. 
 
 
 Not si'ldoiii fiom tlio ii|>ro;ir 1 rctiri'd 
 
 Into a silent h.iy, or siiortivcly 
 
 (!l;iiii'C(l si(lc\v:iys, 1(.m\ iii;^' tin,' tunniltous tliron;j;, 
 
 To cue across tlu; ri'Hcx of a star. 
 
 un<l oftcntinicis 
 
 WIk'ii uc lia<l uivcii our liolics to the wind, 
 
 And all Mie shadowy lianks i>n cither side 
 
 C'.inic swccjiin^' throui;li the darUnc.-s, s))innin^' still 
 
 The lapiil line C'f motion, then at, once 
 
 Have I, reclinin-f hack upon my heels, 
 
 Stop|)cd short ; yet sMll the solitary clifTs 
 
 Wii:.ekMl hy me— even as if the earth liad rolled 
 
 With visiljle motion hcrdinrnal round ! 
 
 Hehind me did they stieteh in solemn train 
 
 Feeliler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
 
 Till all was iranijuil as a dreamless sleeii. 
 
 \\''H'(]s\v«)rtli is ;i\v;uv' of t^hc, cai'ly iiii))mMty of liis iiiiaifina- 
 1 i.ti'i, ,ui<l ill iiiafk(;;l <':)utra;t witli tlit! (liought of tlie sixth 
 st;ui/.a in the gfeat o(l(> whru't^ Nature, the homely iiurbe, is 
 reiu'cseiUcd as doiiio- ali she can 
 
 To make her {"(uter-child, her imnale, Man, 
 
 l-"or;,'-et the ylories he liath known, 
 And that ininerial palace whence he came, 
 
 (hose fits of vuluar joy, those toiTors, pains and <'arly 
 iiiiscfie-; are exi)laiiied as th(; means (!m[»U)yed by Nature lu 
 build u}) llie vision and the faculty divine ! 
 
 9;i 
 
 How stiaim'e that all 
 The terrors, pains au'I early miseries, 
 Ro;rets, ve\;nions, lassitudes, interfused 
 Wiiliin my mind, should e'er have home a part, 
 And that a needful part, in inakin;,' up 
 The calm c\is(ence that is mine when I 
 Am Worthy of m\ self. 
 
 Wisdom and spirit of the luiiverse I 
 
 Thou so'il that art '..; eternity of thoui;hi, 
 
 Thi! '^'isest to forms and ima;.;-es a hroalh 
 
 .Vnd ewi'last in:;' mniion, nor, in \'ain 
 
 l'>y day or star-li;.,dii . ihus from my firs! dawn 
 
 I >f childhood, ilidsi I hoii intertwine for me 
 
 I'ho ))assions that build up our huKian soul . 
 
 K !|i 
 
GKNKUAI. ESTIMATE. 
 
 11 
 
 lis ini;i_i,Mna- 
 if the sixth 
 ly nurse, is 
 
 ;iii(l ciirly 
 Niituiv to 
 
 Not with the mean and vulvar works of man, 
 r.iit with luj;l> ohjfcts, with eruhiriti^^ Ihiii'jfs — 
 With lit'o and nut iii-o — imiifyitijf thus 
 The elentents of fei'Iiti',' and of tliou;,'lit, 
 And siiMrtifyiny, liy hu 'h discipline, 
 Hoili i>:iii> and fi-ar, iin:il we roc.oirnizo 
 .4 !,'ranilfur in tlie Ijcatin;^ of tiio iieart. 
 
 lidw well the ('li-mt'iit.s of thought and tVch'tig' wci'o pui iticd, 
 hiiw liiii'lv. in coat I'julist iuctioii to ShoUcy, Wordswufth su<'- 
 et'cdcd ill I'liiiiin.itiiig tliis early iiiia;^dii;it i ve impurity of his 
 thought, his better liues and passai^es aluiiidaiit ly pfoNc. 
 I']vfii in cliildiiood there were not wiuitiii^' Hashes of a iiigdier 
 inspiration : 
 
 Xor sediiloiis as I have hci-n to trace 
 How nature l)y extriiisii'. /.rt.«("«>i first 
 Peopled the mind with forms suhlinie or fair, 
 And made me love tluni, may I here omit 
 How oiher |)leasiire.s ha\ e been mine, and joys 
 Of snlitler oriu-in ; how I ha\e felt. 
 Not seldom even in that tempestui)iis time, 
 Those hallowed and pure motions of tlieseitse 
 Which si-em, in their simplicity, to own 
 An intellectniU cluirm ; 
 
 Yes, I renieniher when the I'han^eful earth 
 
 And twice livu summers on my mind had stamjicd 
 
 The faces of the mo\in^' year, even tlien 
 
 I h(ld nneonscious interc )urse with beauty, 
 
 Olil as iriation, drirdvhiLr in a pure 
 
 Organic (ileasiire from the silver wreaths 
 
 Of cnrlin,' mist, or from thi' b'vel plain 
 
 Of w.iters coloured bv inipeiidini;' clouds. 
 
 Thus oft amid ihnse fits of vul>;ar jov 
 
 Wiiich, throu^di all seasons, on a ehil I's (lursuits 
 
 Are )>rompt attendants, 'miff that,i;id<ly bliss 
 
 Which, like a tenipi^l, works alon,;; the blood, 
 
 And is forgotten ; even then I felt 
 
 Gleams like the flashing;- of a shield ;-the earth 
 
 Anil eoimiion fai^e of nature spake to lue 
 
 Hememberable thiiiL's. 
 
 SehudI time is not wanting in "those fits of \iilgai- joy," 
 

 12 
 
 WOROSWOKTH. 
 
 l)ut tlune is also observable a growing delicacy and fineness ot 
 perception : 
 
 Anil that sinj,'le wren 
 Which one day sauj,'' so sweetly in the nave 
 Of the old chnreh .... 
 So sweetl}' 'mid tlie ^dooni, tlie in\ isihle hird 
 Sanjf to lierself, that there 1 could liave made 
 My dwellinff-iilace, and lived forever there 
 To hear such nnisie. 
 
 TIIK STRUGGLE WITH LOWER TENDENCIES. 
 
 JNIore rcinarkiible, however, is the dawning consciousness of 
 the worth of those :-. ^bii ,'isitations and the be<jinninf; of a 
 conscious etlbrt to foster and develop the power of receiving 
 them : 
 
 Nature intervenieiit till this time 
 
 And secondary, now at length was sought 
 
 For her own sake 
 
 For I would walk alone, 
 Under the ([uiet stars, and at that time 
 Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound 
 To breathe an ele\ ated mood, by form 
 Or iniag'e un))rofunfd ; and I would stand, 
 If the ni!;ht Idackeiicd with a coming' storm, 
 Beneath some rock, listenini;' to notes that are 
 The jihoslly lan,L;'un'ie of tlie ancient eaith. 
 Or make their dim alioile in distant winds. 
 Thence did 1 drink the visionary power. 
 
 This is the ptirting of the ways, perhaps the most important 
 moment in Wordsworth's life, the beginning of the many 
 silent wrestlings of thought which build up the poet's mind. 
 Mere s,asceptibility will not make one a genius. Every young 
 soul is all budding with susceptibilities and capabilities, but 
 the diiliculty ( ver is to know which is the right one and, when 
 recognized, to lie true to it at all costs. That the average 
 man soon gives up the struggle is too sadly obvious. The 
 
 il! 
 
(1 fineness ot 
 
 3. 
 
 jciousness of 
 jinning of a 
 af receiving 
 
 important 
 
 the many 
 
 loot's mind. 
 
 Ivery young 
 
 )ilities, l^ub 
 
 and, when 
 
 he average 
 
 ious. The 
 
 OKNERAL ESTIMATK. 
 
 13 
 
 sonsuaf appetites are the most pressing j the spiritual needs 
 not so pressing. It would be well to satisfy both, but if that 
 is impossible without effort anrl repression, attend to the 
 more obvious needs of the body and the othoi-s will die of 
 iiiatiltion and cease to trou])le us. Wordsworth on the other 
 hand cherishes the visionary power, the obscui-e intimations, 
 too fugitive and infrecjuent then to be caught iind fixed in 
 words, but later on in his dedicated life lo speak in clearer 
 t(»nes in Tintern Abbey and other high verse. He will not 
 surrender on the fn-st summons like the nuiss of nwn to the 
 call of conventional aims and pursuits ; 
 
 By the rog'ular action of the world 
 My soul was unsubdued : 
 
 and this soon begins to bring its reward in a powor to udd 
 " the light that never was on sea or land, the coiisecration and 
 till' poet's dream : " 
 
 An auxiliar liifht 
 Cainc from my mind, which on the setting' sun 
 Bestowed now s]>lendour; tlie melodious birds, 
 The flutterini; breezes, fountains that run on 
 Munnnrini^ so sweetly in themselves, obex ed 
 A like dominion, and the midnight storm 
 Grew darker in the presenee of my eye : 
 Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence 
 
 And hence my transport 
 
 my seventeen! h year was come ; 
 And, whether from this habit rooted now 
 So deeply in my mind, or from excess 
 In the <freat social principle of life 
 (^^oercing' all thiny^s into syni))athy, 
 To miorganic natures were transferred 
 My own enjoymeiits. 
 
 lie ceases to regard nature as a distinct external and minatory 
 existence and begins to feel the organic unity uf \\vv litV in 
 which he has a part ; to b(> conscious of an immanent spirit) 
 
'■( w 
 
 u 
 
 WOHDsWOIi'lir. 
 
 " wlioso chvoiliiiijf is (Jk^ linjlit nf sotting suns, ;iii<i the r(>iiii<l 
 ocean and lli<' living aii' and the liliie sk}', and in IIk; mind of 
 man,"— " to rocognizf! a comincn souivi* of all those shailuwy 
 intimations, divirni questionings, l)lank misgivings, visionai-y 
 gl(>ams" and to exporience a new sense of "abiding calm and 
 
 joy." 
 
 I felt ttic soiiliini'iit. of I't'iiij;' spread 
 O'er all that, lo«it l)e.vonfl the roach of thought 
 And liiiiiia'i kiiowled^'fc, to the human eye 
 Ii»\ isiblc, yd li\ut,h Lo the heart. 
 
 Thus ('(juippcd, with few fi'icnds, litOc liook nullure, and his 
 sensitiveness to all nat-in-al [)li('n()iiu'na, he goes up to Ca-m- 
 hridgc. Very slight importance is attached by Wordsworth 
 to college associations. lit; cannot indeed print the gi'ouiid 
 where the grass had yicldc:! to the st(^ps of gcMicratioiis of 
 illustrious men, nor niiiigliMvith -'so many divers sam[)l(vs from 
 the growth of life's sweet season," frcipient the I'ooms once 
 oocupicMl hy Spen.ser and hy Milton, nor lie within tlu; sight of 
 
 t he aiitcrhapel 
 
 wliore the statue stood 
 Of Newton with his prism and silent face, 
 The marble index of a mind forever 
 Voyaging throui;h strange seas of thoiiLfht alone 
 
 without emotion and stimulus, hut college labours seem frivolous 
 after the grave and strenuous peasant life he has known. 
 
 Of ooUene laliour^;, of the lecturer's room 
 
 All studded round, as tliirk as i:liairs could stand, 
 
 With loyal students, failhful to their books. 
 
 Let others that know more s)>eak as they know. 
 
 Such glory was Init little sou<j;ht bj' me 
 
 .A.Md little won. 
 
 He would not allow jiimself to be betrayed into hjwet 
 mechanical phases of enetgy or occupation, and yet fi'om tlu' 
 
OKNKUAI. KSTIMATK. 
 
 15 
 
 [ I he run IK I 
 ;he miiul oi 
 ise slKulowy 
 s, visionaiy 
 ,!_' calm and 
 
 ,ure, and liis 
 up to Cani- 
 
 WoiiNNvortli 
 J the gi-iiuii(l 
 
 MUM'atinlls ot" 
 
 imi)les frtim 
 
 rooms once. 
 
 the si;j;ht of 
 
 riMu frivolous 
 jiown. 
 
 into loNvcf 
 ret from the 
 
 natur(! of the place it is inipossil)Ie to prexcnt lower aims 
 ohtrudiiig themselves. 
 
 From the first crnrle days 
 Of sellHii); tinii.' in tliis untrifd abode, 
 I was (listurbed at times by prudent tho\ii;htH 
 
 some fear 
 
 About my future worldly iiKiinleiiiuice 
 And, more tlian all, a stranu'encHM in the mind, 
 A foelin;: that I was not fi:r that liour 
 Nor for ib.at jjlace. 
 
 I fere we have the pressurti of prudential oonsidcM-ations rein- 
 foifi'd l)y a dititdence a..s to the genuineness of the >-all to 
 highei' woi-k against which all greut men have to struggle. 
 For' this struggle .strength is always to he had in solitary c<»m- 
 munion with nature. 
 
 Oft-times did I <|uit 
 
 My comrades 
 
 And a^^ I jiaced alone the level fields 
 
 What independent solaces were mine 
 To miti^'ate the injurious swuy of place 
 Or circumstance 
 
 I looked for luiiversal Ihinj^'s ; perused 
 The conmion coimlcnance of earth and .sky 
 
 felt 
 
 IncunibeiKMcs more awful, \isitin;,'s 
 Of the upholder of the trani|uil soul 
 Thp.t tolerates the indi;^nilies of lime 
 And, from the centre of Kternity 
 All finite motions o\ crrr.lin;,', lives 
 In j,'lory immutable. 
 
 No mere delirium of mysticism this ! Keen analytic thought 
 is laying the foundation of that minuteness of ohsei\ation 
 which makes his poetry as he defines it, tiie " hreath and iiuer 
 spirit of all knowledge." 
 
 The bodily e\C 
 Amidst my strongest uorkin;.;-s evermore 
 Was seari.'hin^r out the lines of difference 
 .\s they lie hid in all external forms. 
 
16 
 
 wounswoKTii. 
 
 Ill f.'icrt (»ii(! of tlic rciniirk;il)I(! things about Woi'dswortli is his 
 sanity, tlie vory slight li'acos anywhci'e in his works of a 
 mystical or morhid llousscauistic feeling for nature. The joy 
 f«!lt in those moments is the joy that coraes from all successful 
 exercise of faculty, a sure premonition of the success that is 
 lo be acliicvcd along that line. These loft}^ contemplative 
 moments are much broken in upon by unavoidable college asso- 
 ciations. 
 
 Full oft tlic quiet and exaltPfl thoui^hts 
 
 Of loneliiu'ss <;;ivo way fo eiiipty noise 
 
 Anil siiiifrtlciul jiristinu's ; now ainl then 
 
 Forci'il laliour, ; nd nioro fri'(|iicntly forci'il liopps ; 
 
 And, worst of ail, a troasonalile jji'owlh 
 
 Of inilcrisi\ e judu'inciits, that inipaired 
 
 And shook the mind's siniplieily. 
 
 And it is interesting t(^ compare the regrctfid rotrosp(>ot 
 with which Wordsworth looks back upon tlicx' interruptions 
 of th<! contem}>liUi\e ha])it, with Carlyle's account, in the 
 Sarfor /iisdiitis, of his college years and his keen interest in 
 the dramatic movement of life. 
 
 Witli Wordsworth, "companionships, friendships, acquaint 
 ances wei'O welcome all," but in such companionships lie often 
 "at, the stars came forth, perhaps without one quiet thought,'' 
 and on the whole the time spent at the university was to him 
 a period of somewhat unprofitable contact with the world. 
 
 In l>ook IV, light is dawning upon him. He is becoming 
 conscious of a strength and liuoyancy of soul, an originative 
 aiul iiiler[)retative })owcr of mind upon which life can b( 
 based, the result of lonely brooding, of ciierisiiing and foster 
 
 II ii|i. 
 
 ii\g into faculty his fugitive intentions. 
 
 ;'§ 
 
 f 
 
 1 
 
 
 1 
 
 . 
 
 "'i 
 
 
 1 
 
CENKHAL RSTIMATR. 
 
 vorth is his 
 works of a 
 ). Tho j<»y 
 11 succossiul 
 3C(jss that is 
 iiteniplativti 
 college asso- 
 
 I roti'ospcct 
 utcrniplioiis 
 Hint, in tho 
 
 II interest in 
 
 |js, acqunint- 
 liips he often 
 |iet thought,'' 
 was to him 
 lie world. 
 
 is becominj; 
 
 h oriLrinativc 
 
 life can be 
 
 and foster 
 
 I had inward lioius 
 And swellings of the spirit, wan wrapped and soothed, 
 Converst'd witii proniisen, luid j^liiiinR-riiig views 
 How life porva<li;s tlio iwidccuji iiiu initnl ; 
 How the immortal soul with <io<llilto power 
 Inforti M, cri'iitt'M and thaws the deepest sleep 
 That time can lay upon l>er ; how on earth 
 Man, If he do but live within the light 
 Of hij^h endeavours, daily spreads abroad 
 His being, anncd with strength that cannot fall. 
 
 Peasant Vife appears in a now light. He sees more clearly and 
 honours the small joys and sorrows of Hawksliead, feels a 
 dce])er sympathy with the "old dame," tho frank-hearted 
 maids, tht^ woodmen and shepherds : 
 
 I read without design, the opinions, thoughts 
 Of those plain living people now observed 
 With clearer knowleilLje ; with another eye 
 I saw the quiet woodman in the woods, 
 The shepherd roam the hilh. With now delight, 
 This chiefly, did I note my grey-haired dame ; 
 Saw her go forth to church or other work. 
 
 There are not wanting occasional deviations. 
 
 A swarm 
 Of heady sciiemcs jostling each other, gawds, 
 And feast and dance and |>ublic revelry, — 
 
 Slight shocks of young love-liking interspersed, — 
 W^hose transient jibnisiu'e mounted to the head 
 And tingled through the veins. 
 
 It was after one of these revels that the cr-sis of his life was 
 reached. He was on his way homeward in the early morning. 
 
 Magnificent 
 The morning rose, in lueniorable pomp, 
 Glorious as e'er I bad beheld— iti front. 
 The sua lay laugliing at a distance ; near 
 The solid nioniilain shone, bright as the clouds, 
 Grain tinctured, drenched in empyrean light ; 
 And in the meadows and the lower grounds 
 Was all the sweetness of a coiuniou dawn — 
 Dews, vapours, and tho melody of birds, 
 
18 vvo»i)s\vf)i!Tri. 
 
 AimI laliDiirirs ;^ciiin; furili to till llif llrldH. 
 M.v lu'iirl wiiM full ; I iiiiuli! no vowh, tmt vows 
 Were (hiTt! mailc fur iiu.' ; lioiid iiiikiiowii t<i iiic 
 W'liH !,'i\cn, lliat I should l)i', v\m: wirniiny ;;rfiitl,^ , 
 A duiliciiti'd s|>irit. 
 
 lit' iii;iy i"<'<nr!i to (hn University nr Im' temporarily carried 
 awav l)y tlic rcvohil ioiiaiy forvour of a\v;ik(Mi('(l France, hut the 
 l)(!iit of his miiid is fixcl, he iiuist in the end rotur'ii to iiatui'c. 
 There is where he has \ ilal c<nitact. whi're h(! i'eceiv«>s HilSfires- 
 tioiis tliat can he laiih ii|> into far I'eacliiiii;, decisive jud,i,'nieiits. 
 \t\ l>(»ok V he satirizes tlie external and niechanicnl ac(juisition 
 of knowltidi^e uhith he ol)ser\ed on return to tht; University, 
 and contrasts with it the \ital movement of liis thou,i,dit- when 
 vacation I'eturned liim to liis fatliers honn; and to coinuiunifui 
 with wo(tds and lields. liook vi contains a sutfijjestive re- 
 fercMUM! to the diU'ereiiee Wet ween t he^ cirriiuistances of his 
 own development and those of his fiM(>nd Coleridge. 
 
 I have tliouirht 
 Of dill', 1I13 leaniinir. jiorn-cnus uli>(|Uftii'C 
 And all the strunjilli and ipluina:;*} of Uiy youth, 
 Thy suliilo siiuculaliiiiis, toils iilistriisc 
 AnmnLr the schoolnifn and I'lalonic forms 
 Of wild ideal iia;;L'antn 
 
 The selfcreatcd sustunance of a mind 
 Debarred from Nature's livin'„'- imaires- 
 
 As if Coleridge, with his finer intelle tual insight and wider 
 assimilative powers, did not eater a heaven that was shut to 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Tn his third (Jamhridge vacation he made, with a colle<re 
 fritjnd, a fourteen wtseks' tour of Switzerland and the Alps, 
 lleturnirig to Cambridge he took his degriie in Jaiuiary, 
 1791, and went up to Londoii, where he spent some months. 
 
OESr.RAL KSTIMATK. 
 
 lit 
 
 •arily curriod 
 aiicc, but the 
 ni to iiatuf*'. 
 xnvos Huggos- 
 (! jiulgiiH'iits. 
 Ill ac(iuisitit»M 
 i; IJnivtirsity, 
 liouglit. wboii 
 o coininuMioii 
 suggestive re- 
 taiices of liis 
 
 lit .111(1 wider 
 was shut to 
 
 lith a C( (liege 
 
 |i(l the Alps. 
 
 in January, 
 
 Lnue months. 
 
 :t 
 
 
 l;.M.|< \ii <(»iilains his inipn'ssinns of Tiondttn, and is a snlli- 
 ciciii jiioot" of his miiuluiess to lifoon its grrat vanity-faii- side, 
 ill has ohserved carefully and truthfully, l)ut thei-c are uot 
 line tho gleam.s of insj>iratiun that we fitul in his touches <»f 
 iiral (N'scription. He does not f(M>l (Kniply enough. The 
 \riv flatness of his style shows that the life of LoikIou streets 
 was ipiite uuvital to him: 
 
 A raroo show is here 
 Witli chililroti :,'alliuriMl round ; aiiDtlur street 
 Pro«ent3 , 
 
 •Malays, Lascars, thu Tartar, the Cliiruwo 
 And Ufifro ladies in white muslin },'i>w ris. 
 
 'ii|uali\' iinvital is his (U^scfiption of the theatre. His refer- 
 
 .•nccs to Parjiaiiient and ihu'ke are Ixitter, hut on the whole 
 
 irdsworlh gaiiu;d little fioni this contact with tlie active 
 
 iiiatic side of life. With what a dilVei-eiit cy(> Chaucer, 
 
 Sliaks|)ere, Hums, C'arlyK^ or drowning would have viewed 
 
 the grand spiH-tach; of UKitropolitan life — its extremes of* 
 
 pitNcrty and wealth, its roar and rush, its \ivMcity and humoui', 
 
 its follies and passion, its manifold presentation of humanity 
 
 in various stages of deviation from the one true law! To 
 
 W'urdsworth, rjf)n(lon was a "monstrous ant-hill on the plain 
 
 ' a too busy world," "a press of self-destroying, transitory 
 
 till, fs," an unvital subject seen witli half-open eye. He kept 
 
 his own centre tirm and unshaktMi, however, rejecting wliat 
 
 bidui^ht no sustenance to his spirit, but eagerly seizinir upon 
 
 simi ' 
 
 kept 
 
 ipl( 
 
 Book vni is a retrospect of tin,' influences wliich acted upon 
 his childhood and youth up to his twenty-second year, prior to 
 
--.■H^.«.^...-V ..^.,,^.„.^^, ■. „.^^„ ,.., .,. , -^, ,1 
 
 20 
 
 WORDS WORTH. 
 
 ^1 
 
 I' l:i 
 
 
 wliicrli, tlioiij;li his own pursuits and aniuial adivil ios and all 
 their trivial pleasures had dr(i(i})ed and ,i;iadually expired, and 
 Niitnro prized for her own sake Ix'came his joy, man in liis 
 afleetions and regards was subordinate to her visible forms 
 
 and viewless agencies : 
 
 A passion, sho, 
 A ni])! lire often, and inimciliale love 
 Ever at hand ; lie, only a delijLjlit 
 Occasional, an accidental },'race, 
 llis hour hi'in^'' iiol yet come. Far lesx had then 
 The inferior creatures, heart or Imd, att unccl 
 My spirit to that j^'-enticness of love. 
 Won from me those minute obeisances 
 Of tenderness, which I number now 
 With my lirst lilessiTiys. 
 
 Now he is coming to look at nature "not as in the Lour of 
 thoughtless y(»uth, l)ut hearing ofteittimes the still sad music 
 of humanity." The life that attr-acts him is the simple shep- 
 herd life, a kind of life in which man is, as he says, a fellow 
 lal)oarer with Nature —not the she])herd of Theocritus <»r 
 • Virgil, 
 
 Not sucii as i^atnrii ruled 'mid Iiatiau w ilds. 
 With ails and i:nvs so temi>eied iliat their lives 
 Left, even to us loilitii;' in this later day, 
 A bright tradition of ihu ijolden age ; 
 Not such as, 'mid Arca<lian fastnesses 
 Seqiiestered, handed down among' themselves 
 Felicity, in Orecian song renowned. 
 
 Still less is his peasant life the artificial Arcadia of Pope's 
 pastorals. 
 
 Man snfferiiig among awful powers and forms. 
 
 the tragedies of former times, 
 Hazards .tiid strange escajies, of which the rocks 
 InMuulalilc and o\erHowiiig streams, 
 \\ iiere'ei- 1 roamed, were speaking momiments — 
 
 the hard life, in short, of the shej)herd of his own Cumberland 
 
OENKHAL F.STIMAIE. 
 
 21 
 
 ios and all 
 pi red, and 
 nan in liis 
 ible forms 
 
 the hour of 
 
 sad music 
 
 dmple shop- 
 
 s, a fellow 
 
 eocritus (»r 
 
 of I*op(!'s 
 
 't^ 
 
 indierland 
 
 mouTilains, wliere "'tis the slie})hei-d's task the winter loui; to 
 wait ujioii ihe storms; of their approach saj^'acious, into shel- 
 tering coxes to drive his tlock." 
 
 From London he went t(» Wales, and from "Wales to Frjince, 
 hirt^d fortli. as he tells us, by the draniatir s])eetacle of tiie 
 Revolution. liooks IX, X, XI record his iin])r(>ssions of a 
 sojourn of some months in France. It woidd Iwnc Itccn snr- 
 prisinj^ if Woi'dswoilii had not felt sonu^ of the t■n^llnsi;^^nl of 
 a new era which cai'ried away many of the strongest and hcst 
 spirits of the time. "Joy was it," he tells us, "to l)e alive, 
 but to be young was very lieaveu." Yet, as hr eonfes.ses, the 
 scene had coin{)aratively little interest for him. l*.orn " in a 
 poor district wiiich yet I'ctaineth more of ancifiit. homeliness 
 than any other nook of English ground," and in later years 
 bred in "academic institutes where all stood n]ion e(|ua1 
 ground, .vhere distinction open lay to all that came and wealth 
 and titles were in less esteem than talents, woi-th and pros- 
 jierous industiy," he felt it a democratic duty to sympathi/e 
 with i-e\(»lutionary France, and e\on thought that he might 
 ]ilay a leading part in French politics. Yet "inl onest truth," 
 he says, " I looked for something that 1 could not Ihid, ailect- 
 ing more emotion than I felt." 
 
 Ail tliiii;,'-'^ wcri? to me 
 Loose ami ilisjoiiitcd, and Iho afTfctions left 
 Without a viUil iutcresit. 
 
 The sight of revolutionary Paris tossing h'ke a ship in a 
 temp(\st was less to him, he says, than the painted Magdalen 
 of Le Brun. Still he did hope for very nuieli from the i-e\o- 
 lutionary movement, and wlum, as he sayN, " i' renciunen be- 
 
 
m ' 
 
 l*f*"" "r~"ri-iit 
 
 
 jiii 
 
 li : 
 
 iiii. 
 
 i.ii; 
 
 ill.l 
 
 99 
 
 WOKDSWORTII. 
 
 came oppressors in their turn, ch;uii,'('il a war of se]f-(lef(!nce to 
 one of ooiu[iiest, losing si_^ht of all wliicli tiiey liad struifgled 
 for," when the pressure of facts <lrove liiin into alienatio*. fi'om 
 Franco, he was naturally very much distressed. Foi' a time 
 h(! haughtily refused to aduiit ills disappointment, making an 
 attem[)t to justify the action of France. A period of scepticism 
 followed, in which he (h-agged 
 
 — All iirLi'ep: ^, jii(ly;ineiil3, maxims, crfods, 
 
 Like ciiljirits to tliebar ; calliiif; tlie mind, 
 
 Suspioioiisl\ , to ostablisli in jilaiii day 
 
 Ilcr litk's and lier liononrs; now Ijelievini,', 
 
 Now disl)elieviny- ; endlessly ].erplexe(l 
 
 Willi iiiipnlsL', motive, ri^lit and \vron<,^ tho <j;Tonnd 
 
 Of oblitfalion, wliat tiie rule and whence 
 
 Tiie sanction ; till, domandiiiij formal proof, 
 
 And seekinLT it in everytliinjj;, I lost 
 
 All feelin;j of con v lotion. 
 
 But the bent had been too thoroughly iixed, tlie habit of 
 In 1(1 ing strength ami inspiration in nature too w((ll established 
 for this mood of mind to be permanent. 
 
 SEKIiVITY. 
 
 He returned to England, and through his sister's intlucnco 
 came more and more to recognize his limitations, to set^ that 
 his path lay not in the great world, but in the more calm and 
 self-centred life of herdsmen and shepherds. 
 
 Above all 
 Were re-established now thosi; watchful thouy:hts 
 Which seeinjj little worthy or sublime 
 In wliat historian's jien so much delights 
 To blazon — power and cneri,'}' detached 
 From moral ptirposu— early tutored me 
 To look with fcclin);s of fraternal love 
 Upon tile unassumini;- i,iiinj;s lluit hold 
 A silent station in this beauteous world. 
 
 A great deal too much has been said of this '■ defection to the 
 
•-defence bo 
 1 stru.^glcd 
 ijiti».'» tVoin 
 For a time 
 making an 
 E scepticisn) 
 
 1(1 
 
 le habit of 
 established 
 
 s intlueuoe 
 to see that 
 [•{) cahn and 
 
 CENKKAL I'.STIMATK. 
 
 23 
 
 ctiou to tlie ,44i 
 
 ciu.^e of Democracy." Sh<'lley mildly dcjilon's it in his sonnet 
 To Wordxivorl/i, while IJrownings Lost Leddrr is snpposed 
 to lie a sorrowful reference to the same thinLj. Tn trutli there 
 was no siieh defection. I fe was jnst as 1 rue a democrat with 
 just as IiIljIi a sense of the dignity of manhood after he heard 
 with gratitude Burke 
 
 The majesty i>roclaini 
 Of institutes ami l;iws, iiallowed liy time; 
 Declare the \'ital i)()\ver of social tics 
 Eiidtarcd liy (Mistoni ; ami with liij;li disdain, 
 K\|)li)din^' ujistart theory, insist 
 Upon the allegiance to Ahic'li men are horn, 
 
 as he ever was, only he had come to place less value on violent 
 and arl)itrary movements for reform. His development was 
 now complete. The friendship of Coleridge and the visit to 
 Germany ito tloubt had some modifying influence, but })erhaps 
 tlu! most im{)ortant influence after those enumerated in the 
 Pre! a le was (he li>ss of his brother at sea, an (ivent that made 
 him think of nature in a new and terrible light, and 
 strengthened his belief in compensation in another life. 
 
 11. — Dkviclofment of Stvlk. 
 
 The Prelude then is the record of the psy(;hological develop, 
 ment of the /Hiff/difi/ poet. It is the antobiogi-aphy, in 
 Professor INrinto's words, tw)t of the poet of nature, but of 
 her worshipper and priest. It tells of the i-hei-isUing and 
 streiiii-t1iem"ng of a native feeling for the forms, cohuirs, 
 harmonies and fiagrancies of nature until it iiecame the 
 dominant faetoi- in the ])oet's life, but little or nothing of his 
 amhitioti to express his feeling in verse. The potential poet 
 may be silent, but the actual poet must add the power of 
 
24 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 I 'i 
 
 I 
 
 embodying his emotion in melodious words : in Wordsworth's 
 inspired language, 
 
 Many are the poets that are sewn 
 
 By nature, men endowed with hiy;hest gifts, 
 
 The vision and tVic faculty divine, 
 
 Yet wanting the aeeoniiilishment of verse. 
 
 The salient incidents in the struggle by which he acquired the 
 acc()rnpli.shinent of verse, the new power ot style in which to 
 embody his new sense of things, are to be gathered from 
 pr-ofaces, prose notes, familiar intercourse and by comparing 
 his earlier with his later productions. 
 
 While still a boy of fourteen his delight in the contemplation 
 of nature was mingled with the ambition to express his feeling, 
 and with the joy of having discovered a comparatively 
 unworked field. A school exercise in verse done while at 
 Hawkshead shows consideral)le familiarity with the form as 
 well as the themes of the poets of his own time and country, as 
 does also another production of about the same time, the 
 sonnet Written in verij Early Youth. 
 
 Cahn is all nature as a resting wheel ; 
 The kine are couched upo \ the dewy grass ; 
 The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, 
 Is crojipiiig audihly his later nie.al ; 
 Dark is the groiuid ; a slumber seems to steal 
 O'er vale and mountain, and the starless sky. 
 Now in this blank of things, a harmony 
 Home felt, and home-created, comes to heal 
 That grief for which the senses will sujjply 
 • Fresh food ; for onlv then when Memory 
 
 Is hushed, am I at rest. Afy Friends ! restrain 
 Those busy cares that would allay my pain ; 
 Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel 
 The officious touch that makes me droop again. 
 
 Along with some of that morbid self-consciousness — Rous- 
 seauistic or Wertheristic — then prevalent but s'ngularly 
 
OENKUAI. KSTIMATK. 
 
 isworth's 
 
 25 
 
 uired tho 
 
 which to 
 
 sred from 
 
 omparing 
 
 emplation 
 is feeling, 
 parativelj 
 
 while at 
 form as 
 ountry, as 
 
 time, the 
 
 -Rous- 
 Ingularly 
 
 ddicient in the laior Wt)rdswortli, some of tlio in\frsi(»iis so 
 dear to the poets of the preceding seliool : much of their t-oii- 
 Vftitioiial (li('ti<tn and love of false oniaiiicnt — kine, coucliod, 
 dt'W'v grass, later meal, busy cares, ailay, olliciuus touch, droop, 
 etc. ; and with a general woodennoss of rhythmical nioAcment 
 there may be detected even in these lioes a clear jx'oinise of 
 the patient eye and ear, the absolute conscientiousness and the 
 j)ure un(\goistic expi'cssion of the later time- the horses is 
 croj)[»iiig audibly, calm is all nature, u harmony home-felt and 
 home-creat(»d. The Evenimj Walk, written during his first 
 Cauibridijre vacation to show that he could do somethiuij 
 though he had not distinguished hims(;lf at the Uni\ci>ily, 
 scarcely justifies the poet's neglect of the ordinary studies of 
 the TJni\ersity. It is on the whoh; an echo of the style and 
 movement of the artificial school. 
 
 In thoughtlesa jjaiety I scoun-il the plain 
 And hope itself was all I knew of pain. 
 
 Yet even here there are several lines and passages such as 
 
 the ht'ided deer 
 Shook the still twinkling; tail, 
 
 which show a growing command of picturesque phrase and 
 e])ithet. 
 
 'Jlie /Jescriptive SJcetches^ founded on observations made 
 during a tour of tlie Continent in his last Cand)ri(lge \a(ati(tn, 
 and written therefore subsequently to his dedication <»t' his 
 piiwers, are strongly remiidscent of that ISth ceniui'v diction 
 and movement against which he was so soon to Icail the revolt : 
 
 Were there below ii sjiot of holy ;;roiind 
 Where from ilistrcss, a refujfe might he found 
 And solitude prei)are the soul for heaven, 
 
II . ,'• 
 
 ! , \ 
 
 ii::' 
 
 2G , WOltUsWOUTH. 
 
 Suru nature's C,i>(\ that, siiot to man had tjivcn 
 U'h'.Ti'. falls thu ))iirpl(' niiiriiiii<; far and wide 
 In flakfs of liu'ht upon the inounlain side. 
 
 Yot not unrei'Mnipt'iiscd the niun shall roam 
 
 Who at the (!all of summer c(uits his home 
 
 And i)lods tlirou;ch somi^ wide realm o'er \ale and hev:;ht 
 
 Though s"ekin;j: onl\' h')liday drlJLfht, 
 
 At least not owniiiLf to himself an aim 
 
 To whifh the .s'lijfe would ;,'ive a jtroudcr name, 
 
 No j^ains too ''licaply earned his fancy cloy 
 
 Though every j)assim;- zejiliyi' whispers joy. 
 
 IList of his wi'lconie imi. the Moonlide liower, 
 To his sjiare meal he calls the passim,^ pool', 
 Me \ lews the sum u))litt his ;,'olden fire 
 Or sink with heart alive like Memnon's lyre. 
 
 O'er (Jallia's wastes of corn, my foo(sle|>s led. 
 
 I yrreet the Chartreuse while I mourn thy doom 
 Whither is fled that I'ower whose frown 
 Awed sol)i'r l!c.i<on till she crouched in fear. 
 
 ITerc ;ir(; all tlio i-c/o^uizod cliaivfteristios oi' tlio 18th century 
 style — -tilt! rhyniiii";' t'ou|)K'r, rccruhirly placed pauses and 
 act'iMits, poiupoiH diction, conventional doul)l(! epithets, rhe- 
 torical in\"(n'.sion.s. weak ])ei'sonirications and ihe constant habit 
 of forced and sn[)(M'licial moralizing. I>ut liiies prophetic of 
 the coinin<j; ■'■ityle, both its blunt realism and its penetrative 
 pou'er of ejiithet and phrase, ai'e not infrticpient — ]ii\es like 
 
 Ilaply that child in fearful doubt may i^a/.e, 
 I'assinj,'' his father's hones in future days, 
 Start at the relicpies of that very thii,'h 
 On whit;h su oft he ])ratlled when a boy. 
 
 And lines also like the following : 
 
 Torrents shooting' troin the clear blue sky 
 
 . the chalets flat and ba 
 Suspended mid the (piiet of the sky. 
 
 Tt was Woi'dsworth's convit'tion that in these rare Hues lav 
 the germs of a power of style adequate to his new power of 
 
GENKKAL KSTI.MATK. 
 
 17 
 
 5th century 
 );iuses and 
 tliots, rhe- 
 stant habit 
 rophetio of 
 penetrative 
 es like 
 
 •e Hnes lay 
 V power of 
 
 iicri'cpt inn tliat pronij>t(!(l what his relations regarded as his 
 wayward and unproiiiisiny- axrrsion to work in any regular 
 line. Jle was begiuinng to sec that poetry was "his otlice 
 upon earth." Fn this dett'rniinai ion he was str(>ngtht'ncd liy 
 his sister l)orotliv who, witli rai'c dcvolion, consecrated her 
 life to h<'r l)roth(^r's service, w Idle a series of financial w iiid 
 falls relieve(l him of conc<'rn I'cgarding niatei'ial atlairs. |)iir- 
 iiig the two years with his sistc^' at liacedown, in horset. lie 
 wrot(^ 77/'^ /tor^/rrers, a tragedy, sevei-al satires in inutati(»n of 
 Jmtnal and a few Spenserian staDzas. 'I'hese half hearted and 
 \<'r\- imperfectly successful attempts levealed to him at least 
 his iiulii ness for satirical and dramatic composition, and were 
 thiH part of the means hy which, uiider his sist(M''s genial 
 intluence, he grope. 1 his wav out of tlie lahyrinth of iStli 
 centnr\' formalism towards a simpler and sincei'er st\le. What 
 he needed iKtw was the assurance of some friendly outside 
 voice : and Coleridge opportunely su})plied the needed stimu- 
 lus. Coleridge had seen original jxiet ic genius in T/ir /)isrrij)- 
 tive >'ki'(ches and paid a visit to Wordsworth at Kaceflowti. 
 So stimulating was the companionship that Wordsworth 
 remoyed to Alfoxden to be near (^>leridge, and for the next 
 t\vel\'e months the two original men W(U'e almost constant 
 companions. Wordsworth's style I'apidly matureil. In I'csponse 
 to Coleridge's (piick and generous a})ijrecia1 ion. idea'<. tlie con- 
 fused pnxluct of years of meditation, rang«j:d tliemsehes in 
 cleai-er and m()i'<' ap[)r(»priate forms. The Ljirh-al /Sidlads 
 \yere planned and {)ul)lishe(|. ( 'olei'idge taking the su|>ern.it ni-al 
 themes. Wordsworth endeavouring 1o gi\t' the interest of 
 romance to everyday topics. Coleridge's contributions were 
 
I ; ■■■; 
 
 28 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 !■■ f 
 
 '1 ' 
 
 !■'.' 
 
 1 1 , 
 
 tlic Atielciit Afnr'nier and thrco otliiic pioccs. Woi-dsworth's 
 were iiioi'e numerous, including We (ire Seven, The Rei:i- 
 erie of Poor Susan, 2H)Uet'n Ahbeij, Simon Lee, The Thorn, TJie 
 Idiot Bot/, 2Vie Last of (he Flock, and Gooilij lUake ; and 
 rotlecling all the liigher qualities of Woi'dsworth's style. 
 Tlie Clitics, blinded by their admiration for what was then 
 called elevation of style, passed over such lines as 
 
 that bli'Msed mood 
 
 xnd 111 
 
 or 
 
 In which the ImrtlK'ti ana llie mjsleri', 
 In which Mie heavy and tlie weary weight 
 Of all this iiiiiiituUisible world 
 Is lijilKuiied. 
 
 I have learned 
 To look on nature not as in the hour 
 
 Of th<)\i;;htless youth, hut hearinj; often times 
 The si ill sad tuusie of luinianity. 
 
 and derisively seized on lines like 
 
 Poor Susan moans, jjoor Susau jirroans. 
 " As sure .as tlioru's a moon in heaven," 
 Cries lietty, " he'll be back a;;ain, 
 They'll liolh be here— 'tis almost ten— 
 Both will he here before eleven." 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan jfroans, 
 The clock gives warninu; for eleven. 
 
 The public, however, seems to have been more appreciative, 
 for a second edition was called for in 1800. This \olume con- 
 tained several new poems — Rutlt, Three Years She (Wtw, A 
 Poet's EpitapJi, Michael, Lucy Gray, Hart- Lea]) Well, Tlie Tn:o 
 JirotJiers — and was accompanied by the famous Preface deHii- 
 ing the true theory of poetic diction which so infui'iated the 
 critics. 'Y\\v poet had at length acquired the courage of his 
 convictions and did not hesitate to characterize the style of 
 
CENEHAL KSTIMATE. 
 
 20 
 
 •(Iswortli's 
 The A'ev- 
 'horn, Th<: 
 Uike ; and 
 ;h's style, 
 was tluMi 
 
 )rcciative, 
 uiiie coii- 
 (irtw, A 
 The Two 
 ice (lefin- 
 iated tlie 
 re of his 
 style of 
 
 iViiic and liis followers as sliltcd ;iim1 ai-(incial a trli<ie;ind 
 i^litter of a pei-pedial yet broken and lieleroueneuiis iniaiiery. 
 
 In statin^' his own tlieory of jKX'tie dietion, he at lii'.vt, like 
 most reformers, took up an extreme ])osition, defining,' the 
 true poetic style as the lanj^uage of men in a \i\ id state of 
 sensation, ai\d adding that in the languaije of j)easants was to 
 be found the most spontaneous exj)ression of the feelinirs and 
 therefore the most suitable language for poetry. Fettling that 
 passages like 
 
 I liave felt 
 A presciioe that clistnrbs iii« with tlie joy 
 Of ele\at('(l tlidiiulits ; a sense suliliiiii' 
 Of soiiu'ihinj.'- far more deeiily iiiti rfiisfd, 
 \V)ioi-e (l\vi'llin;f is tlie h<.'tit of settiiifr suns 
 Anil the round ocean and the living- air 
 And the lilue sky and in the mind of man, 
 
 fiif tratisf'cnded the capacity of rustic speech, he rejected this 
 jiait of his definition, substituting therefor tin* statement that 
 the language of })oetry did not difler from that of good prose. 
 ANurdsworth's fumbling with the definition of poetic style was 
 early seized for criticism at the time and has provoked much 
 leai'ned discussion since. Its real significance was the dith- 
 culty of deiining the new style. Wordsworth's meaning was 
 IK'ifectly clear and perfectl}' true to any otu? whose eyes wei-e 
 not lilinded by prejudice. The language of poetry should l)o 
 sinijiler, he meant, and more sincere. And nobly did his own 
 j>iactice enforce this truth. Many of his early poems, it is 
 true, are marred by the influence of his clumsily stated theory 
 of poetic diction. The Last of tJie Flock, for exam])le, well 
 illustrates the garrulous diction and jxierile diction, the simple- 
 ness rather than simplicity of style into which lie was some- 
 
 '^0f^ 
 
30 
 
 W(»i{r>s\voiiTir. 
 
 I' 
 
 
 I'l, ■': 
 
 I'.'l. 
 
 
 li'|(!^ 
 
 times IxitniyiMl in tlu; jit-tiMiipt to wciU; down to I In; lovol of 
 rustic speech : 
 
 In distant coiiiilrius have 1 Ijuun 
 And yet I have not often seen 
 
 A tirallliv man, a man full trnnvii. 
 Weep in the imhlie wavs aloiif. 
 Hut such a r .t- on Kn^liHli ^tdmikI 
 And in the 1iiyi;ii1 hijiliway I mtl ; 
 Alon;; the l>ro;t(l hi;;li\vay he eanic, 
 His oheekN with tears wcro wet, 
 Slnrdy he seemed tlioiiLrh he was sad 
 And ill his arms a 1 anih he had. 
 
 liut Ilis most (thiimcteristic work is in ;i style of refiiuMl simpli- 
 city. As tlic ol)je(;t whicii lie pi'opo.sed to himself in his woik ;is 
 ;i whole was "to give the charm of no\'elty to things of every 
 day.' So in his style his aim was to show the possihiliti(»s of 
 beauty in common vcn-sc! forms and coimuoii language, in his 
 hands the l)allad stan/a lost its rude jingle and gained sweet- 
 ness add delicacy without passing into a lofti(M' of more 
 majestic rhythm than was dcMnanded hy tlu^ thoughts. Com- 
 pare the monotony of stress, the lixed position of pause and 
 accent, the al)sence of pitch and (pumtity in 
 
 Then all the maids of Islintfron 
 Went forlli to siiort and play, 
 .\11 but the hayliflfe's daughter dear, 
 She secretly stole away : 
 
 with the varying stress and [)osiiion of accimt, the shifting of 
 paus(^s and tlu; Subtle employment of pitch and quantity in 
 Luci/ (J ran ' 
 
 No mate, no comrade, Lncy knew 
 She dwelt on a wide moor, 
 The sweetest thini;' that ever '^^rew 
 Beside a hiuiian door. 
 
 His diction similarly is characterized hy 'he power of using 
 
CiKNKKAL KSTIMATK. 
 
 31 
 
 t; l(!V(;l ot' 
 
 old ami lidiiiclv wnids iit such a wfiy as to (li\cloj) their 
 utmost latent sii^MuficJiiiccs. In the tliiid line in the .stiiii/.;i 
 from Lncjj Grnii alx.vc, for cxiiinplc, cvciy woi-d is in cvory- 
 (J;iv tisc, find vet liow hoautifullv suujift'st ivf is the n.-^c of 
 
 each ill this connection. 
 
 Irowinnij m 
 
 Aht \ 
 
 lufirr makes 
 
 th(^ 
 
 su 
 
 jierioiitv of music to the other arts li(^ in th(! subtle emiiloy- 
 
 ment of common 'bounds 
 
 n»>d sinipli- 
 his work as 
 r.s of every 
 sibilities of 
 f^o. In his 
 ined sweet- 
 r or more 
 hts. Corn- 
 pause and 
 
 Ishiftini? of 
 [uaiitity in 
 
 r ot usnm' 
 
 ■f 
 
 I know not if save in this (niUMJc) such j,'ift l>i' iilloweil to nititi 
 Ttiat out of tlirt'i! sounds Ik- fr.init.- not ;i fourtli sound luit a star. 
 
 Consider it wel 
 
 uiic'li tone uf our sc;iU.' i-< nauj^lit. 
 
 It is everywhere in the world— loud, soft and all is said. 
 Cive it to nie to use I I nii.x it with two in in.v thouuht 
 
 .\tid there I Ye have heard and se, 
 
 ■M, I'O 
 
 nsider and l)ow the head. 
 
 Toetrv has this power, too, and noMy has \\'<tr(ls\voitii's 
 poetrv displayed it in the Ciich 
 
 no : 
 
 Thou^di liahhlin,!,' only to the vale 
 Of sunshine and of (lowers, 
 Thoii hrinuest unto ine a tale 
 Of \ isionarv liours. 
 
 in the Solitary lied per : 
 
 .Mone she cuts and hinds the i;rain, 
 And sin<,^s a melancholy strain ; 
 Oh, listen for the vah; profound 
 Is o\ ertlowiuLf with the sound. 
 
 and in hunih'eds of otlier Hm^s and passai^os. 
 
 In anotlier (h^partment the interpretation of tlie higher 
 philosophic or religiou.s v-onsciousne.ss of which Wordsworth 
 was also a thorough master, refined sim])licity is etjually the 
 chai'act eristic of his style, if we wanted a line to expres.s 
 tiiosi! transitory gleams of spirit, wdiich \"isit us in oiu- higher 
 iiioincnts or to indicate or explain the tenii»er i)f mind, the kind 
 of intellectual insight constituting tru(^ culture, where could 
 we get them moi'e readily than in Wordswortli. 
 

 ^2 WOEDSWOUTH. 
 
 Thiiiiyhts (liat, Vu- loo dccji for lc;irf 
 
 SuimtliiiiK far niorc derply iiituifiised 
 
 Till! liurvfst of a (luit't eye 
 
 Till' u'"'!-* aiiprovc 
 Tin; (l< |itli and not tin- I iiniull of tlx' soul 
 
 From low to liii/li ijotli dissolutinn cliiiih, 
 
 And sinks Ironi liii;)i to low, idony: a scult; 
 
 Of awfid nott'H whose i-oncord shall not fail : 
 
 A musical hut nielancholy chinic, 
 
 Which they ran hiar who nieddle not with cfiniu, 
 
 Nor avarice nor over-anxious care. 
 
 Truth fails not : hut her outward forms that hear 
 
 Till' lar<,'L'sl date do indt like frosty rime. 
 
 1 1 is true tliiil the hiillc of Wordswortir.s work does not oxliihit 
 s(» iii^'li a li'V«'l of stylo. After his ten most inspired years 
 (1800 ISIO) W'ordsW'Orth tell more atid more into prosiiujss. 
 Two causes ace assignal)l(> for this : (1) his almost comical in- 
 al)ili(y to distinguish - the i-esult of his scchnled life, — between 
 gcMuinc^ inspii'iit ion and roininon{)lace ; and (2) the gradual 
 <'onventionali/ing of his diction into a language \vliich he could 
 use concerning nalurr, wlicihcr or not he felt the divine flame. 
 I.iut in thos(! ten years his work had l)een don(> ; he recalled 
 men to the t I'lu* source of ])o\ver ^contact with tilings ; he showed 
 that languagi! sliould lie the garnuMit of the thought and that 
 force of expression came from contact w ith life, and he left us 
 a body of poetry that sets him high in the rank of those who 
 have widimed the consciousness of men. 
 
 III. — I{is View of Life. 
 
 To inquire after a poet's view of lif(> is in certain quarters 
 to ignore a fundamental distinction between poetiy on the one 
 hand and science and philosophy on the other. IJeauty it will 
 
 I I' 
 
 .3# 
 
^ 
 
 GKNERAr, KSTIMATli. 
 
 yo 
 
 )of oxliil)it 
 ii'cd years 
 • prosiiioiss. 
 comical in- 
 between 
 10 giailual 
 li he could 
 ■iue llame. 
 o rcicalled 
 he showed 
 and that 
 lie left us 
 hose who 
 
 quarters 
 In the one 
 
 Ity it will 
 
 ^ 
 
 he said is the ohjeot of poetry; truth, of philosophy and science; 
 and, to di'inand consistency of thought from the poet, is as 
 absurd as to expect the searcher after truth to hamper him- 
 self with the trammels of art. But wo have the authority of 
 one of the greatest poets for the view that beauty and truth 
 arc inseparable. Theie can he no beauty that is not based 
 upon truth and any truth vividly perceived may shape itself 
 into beautiful forms of art. The topics of poetry are the 
 same facts as those of science and philosophy, only, to the poet 
 these facts come home so as to touch him to the quick, to 
 pierce him with more than usual vividness, and to produce a 
 glow of emotion. In the rapt unreasoned utterances of the 
 poet there must therefoi-e lie a kernel of thought, and it 
 becomes necessary at a certain point in our study of his work 
 to formulate his views on nature, man and God. 
 
 Woi-dsworth is, first and foremost, inspired by the great 
 objective world about him, the unobtrusive aspects of nature 
 US well as the more sublime. He does not, like Scott, Shelley 
 or Byron, choose by pi-eference grandiose objects, a mountain, 
 a storm, a sweep of landscape, or the rolling ocean. His 
 tieatinent of nature differs in minuteness and delicacy, in 
 absitkite conscientiousness and in penetrative insight, from that 
 • >t ' her poets, prior or contemporary. Chaucer is keenly 
 sensitive to the common sights of earth and sky, and describes 
 them ith the freshness of a feeling heart and a clear eye. 
 His work will always, therefore, be of power to win men 
 back from artifici'd and conventional modes of life 
 
 And sniale fuwles inaken nielodie 
 That sli'pen all llu; iiiylit with open eye 
 So piiketh him nature in her corajje. 
 
n. i^iii 
 
 III ; '« 1 T 
 
 34 
 
 woiiDswoirnr. 
 
 ■\i' 
 
 
 Jiiit he gives us scarceiy a hint of the existence of "something 
 far more deeply inliu-fused " upon which all nature and human 
 life repose. Shaks|)('r(i's imagination irradiates things with 
 a beauty rarely found in any other writer. 
 
 I know a 1)a?ik wlioie (lie wild thyme Mows, 
 Wlicre o\li|)s and the noddiiif,' violet srrows, 
 Quite ov'jr-cano|)ied wiili hisli woodhiiie, 
 With swoot musk roses and with e,i,daiitine. 
 
 At white heat it carriers him fast and far, fusing images tlie 
 most dissimilai' into an haiinonious whole, 
 
 Like to the lark at litcak of day arisint,' 
 Sinjjs hysiiiis at lleaveii'.>^ gate. 
 
 r)ut his in(oi'|)i'('(at ion uf natiH'e at ilio highest is <»nly the old 
 Pythagorean notion of a harmony of the spheres : 
 
 Tlici'e's not tin; smallest orli of those thoti secwt 
 
 l!ut in Ills motion like an aniijel sintr 
 
 Si ill choirinL,'' to the yoiinjjf-ex cd cherubim. 
 
 Sidne}', JTcM-rick and the minor I'ilizabethan poets malce 
 nature a peg on which to hang tlieir relloctions on the short- 
 ntiss of lift^ or the vanity of human wishes, as in Ilerrick's 
 DajJoiJils. 
 
 Fair DafTodils we weep to see 
 
 Von lui; i > away so soon. 
 
 We have short tinie to stay as you, 
 We have as short a spring'. 
 
 Milton rarely lias his eye directly on nature, or if he fixes 
 one (^ye on the ol)jeet the other is scanning the pages of the 
 (»reek and Latin classics for mythological references and 
 allusions. The L^th ccntiuy' [)oets nevcsr looked at nature at 
 
GENEKAI- ESTIMATE. 
 
 35 
 
 •inctliing 
 [1 human 
 
 ,gs 
 
 with 
 
 acres the 
 
 ly the old 
 
 »ots make 
 
 It he short- 
 
 llcri'iek's 
 
 If he fixes 
 
 [os of the 
 
 IK OS and 
 
 uatui'e at 
 
 all, hilt wore porix'tually occupied with the glare and gHtter 
 of false ornament : 
 
 The moon, refulg'ent lamp of night. 
 
 Byron, waging a fierce warfare against the conventions and 
 social anomahos of his own day, treats nature^ niagnitieontly, 
 indci'il, l)Ut nov<>r without tincturing his description with his 
 own restless -iih^ and melancholy egoism, preferring ther(!- 
 foro. th<' fiorcor > d wildoi- asjjocts of nature. The very rhythm 
 of his wM?ll-known poem. The Oreoi, is instinct with tierce 
 rostli'ssness and a gloomy pride. Shelley's imagination, teem- 
 ing with vast and vague pantheistic conceptions, yields us fine 
 studirs of the j)rosonco of spirit in tli(^ groat movements of the 
 \ini\orse : 
 
 The ono remains, ttie many cliang'c anil pass, 
 IFeavon s lijiht fur ever sliincs, earth's shadows fly, 
 Life, hl<e a dcune of many-coloured ylass, 
 Stains the liri'^ht radiance of eternity 
 Until death trample it to fragments. 
 
 J hit he also is egoistic, too im})ationt of details to render 
 natur(> with absolute fidelity. Scott has a fine sense of form 
 and ciilour, of the sui'face glow and movement of nature : 
 
 The wandering eye could o'er it yo, 
 
 And mark the distant city glow 
 
 With gloomy splendour red ; 
 
 Far on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow, 
 
 That round her ;>alilo tmreis How, 
 
 The morning heanis were shed, 
 
 And tinged them with u lustre jiroud, 
 
 Ijike that which streaks a thunder-cloud. 
 
 Another good exami»le of Scott's powisr in this way is his 
 iles*'rijd ion in the La.'/i/ of' l!i>' Lnhr, of f^och i\a,t rine and its 
 surrounding mountains. The work is deiiiuto, objective, pic- 
 
 II 
 
 £. : 
 

 36 
 
 WOHDSWORTn. 
 
 1, I' 
 
 turoscjuo, full f)f rich colouring. ]Te does not distort nature 
 with his own su])jective states. He has evorywhcre a fine 
 Ileal thy joy in what Ua sees. But there is scarcely a line in 
 all his work to indicate a very profound sense of the deiiper 
 spiritual significance of things. At most he is impressed hy 
 the historic associations of what he observes. CoIeridg(;'s 
 observation of nature comes nearest to Wordsworth's, but 
 absorbed in his metaphy.sical speculations, his Kantian ami 
 Fichteaii idealisms, Coleridge inclines to make nature a mere 
 reflection of man ; 
 
 La<ly, we roooivc Imt what we give, 
 
 And in our life alone doth natmo live, 
 
 Ours is her wed(!ing garnunil, ours her shroud, 
 
 while Wordsworth looks to nature for the type and pattern 
 of what human life should be. Wordsworth alone; among poets 
 — Turner in landscape painting showing a similar })ower of 
 interpretation — has the gift of feeling deeply and rendering 
 accurately the beauty of the objective world in all its aspects. 
 He does not requii'c a grandiose subject like Byron, Scott or 
 Slielley, but is as happily inspired l)y a bed of daflbdils as by 
 "some tall clill' that is the eagle's birth-place."' And with 
 what absolute fidelity, how free from fretful egoisms, is his 
 rcndcn'in'f of what he sees. Hisfeelinix for skvand mountains 
 anil solitary places impresses us with its absolute rightness as 
 what we should all feel if we could lay aside our vanities, still 
 the nois}- tunudt of our souls, and tune our ear to the subtler 
 harmonies of things. fSo patientlj' had he tuned his ear to 
 this fnicr music, so thoroughly trained his eye to catch the 
 faintest gleam of spirit, in the ordinary things around him, so 
 
 M 
 
 'S 
 
GKNEItAL ESTIMATK. 
 
 37 
 
 naluio 
 
 !i fine 
 
 line in 
 
 ' deeper 
 
 ssed by 
 
 icridge's 
 
 li's, but 
 
 ian and 
 
 a luci'e 
 
 1 pattern 
 oui'-poots 
 tower of 
 endering 
 aspects. 
 Scott or 
 s as by 
 ,nd with 
 
 Js, is his 
 
 )untains 
 
 itness as 
 
 lies, still 
 
 3 subtler 
 
 s ear to 
 
 atch the 
 
 him, so 
 
 '3* 
 
 emptied himself of himself that nature might enter and make 
 him her oracle, that he has succeeded beyond any other poet, 
 ancient or modern, in the imaginative content of single lines 
 or sliort passages, in the power of condensing the spirit of a 
 place into few words. How finely, for example, <he calm, 
 impersonal, august presence of nature in the sky is given in 
 the line 
 
 The silence that is in the starry sky— 
 the silence of the solitary hills in 
 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills — 
 
 or the solitude of the lonely mountain tarn in the following 
 
 short stanza : 
 
 There sometimes doth a Icapuij; fish 
 Send through the tarn a lonely cheer. 
 The crags roi)eat the raven's croak 
 In symphony austere. 
 
 The feeling that underlies and prompts this minute and deli- 
 cate, patient and unselfish and profoundly penetrative obser- 
 vation — the belief in a calm, august presence, a spirit in itself 
 invisible, but speaking through visible things to the mind and 
 sj>irit of man, stilling his fretful egv m, rousing him from 
 lassitude and weariness, and filling his mind with noble and 
 majestic thoughts, a spirit calm, rational and lender, "with a 
 deep and rev(,'rential care for the creatures whom he lo\es " — 
 is a form of that IDth century pantheism which has done so 
 imicli to remedy old religious conceptions. 
 
 It is everywhere implicit in his best descriptive work, and 
 comes explicitly to the sm-face in many lines and passages: 
 
 The beinir thai is in ihi,^ ulomN and air, 
 That is in the ^iren lra\i's ainungtiio groves, 
 Maintains a deep and reverential care 
 
38 
 
 WOUD.SWOKTJI. 
 
 For t.lic iinoirerKliri'' creatures wIkjiii he loves. 
 
 ! \, 
 
 I have felt, 
 A presence that distiirhs lue with the joy 
 (Jf elevateil lho\i'^htH : a sense sithliiiie 
 Of Koinelliiri;,'' tar more deejily interfused, 
 VVhosi: (hvrlliiij^ is the light of settinj,' suns 
 And the round ocean and the li\in<^alr, 
 And the hhie sky and Iti the ini?id of man, 
 A motion and a spirit that impels 
 All thiiikiuL' thiuifs, all objcc^ts of all thousrht, 
 Ami rolls throu'^di all things. 
 
 In the intt!t"pi*et;iti<)ii of luunau life Wordsworth is less 
 successful, the object of poetry Ix^ing what Milton took it to 
 be — to justify the ways of (xod to man. Wordsworth has 
 heen praised for his studies of pfasaiit lif<> and his Shnoti Lue, 
 Michael, Le,ech-( hither er and /Jeiijimiiit, The Wai/oner, are 
 characterized by many coinpcttMit critics as touchingly real. 
 It is i/cne they have a vitality that is lacking in the coiiven- 
 ti<jnal Arcadian peasant of Pope's [)astorals and their dmnb, 
 inexpressi\(; lives, their patience and humility inbred by 
 generations of ho{)eless toil, are profoumlly pathetic. Indeed 
 Wordsworth's studies of peasant types are a most powerfid 
 arraignment of our present unjust social S3'stem, and therefore 
 th(^ most eiiective answer to those who chai'ge him with 
 "defection to democracy." But are they true? Is there 
 enough I'ompeiisation'? Millet's peasants are toil-woru, l)ut in 
 their defeatured faces may be traced industry, honesty and 
 comparative contentment. In Burns' Cottar's Satitrdaj/ Xiyht 
 the toil and hardship of the over-worked peasant is relieved by 
 the joys of dcjinestic affection and reh'gious hope ; in the 
 Jolly Be(/(j((rs, by t\w liveliness, the quick joyous })idse of life 
 and activity, and the mad humours of the characters. Words- 
 
CJKNKI5AI- Ksri.MATK. 
 
 3!) 
 
 •('( 
 
 y real, 
 '.onveu- 
 
 luinb, 
 1 i)y 
 
 ndccd 
 
 ict'orc 
 
 with 
 
 there 
 
 )ut ill 
 
 y and 
 
 N'ujht 
 
 ^ed by 
 
 11 tho 
 
 of Ht'e 
 
 \''ords- 
 
 
 .J 
 
 wnilli, throu2rh defect of dramatic faculty, is unable to d<» this. 
 111 tlie II't(ihht)ul (Jirl thi>rc is a (XTtaiu [)astoral beauty of 
 youth and ouvircjiiiueut, whoso transitory nature, ho\ve\-er, we 
 are not suffered to forget. In /Seiijamiu, Tim IVagoner, the 
 liaid routine of toil is relieyed 1»y a careless jollity very rare 
 in Wordswcd'th's cliaracters. TIk^ austerity of Michael's ehar- 
 iicU'V is softened a little by a deep natural piety, deepened ami 
 refined by synij)atheti') int.ercourse with the sublinier se(Hves of 
 nature. Yet even with a mind and character originally of 
 no little strength, full and free development is impossible. 
 Michael's life is too austere, almost depressed by a long 
 incessant struggle with toil. The Wanderer in the KxcuTfiion 
 is, even more than Micliaiil, an exceptional type. His occupa- 
 tion carries him into varied intercourse with man and lu^ 
 attains to some degree of harmonious development, taking a 
 joyous and intelligent interest in all he .sees and capabh^ of 
 sympathetic understanding of nature and human life. But he 
 is a mere ideal, and one comes away from Wordsworth's 
 
 pictures of peasant life impressed with the pathos, the sadness 
 and cruelty, with 
 
 tlie burthen and tlie mystery 
 Of all this unitilclligihle workl. 
 
 In another field — the interpretation of our higher meditative 
 moments — Wordsworth is once more unique. In thousands of 
 ((uotable lines he has enriched humanity witli tlie product of 
 his many silent wrestlings of thouijht. Here we are embar- 
 rassed by riches. The ditliculty is to kimw nut what to (|Uote, 
 but what to omit. To conclude this section take 
 
 From low to high doth dissolution climb, 
 And sink from high lo low, along a scalo 
 
 i 
 
40 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 
 
 ' '.I 
 'Mi, 
 
 Of awftil notes whose conconl shall not fall : 
 
 A musical but melancholy chime, 
 
 WhiL;h they can hear wlio nicd'Ue not with crime, 
 
 Nor avarice nor ovcr-anxioiis care. 
 
 Truth fails not : but her outward forms that bear 
 
 The larjjest date do melt like frosty rime, 
 
 That in tlie morning wliitened hill and plain, 
 
 And is no more. 
 
 Little will require to be added conoerning Wordsworth's idea 
 of God. When the rationalism of the 18th century, its love of 
 clear thinking and its hatred of my.sticism had destroyed all 
 vital belief in the existence of God, Wordsworth recalled men 
 to deity immanent in the calm and orderly existence about 
 thorn. His conccsption of the tender relation in which the 
 divine spirit stood to the spirit of man was brought into 
 contact with his observation of the hardships of peasant life; 
 the belief in immortality emerged ; a life of toil so completely 
 unrelieved as those to which reference has been made finding 
 compensation hereafter". This, too, is his solution, as in the 
 Education of Nature, of all problems arising from nature's 
 apparent prodigality. 
 
SELECTIONS FROM WOUDSWORTIl. 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF NATUIJE. 
 
 Three years slu^ grew in sun and sl::>\ver; 
 Then Nature said, *A lovelier llowcr 
 On eartl) was never sown : 
 This child I.lo niystjlf will take; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A lady of my own. 
 
 'Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and inn)ulse : and with me 
 
 The gii'l, in roek and plain, 
 
 In earth and licaxcn, in ylade and bower, 
 
 Shall feel an oxerseeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 'She shall bo sportive as tlie fawn 
 That wild w..th glee cicross the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And her's shall be the breathing balm, 
 And her's the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 'The floating clouds llieir st.afc; shall l(>nd 
 
 To her; for her the willow bend ; 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 
 Even in the nnitions of the stoi-ni 
 
 Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 [411 
 
 5 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
■Ii| ' !'!! ' j' 
 
 v. In'' 
 
 ivp-i 
 
 t; 
 
 
 'i I 
 
 12 SKLKCTFONS FF{O.M UOKDSWOHTH. 
 
 'The stais of iiiidiiiglit sli.ill 1)0 dear 25 
 
 To her; and nhc sliall loan ht r ejir 
 
 In many a secn*t {»Iace 
 
 Whf're rivuh;ts dance their wayward round, 
 
 And beauty Imrn of murmuring sound 
 
 Shall [)nss into luir face. 30 
 
 'And vital feelings of delight 
 
 Shall rear her form to stately height. 
 
 Tier virgin Ix-sorn swell; 
 
 Suc>i tlioughts to Luoy I will give 
 
 While she and 1 together live 3D 
 
 Here in this happy dell.' 
 
 Thus Natui-e spake — The work was done — 
 
 How si»on my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heatli, this calm and quiet scene ; 40 
 
 The niernorv of wh.Mt has been, 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 A LESSON. 
 
 There is a flower, the Lesser Celandine, 
 That .shrinks like many more from cold and rain. 
 And the first moment that the sun may shine, 
 ih'ight as the sun himself, 'tis out again ! 
 
 When hailstonesj have been falling, swarm on swarm, 
 Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest. 
 Oft have I seen it irniffled up from harm 
 In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest. 
 
A LKSSON. 
 
 43 
 
 I)Ul liiti'ly, <»M0 I'oui^fji (lay, this llowor- I past, 
 
 And n'cngnized it, though ad alter'd foinii, 10 
 
 Niiv, standing forth an ollVsriiig to the hhist, 
 
 And !mlU't<'d at will by rain and stoi'in. 
 
 I stojip'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice, 
 
 "Tt doth not lov(- the sliower, nor seek the 0(»ld ; 
 
 This in'itlioi' is its courage; nor its ch(»ice, 15 
 
 Ihit its jiccessity in l)eing old. 
 
 "TIm" sunshine may not chcor it, noi- the dew ; 
 
 !t cannot liclp itself in its decay; 
 
 StiJV in its niemlxn-s, wither'd, changed of hue." 
 
 /Vnd, in my spleen, I smilc^d that it was gray. li" 
 
 To he a prodigal's favourite - then, worse truth, 
 A miser's })ensiofUir — behold on- lot! 
 () Man ! that fi-om thy fair and shining youth 
 Age might but take the t'.iings Youth needed uot ! 
 
 TO THE SKYLARK. 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrini of the sky ! 
 Dost thou despise the earth wlici-e cares abound 
 Of, while the wings aspire, arc licart and eye 
 P)oth with thy uvA, u[ton the dewy ground .^ 
 Tlij nest whicl. thou canst dro]) into at w ill, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 
 
 To the last p(<int of visitm, and beyond 
 
 i\Iount, daring warbler! that lovc-j)roniplcd strain 
 
 ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 
 
 o 
 
n:iRi 
 
 u 
 
 SELKCTI()N.S FI{()M WoKKHWOKTll. 
 
 h 
 
 k:i;r I 
 
 Tliiills not the loss tlir bosom of tlif jilain : 10 
 
 Yet inif^lit-'st thou seem, ])i'on(l j)i'ivil('i,'e ! to siii^' 
 All iii(l('|)('TKl<'iit of IIk' leafy Spring. 
 
 Leave to tlie niglitiiigalo her sluuly wood; 
 
 A privacy of glorious light is thine, 
 
 Whence thou dost pour upon Uie world a flood 15 
 
 Of harmony, with instinct More divine ; 
 
 Type of the wise, who soai-, hut never roam ; 
 
 True to the kindred points of Ileuven and Home. 
 
 
 in- 'I-'- 
 
 
 I II; '!'^ iJ; 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 With little here to do or see 
 
 Ot things that in the groat \Noi'ld be, 
 
 Sweet Dai.sy ! oft I talk to thee 
 
 For thou art worthy, 
 Thou unassuming common-place 
 Of Nature, with that homely face, 
 And vet with something of a grace 
 
 Which Love makes for thee ! 
 
 Oft on the dappled tui-f at ease 
 
 I sit and f)lay with similes. 
 
 Loose types of things through all degrees, 
 
 Thoughts of thy raising ; 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame 
 As is the humour of the game, 
 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
To TIIK DAISY. 
 
 45 
 
 A nun (IcMuirc, of lowly poib ; 
 
 Or .s[)iiiflil ly niaiden, of Love's court, 
 
 III thy siniiilicity the sport 
 
 Of all t(Mnj)t.itif)ns ; 
 A queen in cnnvn of rubies dresfc j 
 A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
 Ar<^ all, as seems to suit thee best, 
 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 A little Cyc'lojis, w ith one eye 
 
 Staling to thivaten and d<'fy, 
 
 That thought conies next-- and instantly 
 
 The freak is oNcr, 
 TIk! s]ia[)c will vanish, and behold ! 
 A silver shield with boss of gold 
 That spreads itself, some fairy bold 
 
 Jn tight to cover. 
 
 I .see thee glittering from afar — 
 And tiieii tliou art a joretty star, 
 Not quite ^o fail- as many are 
 
 In lieavcn al,( \e thee ! 
 Yet like a star, with glittering ci-est, 
 Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; — 
 May peace come never t(* his nest 
 
 Who shall reprove tlnje ! 
 
 Sweet Flower ! for by tliat name at last 
 
 ^^'llen all my reveries are past 
 
 I call thee, and to tliJit cleave; fast., 
 
 Sweet silent Creature ! 
 That bn^ath'st with me in sun and air, 
 l)o tlK)u, as tliou art wont, n^pair 
 IMy heart with gladness, and a share 
 
 Of thy meek nature I 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 SO 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
1^: 
 
 40 
 
 relkc;tion8 phom wonnswouTii. 
 
 r ['. 
 
 ■■ '('' 
 
 1' t; 
 
 TO A DISTANT FUIKND. 
 
 Why art thou sihuit ! Is thy love, a plant 
 Of such weak iWno tliat ilic trcaclicious air 
 Of ahsctu'f! witherN what was onco so fair? 
 Is thcrf ri(. (I('l)t to pay, n<> \>onn to gi*ant? 
 
 Yet havo my thou,:,'hts for thoo Ixh'm vi;,'ilant, 
 JJmiiid to thy scrvioo with uiiccai.iiii,' cair — 
 Th(! mind's least generous wish a nii'iidicaDt 
 For nought l)ut what thy hipi)int'ss <'muI(I spare. 
 
 S])eak ! - thoiigli this soft 'A'arm heart, iu\rr fi'fc to hold 
 A thousand tender [)leasuros, thine and niine, 
 
 5 
 
 V)(' h'ft mor(! desolat 
 
 (\ more di'ea 
 
 U 
 
 cold 
 
 10 
 
 Than a forsaken bird's-nost iill'd witli snow 
 
 'Mid its own hush of Icatlijss (Eglantine — ■ 
 
 Speak, that my torturing doul^ts (heir end may k'tiow 
 
 LONDON, 1802. 
 
 O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 
 
 For comfort, being, as 1 am, (tpprest 
 
 To think that now our life is only drest 
 
 For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook, 
 
 Or groom! — We must run glittering like a l)rt)ok 
 In the open sunshin(>, or we are unl)lest; 
 The wealthiest man among us is the best : 
 No grand(Hn' now in Natuic or in i)ook 
 
 5 
 
Tin: sAMK. 
 
 |)rli;L;liis lis. K;ij»im', aviirico, oxpcnsc, 
 This is idolatr}' ; atul those wo luloro: 
 I'l.iin liviiitj iuid Iii^'h thinking iiro no inoio : 
 
 Tho lioinoly ])eauty of th«^ gofxl uld cause 
 Is gone; our poaoo, our fearful innoconoo, 
 Am\ pure religion bn^athing IiousoIk.M laws. 
 
 47 
 
 10 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 Milton! thou shouldst. he living at this hour: 
 England hath nocd of theo : she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and howijr, 
 
 Have forfeited their anrient English dower 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish ni(;u : 
 Oh I raise us up, return to us again ; 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 
 Th}' soul was like a Star, and dwelt a])art : 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; 
 
 So didst thou travel on life's oonimon -vay 
 ]n cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
 9 
 
 10 
 
 :i 
 
 v: 
 
I I 
 
 ( I 
 
 48 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWOUTH. 
 
 1 » 
 
 TO ^l.DEV. 
 
 A flock of slioop (liat leisurely pass by 
 (>n(! after o!ie ; i]\v. sound of rain, and bees 
 Alurniui-in^' ; tlic fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
 Smooth lields, while sheets of watei', and pure s!:y ; 
 
 l'v(; thought of all by turns, and still I lie 
 Sleepless; and so(tu the small Idrds" melodies 
 Must hear, first uttei'M from my c»rchai'(l trees, 
 And the lirst, cuckoo's melancholv cry. 
 
 ]*]ven thus last ni^ht, and two nights moi'e T lay, 
 And cDidd not w'ni thee. Sleej) ! by any stenlth : 
 So do not let me wear to-in'ght away : 
 
 \\'ithout 'J'hee what is nil the morning's wealth? 
 
 C'ome, blessed barrier between day and day. 
 
 Dear laotlxu' of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 
 
 10 
 
 WrriTTN KTXCrS college CTTAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 
 With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd 
 (Albeit labouring for a scanty band 
 Of white-robed Scholai's only) this inunense 
 
 And glorious work of fine intelligence I 5 
 
 — (live all thou canst : high Heaven rejects the lore 
 Of nicely-calculated less or more: — 
 So di'cm'd the man who fashion'd for the sense 
 
I'u 
 
 WITHIN KING.S COLLKOK ( IIAPKL, CAMI'.KIDGE. 
 
 These lofty pillars, spread (hat hraiuhiug roof 
 Self-poisod, atid ocoop'd into ten thousand cells 
 Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 
 
 Lingering and wandering on as loth to die — 
 Like tlunights wIkjsc very swcdiit ss yicldeth proof 
 That they were borii fur immortality. 
 
 49 
 
 10 
 
 10 
 
 DGE. 
 
 • jjOC— 
 

 ■ 
 
 J 
 
 i, 
 
 •1 
 1 
 
 i 
 1 
 
 !' 
 
NOTES ON AVOUDSWORTll. 
 
 THE EinJCATION OF NATTTRE. 
 
 This pocTii, writ ten in 17!)!>, and pul)]isli('(l in ] SOO in the 
 second edition of the Lyrlfal Bdllads, is t yjiically W'ords- 
 woithiiui. " \V' oever," says De Qninc(!y, " looks searchingly 
 into Wordsworth's characteristic genius will s<m! tliat he does 
 not willingly deal with a ]>assion in its dii'ect aspect or pre- 
 senting a . .■ ifr/'odified contdur, but in foriiis more complex and 
 iil)li(jne, it, •■ ^ nen passing under the sliadow of sonu^ secondarv 
 passion." In y/e" Fiiinttdn Matthew's joy that wells up froni 
 eonstitntional sources, and cannot, tlierefore, cease to sparkle, 
 is touched and overgloomed hy memories of sonow. In MV' 
 .!/•« Sevcv, the little cottag(! girl, in her fulness of life. 
 iiicn[)ao!(> of understanding the meaning of death, is brought 
 under the reilex shadows of the gra\i'. In The A'ducatioii oj 
 Xcf'irp. we have similarly the majoi- and the minor chor'ds 
 hai'moniou.sly l>lended, enthusiastic delight in a vision of 
 pcifect womanliness ripening under simjile natural conditions, 
 ))assing into regret that the vision should ha\t' been so lleeting 
 and transient, and that again merging in the thought of the 
 \alue of memory as preserving for us shaptvs of beauty that 
 li;iv \anished from the world of a]i]>ear<incc, w Idle behind all 
 i^ the hope that the issues of this lifi; liuve their fullilment in 
 a life to come. With thi« .'ompiexily tliere is no obscurity, no 
 n\-er-retineinent of thought or feeling such as wc freipiently 
 lind in Teiuivson. Ajul the form and exolution of the jxiem 
 .u'e no less sincere and inevitable. In the iirst slan/a it is 
 >ui;y;ested tlial there is something more tJian euviromnent ill 
 
 o» 
 
 Lalj 
 
 J| 
 
52 
 
 NOTES ON WOKDSWOKTn. 
 
 i. 1 
 
 i! ' 
 
 ii 
 
 the growth of ca l)OMutit'ul character. Nature did not mfike 
 this soul ; slio only brought to flower a seed that had acquired 
 its possil)ilities of growth elsewliore. The thought adumbrated 
 in this stanzji is the same as that more directly expressed in 
 the great Ode : 
 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
 Hath had t'lbewhcre its setting, 
 And coiiic'th from afar. 
 
 The charactei-istics of p(M'f(3ct womanliness and the influences 
 by which it is developed are given in the next five stanzas. 
 In the concluding stan/a, the mijKjr chord, latent in all tlui 
 shorter cadences, for the first time distinctly emerges. This vision 
 of perfect loveliness has scarcel}' appeared before it vanishes 
 from our world of phenomena and we are left with only the 
 nunnory of what it was. The meti'ical unity of the poem is 
 no less remarkable. There is a deep rhythmical necessity in 
 the coml>ination of two iambic tetrameters and a trimeter, 
 [low well, for example, the comi)l('x emotional quality of the 
 poem is suggested by the cadence of the first three lines of the 
 opening stanza or by the last half of the concluding stanza ! 
 
 It is interesting to compare this poem with Shelley's solution 
 of a somewhat similar ])ro])lem in the Sensitive Plant. In 
 Shelley's sweeping pantheistic conception little or no account 
 is tak(>n of individual sori'ow. If wc in(turn the loss of some 
 rtne g(;od and l)eautiful w(! are told that death is a mockery, 
 that our loved one has meri^h^ Ix'come one with nature, is a 
 presence still to be loved and known, spreading itself where'er 
 that power may move which has withdraw his being to its 
 own, that our human organs of perception only are at fault, 
 that 'tis we, 'tis ours are changed, not they that are gone. 
 AVordsworth's meaning is therefore siin2)ler, more sincere, 
 moi'c uni\('rsally intelligible. Of one truth he at least is 
 certain, th;)t the (lend and the distant, while we long for them 
 
NOTES ON woKDswoirnr. 
 
 63 
 
 (lid not make 
 
 had acquired 
 
 t adumbrated 
 
 expressed in 
 
 the influences 
 t five stanzas, 
 snt in all tlin 
 es. This vision 
 L'e it vanishes 
 with only the 
 )f the poom is 
 il necessity in 
 id a trimeter, 
 quality of the 
 ee lines of the 
 in;;" stanza ! 
 
 lley's solution 
 
 L'e Plant. In 
 
 or no account 
 
 loss of some 
 
 is a mockery, 
 
 1 nature, is a 
 
 self where'er 
 
 ])eing to its 
 
 re at fault, 
 
 at are gone. 
 
 noro sincere, 
 
 le at least is 
 
 ong for them 
 
 and mourn fc^i' tlicm, ai'e as li'uly prf'sont as tlio f1i)or we stand 
 on, Nvhihi his suggested solution, of the o]>position hftwccn 
 divine pui'pose and human wishes in a life beyond the grave, 
 resting as it is m;ule to rest upon ;i. nccfssity of natuie, the 
 law one might say <jf the conservation of spiritual ciKM'gx', is 
 l<'ss militant and dogmatic than eitlier Shelley or Browning's 
 tr<>atment of the same problem. 
 
 This ]»ocin should !>e reail in coiijuiietion witii Ihifli, Lucif (Iraii, IIV 
 Are Si' veil. The Injlio'iicc of Xatiiral Ohjixis ami S/w l)(V>'lt Aihuikj the. 
 Vntruddcn )Vans. 
 
 I. Three years. Favourite ballad number. 
 
 3. Sown. <"ouipare " Here scattered like a laiidoin .st;t;d " in 7V»^ 
 J/ll/hland (li:L 
 
 6. Lady, 't'rue culture is natural, not artilicial. i 'ouipare with 
 th« ])oet".s view.s of the moral and spiritual grandiur of nature's teaching 
 as expressed in llir Itijlnrix'c of Xaturnl O'ljii'ts. 
 
 8. Law and Impulse. A seuso of order as well asijuick and 
 eager visitings of thought and feelin^. 
 
 II. feel. Be ini})licitly lathcr than distinctly ccuiscious of an 
 augu.st prest iiec. Paiskin, in Minlirii I'iiiiif<'r.-\ says: "I thiidc we 
 cannot doubt of one main conclusion, tliat tliough the ab.svnce of a love 
 of nature is not an assured condemnation, its piesence is an invuriabie 
 sign of goodness." 
 
 12. To kindle and restrain. Compare "law ami impulse." 
 
 13. Nature's intluences add to the human eharaoter a cheerful, 
 buoyant liveliness. Compare Jtut/i : 
 
 And when ho ( lioso to sport and play, 
 No (loliihin (;-\it \v:u-i .so '^ay 
 Upon tho tropio >i.a, 
 
 16. breathing balm. " I'-uatliiniC'— .iii active participle usetl 
 l)assi»'ely. A sweet restorative inlluence shall go forth as an cmanatiitn 
 from her presence. 
 
 16, 18. In Wonlsworth's coucepUon of n itiirc's inlliicncc in nimdd- 
 ing the human spirit, im tlumgiit is so constantly active as that of the 
 calming and soothing power of lier great 'silences.' 
 
 u 
 
]"■ 'I 
 fli I' 
 
 > 1 
 
 
 Mm, 
 
 11 \A- 
 
 i r; 
 
 
 54 NOTES ON WORDSWOIITH. 
 
 Conip<ai'c — froin tlio Soihj at Ihc Feasl of liroiiijham Castle: 
 
 Love had lie foiin<l in luits wliore jxnir men lie ; 
 HiiS daily ti'dclnTs )iad been wodds and rills, 
 The silfnce that is in tlic starry sky, 
 The sleep lliut is amon;,' tlic lonelv hills. 
 
 24. silent sympathy. Unconscious adjustment to lifi' environ- 
 
 llU'llt. 
 
 26. lean her ear. T<> catch the 8u])tle, ahnost inaudible toiK s 
 (»f natun.'. (Jiim])ait! " tlie harvest of a quiet eye." 
 
 27. secret place, ('ompare with "Tlie shop that is amonj.; tli.' 
 hinely hills,' iii ipuitatiou Ki, 18. 
 
 31. Woi'dswortli not only does not helievo in the jtliysical or moral 
 ctlicienoy of p;i:n, hut seems to deny the possibility ol its presence with 
 the normal child .•unid the glories of nature. Joy, 'genial joy,' is 
 the inherited ' coronal ' of youth : 
 
 Meadow, },'rove, and stream, 
 The earth and every common si;,dit 
 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial liyht, 
 The ylory and the freshness of a dream. 
 
 37. The "work was done. Lucy's education was comph ted. 
 Hers was now 
 
 A countenance in whiih did meet 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet. 
 
 41 42. Compare with I'rowninu's ^l//^ Vofili-r : 
 
 Never to be again ! But many more of the kiiul 
 
 As sfood, nay, belter pon^hanee ; is this your comfort to tneV 
 
 To me who nmst be 8n,ved because 1 clin;,'' with m.v mind 
 To the same, same self, same love, same God : ay, what was, sb.ilt be. 
 
 \*'ords\vorth frequently refers to the restorativt jjowerc'f the memory 
 when time and imaysinative processes have added an i(L'al halo to an 
 object or a scene. Compare with lines in 7'h(' ll'njlilaiid Girl, The Rev- 
 frit' of Poor Sumii, liutern. Ahhci/, Yarrow \"mU'd, The Cuckoo, 
 M( iiiori/, etc. 
 
 k ii- 
 
NOIKS ON WOKD^WOKIII. 
 
 i)0 
 
 A LE8S0N, 1804. 
 
 Tlioro was no limit to the range and extent of Wordsworth'.s 
 sympatliics in nature. He is quite as much at home in 
 the picseiice of the simplest Howcr as amid the grandest 
 ;ind most elemental forces of his own rocky Cund)er- 
 landshire. AH forms of nature's shaping are pervaded 
 hy the one eternal vspirit, and the true poet of nature, 
 seeing, as he must, into the very life of things, is just 
 so much a great poet in proportiiui as he succeeds in 
 catching and depicting the vaiious moods of that sj)irit. 
 Wordsworth looks upon the Celandine, and how noble and 
 liighly sci'ious is the spiritual truth revealed in the life of this 
 connnon-|.lac(! object! Tn its vigorous, buoyant youtli, ilie 
 Celandine has found within itself powers and energies sutH- 
 cient for self-protection ; in age, with tlu'se powers lost or 
 destroyed, it is *' bulT'eted at will " by all the fiercer forces of 
 the elements. Even so, man,-— in youth, the favourite of a 
 lavish mothei", Nature, - becomes in age, with early joys and 
 enthusiasms, pow(!i's and faculties dissipated or destroyed, the 
 pensioner upon uhom niggardly she bestows her blessings. 
 
 We catch in this poem what is rare in Wordsworth — a des- 
 pondent note : in its issues, life, with its development, brings 
 hopelessjiess. Man must lose, lose irre'.oeably a»id perhaps 
 through his own lavishness, what would cheer and sup[)ort him 
 in his last years. A diiVd'ent not(> pervades his stronger wro-k. 
 Much of the joy and delight of youth must fade; the i^l n-y 
 must pass away from the earth, but compensation there is in 
 
 That which stioiild ;iriiiiii|i.uiy old ;r^o, 
 
 Aa honour, love, obcdit'iici,', Iroops of friends, 
 
 and in the menioi'y of 
 
 tliosf .affections, 
 Those siiiidowy recollections, 
 
56 
 
 NOTES ON WORDSWORTH. 
 
 I \ \ 
 
 it ! i' 
 
 I 1 
 
 V. I 
 
 1 4 1 1 
 
 Which he they what they may, 
 
 Are yet tho foiiiit;iiii light of all our day, 
 
 Art; yet a ma-stor li),'ht of all our seeing ; 
 
 In tho primal synqiathy 
 
 Which having ln-en must ever be, 
 
 In tho soulhin^f lhniiL;lits that sjiring 
 
 Out of human siilTerin;;, 
 
 In the faith that looks throuyh death, 
 
 In years that briti;,' the jiliilosophic mind 
 
 Back of the poet's toachiiig in all his works is the belief tliat 
 the ideal life is such aa existence as will fit man for uiectiiig 
 the wasting of his powers with age and such an existence as 
 will train him to listen, to ponder and hold dear those 
 
 Echoes from lioyond the grave, 
 Recognized intelligemse 1 
 
 He, indeed, is truly wise who 
 
 Mourns less for what age takes away 
 Than what she leaves behind. 
 
 This poem, not so short and compact, has yet much of the 
 spirit of one of Wordsworth's sonnets. One cannot but note 
 the graver, more serious and more severe dignity of the verse 
 movements as compared with the Education of Ndture. 
 
 As showing tho range and warmth of Wordsworth's sym- 
 pathies in the plant and flower world, it would be well to read 
 the poems on the Daisi/, those on the OelaiuUiie, the Yew I'rees, 
 IVie Daffodils, The Primrose, etc., whilst, as tooching upon 
 the same problems of life, the Ode on the Intimations and 
 The Fountain might be examined. 
 
 1. Lesser celandine. A common British plant with yellow 
 fhnvers, blossoming early in spring. Known as a swallow-wort. 
 
 13. Why " iuly-mutterevr' ? 
 
 20. in my spleen. Account for this mood on the part of the 
 author. 
 
 23, 24. Compare with the verses quoted in the preceding remarks : 
 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 Mourns less for what age, etu. 
 
 i i: 
 
NOTKS O.N WOKDSWOIilll. 
 
 57 
 
 THE SKYLARK, 1825. 
 
 Sorao critics have ohjocted to what tlioy call tho (tm 
 obviously didactic purpose of this poem. The last two lines, 
 it is said, are artistically iuharmoin'ous ; their appearance con- 
 verts the poem into a moral homily, and sicklies oVr its 
 cheerful objectivit}' with the pale cast of subjective thouj,'ht; 
 instead of a disinterested study of nature we have the skylark 
 used as a peg upon which to hang a somewhat prosy moral. 
 To charge a poet with being didactic is, however, no real 
 objection. All poetry is didactic — that is, every poem has its 
 organizing idea, and the degree of emotion that idea has 
 aroused in the poet is the measure of the literary value of his 
 production. Catch that idea and his work is a magnificent 
 unity : miss it, or mistake some more limited conception for 
 the main thought, and more or less of the poem is certain (o 
 escape into contingency. 
 
 "N"ow Wordsworth never looks upon nature as a whole, or 
 any part of nature, as having an existence independent of 
 man's life. In all his later and best work, at any rate, he has 
 
 • learned 
 
 To look on nature not as in the liour 
 Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 
 The still sad music of humanity. 
 
 lie has felt the presence of one pervading spirit in the light of 
 which all dill'erences between man and the lower creation or 
 the objective world are merely accidental, lie peneti-ates 
 below this external husk of difference and sees the fuiid;i- 
 mental unity of all life and the laws upon which the highest 
 fruition depends. 
 
 The skylark in its way illustrates the same truth that in a 
 higher form Wordsworth sees exemplified in Milton's life : 
 
 Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt ai)art : 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, 
 
58 
 
 NOTKS ON WOKDHWO : lit 
 
 il 
 
 !1 I, i 
 
 l!: 
 
 
 If 
 fl 
 
 
 ,1 ■(• ■. 
 
 I'liif as the naked heavens, iiiajtHlic, free, 
 
 iirid yet thy heart 
 
 The lowliest fluties on herself did lay. 
 
 'J'lio truth tliat nobility and <!lf'\jiti(»ii of lit'o is not to bo 
 Hou'jjlit in th<! I'cjnction of all iniindano intorcsts, Imt lliat lioce 
 and now wo may I'oalizo tlio liis^flKU' lif(! if wo will; that not, in 
 I'topian froodoni from conditions, l)ut l)y acting in harmony 
 with tlu' social and moral ordcT in which wo aro placed can 
 we liiid h;i|)|iiri('-;s. The lower creation aro instinctively in 
 haiiMnny with ilicir cnvironmont. MiUi, in virtue of his 
 higluu' consciousness and power of choice, is able to f(»rsake 
 the i):ith of his wt'lfai'e. I>ut the harmony which thought 
 disturbs, thought can restore. Wordsworth's moi-al is there- 
 fort^ diU'ercnt from that, of Shelle\' in his ode, To the Shi/hivk. 
 Shelley attributes our rcvlativcj unhappiness to our self-con- 
 sciousness: 
 
 We look before and after 
 And jiino for wluit is not. 
 
 AVordsworth sees in self-consciousness the possibility of a 
 higher, ])ecause conscious, harmony than the instinctive joy- 
 ousness of the skylark, though the f(M'nier when attained will, 
 like the latter, be the result of healthy spontaneous ac^tion. 
 
 This poem, written in 18"2o, might be ])rofitably com|)ared 
 with an earlier lyric upon the skylark, written in 1805 Years 
 ha\e deepened and intensified the poet's views of human life. 
 In both poems there is enthusiastic mention of the singing ai\d 
 soaring of the bird, but whilst in the earlier })oem Wordsworth 
 meets the p(;tty cares and miseries of the real world by charm 
 and ele\ation of fancy, in the later, to his ear, truer, and more 
 serious has become " the still sad nnisic of humanity." 
 
 As Tlie L('fiHO)i suggested an examination of other poems of 
 Wordsworth, so should the Sktjlark lead to a careful reading 
 of the C'ldioo poems, and of The (iveen Linnet. The different 
 
NOTKS ON \\()l!l'S\Vol!TII. 
 
 no 
 
 i.i.Miitii'fs of Kcjils, Sliclluy and AV(»Ml.s\\(irtli iiiii;li( lie studicil 
 ill lluii- '' liird " jxK'ti'y. 
 
 1. Ethereal minstrel, ('(nuparc vitli siulUy's dcM iij.tinn of 
 
 till' '.uk'.s miiil;. 
 
 Pilgrim of the sky. CVmiiiaro Hliaks|uiro : 
 
 Liko ti) till' luik lit lui-ak nf diiy aiisiiiij 
 
 From sullfii uiirUi hiuhh 1i,\ inn* at lu!i\cii's {futc. 
 
 2. Despise.— (/''•'<7"'''''>, to look ddwn uicn. thf tiuiuativf forct; of 
 the word ln'inji lien; spicially apjiroin-iatf. 
 
 "Where cares abound. Tlic ignoliility ami anxiitv of life luiiii,' 
 luoductivo ill ix'itain minds of oyiiicit<m and iiidili'ertiu'i!. 
 
 3. aspire. <\imiiart; "despise." 
 
 6. l>eV(dop tlie contrast implied in " (piivi ring " and •* eftmposrd," 
 also that in ''that musie," "still." 
 
 Note the relation in thought of tlie last twn lines in eaeli stan/a to 
 tlu' other lines of the same stanza. 
 
 7. last point of vision. What is meant v 
 
 8. Daring warbler. What is the iniiposo of the antitlKsis 
 " dariiii,' \varl)ler '' '.' 
 
 13. Keats ia his (h/c to (he yii/hliiiija/c l!iiis deserihes the hiiil's 
 appearance and hahits : 
 
 Tliini lif;ht-\viiijriii l>iya(l ef the trees, 
 
 111 sdiiie mcliiilious )ilnt 
 Of lireolKMi <,Tit'n and sIkuIciw s imiiilifile.sa, 
 
 SiiigL'st of t^iiiiiiufr ill fulltluoatuil case. 
 
 and iu bidding it adieu : 
 
 Tliy )ilainti\(' aTilliein fmles 
 Past tlio near iin'ailow >, oxir tlic still stream, 
 Uji tlie liill-.siilf ; anil nou 'lis hiuifd (kep 
 III tlio next vallev ijiades. 
 
 Milton, in the // Pi )isi roao 
 
 Sw.'fi liird. that shuiinst tlie noise rif folly. 
 Most iinisicai, most iinlancholv. 
 
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 60 
 
 NOTES ON WORDSWORTH. 
 
 What 18 the characteristic note of the nightingale ? What sort of 
 poetry <ln a the nightingale'v song represent ? The si^ylark'a ? Com- 
 pare the suggested thought of thig line (13) with Schiller's saying that 
 the object of all great art is dedicated to joy. 
 
 14. Personal isolation from the baser tendencies of man's thought 
 and life is a natural, almost necessary condition of personal sublimity of 
 soul anil being. The human soul reaches its highest expression of joy 
 and worship only when away from the world's tiercer tumults and in 
 the glorious eye of heaven, but this isolation should imply no lack of 
 sympathy with tho "common way" of life and with its "lowliest 
 duties." 
 
 HI 
 
 I 
 
 TO THE DAISY, 1805. 
 
 Of this poem Raskin says in Xfodern Painters that the first 
 few stanzas are dolicious examples of fancy regardant, and the 
 final stanza one of heavenly imagination. " Observe,' he 
 goes on, "how spiritual, yet how wandering and playful the 
 fancy is, and how far she flies from the matter in hand, never 
 stopping to brood on the character of any of the images she 
 summons, and yet for a moment truly seeing and believing in 
 thorn all ; while in the last stanza the imagination returns 
 with its deep feeling to the heart of the flower and cleaves fast 
 to that." The main thought of the poem in other words is in 
 the last stanza, and that is the same simple yet profound truth 
 as we have in the Daffudils. 
 
 Compare Wordsworth in his treatment of this subject, whether iu 
 this or in his other poems on the daisy, with Burns and Chaucer. 
 
 6. commonplace. On accouut of its prevalence. 
 
 9. dappled turf. With light and shade or with daisies ? 
 
 Compare with a stanza from another of Wordsworth's poeuis to tho 
 daisy : 
 
 A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
 Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
 Have 1 derived trout thy tiweet power 
 
NOTES ON WORDSWORTH. tl 
 
 Some apprehension ; 
 Some sU'wIy love ; sonic brie( delight ; 
 Some memory that had taken flight ; 
 Some chime of fancy, wrong or right ; 
 
 Or stray invention. 
 
 11. Loose types. Wordsworth is aware of the fancifulness of 
 his comparisons, — and yet, however "fond and idle" those fancies may 
 he, something in the daisy's appearance must suggest them. What ? 
 
 25. Cyclops. A fabled giant mentioned by Homer, with one 
 
 circular eye in the middle of the forehead. 
 
 31. faery. Another form of "fairy." 
 
 33-40. Wherein does this stanza exemplify a marked feature in 
 Wordsworth's poetry — an inequality of thought or manner ? 
 
 45. That breathest with me in sun and air. The key- 
 note of Wordsworth's philosophy of nature -the community among all 
 parts of nature and their obedience in one form or another to the same 
 law, — hence the restorative influence upon the human spirit. 
 
 V I 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 THE SONNET. 
 
 Sonnet, from the Italian soneMo, lit i-ally a little sound, 
 l)ecause originally recited to the accompaniment of a musical 
 ijistrument, is a brief poetic form of fourteen rhymed verses 
 arranged in a certain regular order. There are four principal 
 forms : 
 
 (1). Shaksperean or Elizabethan, containing three quat- 
 rains rhyming alternately and a final couplet. To the main 
 body of the poem this couplet was attached as i\n\ climax of 
 the developed thought, or as an aj)plication of the central 
 idea of the quatrains, '-md in it was found the most einphatic 
 rhyme accent. Sidney, Daniel, Spenser, Shakspcre and Drum- 
 moud accepted this form. 
 

 t II 
 
 ili 
 
 i it 
 
 1 
 
 62 
 
 NOTES ON WORDSWOHTH. 
 
 (2). INIiltonic, containing an octavo nhhaahha and a sextet 
 cdcdcd (gonorally). The (tctavo pi'escnted distinctl}' and com- 
 pletely a basal tiiouglit or fact ftoin which — although Milton 
 does not always show ;i well-worked break between the two 
 sections — the sextet [)rocpeded as a corollary in the form of a 
 sentiment, rctlection, or conclusion, or, as has been happily 
 said, .as a crown or gai-land adorning the octave. The rhyme 
 scheme of the first sectioji was compact and unvarying, whilst, 
 in the sextet, so W(;ll-distributed and soliglitly-woi'ked was the 
 rhyme emphasis that no impediment was felt to the gradual 
 .nibsidence of the thought towards th(> end of the poiMU. 
 Milton gave also a simple, manly, direct tone to the sonnet ; 
 rejected all ingenuity and discursiveness of thought, and 
 added a unity and severity of sentiment natural to his Puritnn 
 temper. Finall}' he widened the application of the form, as 
 his sonnets do not dwell upon the common subject of the 
 Elizabethan poets— human love. 
 
 (3), Recent sonnets in the Petrarchan or Italian model, in 
 which the metrical and intellectual ebb and flow is strictly 
 observed nnd in which, while the octave is fixed, the sextet is 
 variable. An effort is sometimes made to sub-divide, with 
 distinct shades of thought and feeling, the octave into quat- 
 rains and the sextet into tercets. 
 
 (4). Sonnets of miscellaneous structure. 
 
 In all the object is the same^ the embodiment, in a single 
 metrical flow and return, of a single wave of emotion which is 
 too deeply charged with thought or too much adulterated with 
 fancy to pass spontaneously into the pure lyric. Thei-e is a 
 de(ip-seated instinct in human nature to choose for the rend(>r- 
 ing of single phases of thought or feeling a certain recognized 
 form. Hence the tendency to eliminate all sonnet forms who.se 
 irregulai'ity mars the sense of prescription and to fix upon the 
 Shaksperean and the Petrarchan as the standard forms. 
 
NOTKS ON wonnswouTii. 
 
 63 
 
 Models of these sonnet-forms care appended for examination; 
 (1). yiiaksperean or Elizabethan: 
 
 SHAKSI'EUKS TIIIRTIKTII SONNET. 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
 I Bumnion up remembrance of thinj^H past, 
 I sigh the lack of many a tiling I sought, 
 And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste : 
 Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow, 
 . For precious friends hid in death's dateless night 
 And weep afresh love's long-since eanccllcd woe, 
 And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight. 
 Then can I grieve at grievances fore-gone, 
 And heavily from woe to woe (ell o'er 
 The sad ac(;ount of fore-hemoaned moan, 
 Which I new i>ay as if not paid before. 
 
 But if the while I think oti thee, dear friend, 
 
 All losses are restor'd, and sirrows end. 
 
 (2). Miltonic: 
 
 WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY. 
 
 Captain or colonel, or knight in arms, 
 
 Whose chance on these defenceless doora may seize 
 
 If deed of honour did thee ever please, 
 
 Guard them and him within protect from hanns. 
 
 He can rcipiite thee for he knows the charms 
 
 That call fame on such gentle acts as these. 
 
 And he can sjjread thy name o'er lands and seas, 
 
 Whatever clime the sun's hright circle warms. 
 
 Lift not thy sjiear against the nnisc's bower 
 
 The great Emathian c<)U(|Ucror did spare 
 
 The house of I'indarus, when temple and tower 
 
 Went to the ground: and the re|)eated air 
 
 Of sad Electra's poet had the jmwer 
 
 To save the '\fhenian walls from ruin hare, 
 
 ^3). Recent — after Italian model : 
 
 The sonnets by Wordsworth in these selections, 
 
 (4). Miscellaneous : 
 
 SHELLEY'S OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT. 
 
 I met a traveller froi.i an antique land 
 
 Who sai<l : Two vast and tninkless legs of stone 
 
 Stand in the <lesert. Neir them on the sand, 
 
 I 
 
w 
 
 m 
 
 III 
 
 64 NOTRS ON WOKDSWOUTII. 
 
 Half sunk, a shattcr'd vUat^o lies, whose frown 
 And wrinkleil lip and sneer of oold command 
 Tell that ita suulptor well those passions rea<i 
 Which yot Burvive, stamped on these lifeless things, 
 The hand that niooked them and the heart that fed ; 
 And on the pedestal these words appear : 
 "My r. line is Ozymandias, kinjf of kings : 
 Look on my works, ye Mijfhty, and despair !" 
 Nothing hesido remains. Hound the decay 
 Of that colossal wreck, boundless and hare, 
 The lone and level sands stretch far away. 
 
 Woi'dswortli, as was natural cousidoring the profoundly reflec- 
 tive character of his thought, found the sonnet form a pecu- 
 liarly suitahh^ vehicle, its n.arrowness imposing upon him the 
 restraint which he did not know how to apply himself : 
 
 to me 
 
 In sundry moods, 'twas jjastimc to he bound 
 Within the sonnet's scanty jilot of yjround : 
 Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be) 
 Who have felt the weij;iit of too nuich liberty, 
 Should find britf solace there, as I have found. 
 
 Whilst in. his sonnets he may not attain to the greater moral 
 elevation of Milton, and whilst from his sonnets maybe absent 
 a joyful, loving, delicate interpretation of nature, we cannot 
 but note in them a closely-packed and concentrated body of 
 spiritual thought, and a depth and sincerity of sympathy with 
 the " still sad music of humanity." 
 
 Over the form of the sonnet he possessed a complete mastery. 
 Not that he was strictly accurate in his acceptance and use of 
 the Italian or any model : his octaves often run over into his 
 sextets ; the rhyjnes of his sextets are varied ; he rarely sub- 
 divides his thought into quatrains and tercets ; and refuses to 
 follow the alternate rhymes of Shakspere. But in all his sonnets 
 there is a complete anil rounded unity of purpose and thought. 
 So marked was his control over this unity of conception and 
 development, that, though the most voluminous of our 
 sonneteers, he has loft us among his three or four hundred 
 sonnets scarcely one that falls below the level. 
 
Notes on Wordsworth. 
 
 TO A DISTANT FRIEND. 
 
 65 
 
 It would be interesting to compare tliis sonnet with some 
 of Sluikspere's upon his friondship, or with those of Druni- 
 mond of ILawthornch'ti. In his friendships as in all the func- 
 tions of life, Wordsworth, whilst sincere, was dignified and 
 self-controlled. 
 
 7. 8. The mind's least generous wish, etc. Without a 
 
 sellish wish where liis friend was coiioerned. 
 12, 13. Develop the force of the coniparisou. 
 
 'i 
 $ 
 
 ,1 
 
 j 1 
 
 LONDON, 1802. 
 
 The main body of thought in this poem appears frequently 
 in the sonnets of Wordsworth. This tone of despair grows 
 deeper and more tragic in the philosophy of Carlyle, whilst in 
 the moral grandeur of the lament we are reminded of the 
 great Puritan poet. Throughout the fourteen lines there is 
 absent the fearful fon.-e of Byron. What shall remove the 
 materialistic and utilitarian tendencies of our age? Not state 
 control of man's virtues and vices but harmony with the guid- 
 ing influences of nature ! In the truth and calm of nature'.s 
 laws, in the sweeter domestic virtues, '* in pure religion," and 
 in " fearful innocence " is found the blessing of cheerful happi- 
 ness. 
 
 1. O friend ! Coleridge (?). 
 
 3. Our life is only drest for show. The machinery of life, 
 ag Arnold would say, the comforts and conveniences that sliould enable 
 us to do our real work better, are valued as ends in tliemsielTes while 
 our work, the production of noble growths of mind and character, is 
 forgotten 
 
 4. mean handywork, etc. Our life is a mean handywork, 
 etc., men having ce;ised to regard or value character and come to estim- 
 ate man not by what he is but by what he has. 
 
 & 
 
r^' 
 
 06 
 
 NOTES ON WOKDSWOHTH. 
 
 & 
 
 6. Is the simile a happy one ? Devolup it. 
 
 7. The wealthiest man among' us is the best. A ref- 
 erence to the growing plutocracy of Hritftin, to the (liHapiiearance of au 
 aristocracy of birth or talent before the aristocracy of wealth. 
 
 9. Rapine. Modem competitive iadustrialism sccining to NVords- 
 worth in many of its aspects little ])etter than legalizeil robbery. 
 
 10. This. Ilapinc, etc. 
 
 11. Plain living and high thinking. Tin; antithesis of 
 
 hiyh thinking is a low materialistic hal)it of mind. Nothing is more 
 favourable to the development of this than over-attention to the gratifi- 
 cation of appetite. Hence the kernel of truth in asoetici.sm. 
 
 11-14. Peculiarly characteristic of the thuiight and manner of 
 Wordsworth. In these four lines we find suggested both tlie creed and 
 practice of his Hfc. Compare with Cowper's Ta.sk or Goldsmith's 
 Deserted Village for expressions of the same convictioug. 
 
 THE SAME, 1802. 
 
 In his es.say on Milton, Matthew Arnold says : " And in 
 calling up Milton's memory we call uf , let nie say, a memory 
 upon which in prospect of the Anglo-Saxon contagion and of 
 its datigers, supposed and real, it may be well to lay stress 
 even more than upon Shakspere's. If to our English race an 
 inade(|uate sense for perfection of work is a real danger, if tlu; 
 discipline of respect for a high and flawless excellence is 
 peculiarly needed by us, Milton is of all our gifted men the 
 best lesson, the most salutaiy influence. In the sure and 
 flawless j)erfection of his rhythm and diction he is as admir- 
 able as Vii'gil or Dante, and in this respect he is unique 
 amongst us." The student will liiid it an interesting exercise 
 to compare this sonnet with Keats' On First Looking into 
 Chapman's Homer, or with Matthe\/ xVrnold's Shakspere. 
 
 It would be well also to compare this sonnet carefully in form 
 with the preceding. Here the octave is closely-packed though 
 
 ii- 
 

 NOTES ON WOKDSWORTn. 
 
 67 
 
 feiHloi'od nervous by the Itrokcn lines and jiUriij)! patisoa. The 
 sextet justifies tiie invoealion to IVIilton by a niagiiilicent 
 portrayal of his work and character. The first tercet of the 
 sextet rings out with trunipcl-like tones, whilst the i.ist thr«>e 
 lines present a mild subsidence of the passion of the jjoeni. 
 
 4 6. An ideal natiunal existence that poets fondly ascribe to the 
 past. 
 
 Ancient English dower. Compare Burke's "The ancient and 
 inbrcid integrity and piety, good nature and good humour of tlie Kngli.sli 
 jieople." 
 
 6. We are selfish men. Sellishness is the great evil ; self- 
 sacrilice must aicne be the ileal of duty, and througli the .self-saerifice 
 of the individual may the nation be saved. Compare witli Carlyle's 
 conception of the duties of a great man. 
 
 7, 8. Is this Wordsworth's conception of a poet's sphere of work ? 
 Compare with A Poet's Ejnfaph. 
 
 9 11. As a sericmsly meditative poet himself, Wordsworth sur- 
 rounds his greatest human figures witli a sense of spiritual loneliness 
 and isolation. Compare 
 
 Newton with his prism and silent face, 
 
 The niarhle iiKk-x of a mind forever 
 
 Voyaging thro'.ijth strange seas of thoiighf. alone 
 
 or 
 
 Yea, our blind i>oet, wlio in his later day, 
 Stood almost single, uttering obvious truth, — 
 Darkness beiore, and danger voiee behind. 
 Soul awful. 
 
 Thou hadst a voice, etc. Compare with Keata on Chapman h 
 I/oiiicr. Tennyson says : 
 
 O niighty-niouthe<l inventor of hannonies, 
 O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, 
 God-gifted organ-voice of T-jigland, 
 Milton, a name to resound for ages 
 
 12-14. Wordsworth's conception of true living. Compare with the 
 preceding sonnet and with the 0(/j to Duty. 
 
 
nn 
 
 II 
 
 n 
 
 Hi 
 
 I m 
 
 ! ■ 1 i^j ■ 
 
 ■ ''\ 
 
 di 
 
 Aft 
 
 NOTKS ON WOKDSWOKTII. 
 
 TO ST.KKR 
 
 1-5. WonlBworth has oftoii felt -ami knows— the soothing influ- 
 ences of nature, whether her ■♦oeiies he aotnally present to the senaos or 
 Huniinoned from the recesses of memory. 
 
 8. The poet's ear was exceetlingly sensitive to nature's melodies — 
 particularly to single sounds. A whole scene is often vividly portrayed 
 to the reader by a striking reference to a solitary note. Compare : 
 
 and that siiij^le wren 
 Which one day sanjf so sweetly in the nave 
 Of the old church 
 
 that there I could have made 
 My dweHinjjr-jiliicc and lived forever there 
 To hear such nmsic. 
 
 or 
 
 There sometimes doth a leapin;; flsh 
 Send through the tarn a lonely cheer. 
 
 <»r the Cuckoo poems. 
 
 11-14. Compare this sonnet in thought and form with Sidney's : 
 
 Come sleep I O sleej), llie certain knot of peace, 
 The baitinff-iilace of wit, the balm of woe, 
 The ])oor man's wi'alth, the prisoner's release, 
 Til' iiiditTe.'enl juilife helween the hij^h and low ; 
 With shield of proof shield me from out the press 
 Of those tierce darts Despair at me doth throw : 
 
 make in me those oivil wars to cease ; 
 
 1 will >foo<l tribute pay, if thou do so. 
 
 Take thou of me smooth jjil'.ows, sweetest bed, 
 
 A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 
 
 A rosy (garland and a weary heiul : 
 
 And if these thiTijrs, as bein;; thine in right 
 
 Move not thy lieav,\ grace, thou shalt in me, 
 
 Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. • 
 
 Compare also with The Ancient Mnrbivr, 11. 2T1-296 ; Wordsworth's 
 other sonnets, To Sleep ; Macbeth, ii., 2; //. Henry IV., ill., 1. 
 
 WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Wordsworth wrote, in ailditioii to a great many miscellaneous 
 sonnets a series dedicated to Liberty, another to the River 
 
li 
 
 NOTKS ON WOKDSWORTII. 
 
 69 
 
 Diuldoti, and, in a thiid st-'rics known as his Kid('Hiasti(;al 
 Sonnets, 1822, sroks : 
 
 Upon the hfiRhts of Time, thu source 
 
 Of li Hdly River, on whose tiaiiks ure founil 
 
 Swoet pastoral (lowurs, and laiir«ls tlial, liave crowned 
 
 Full oft the unworthy brow of lawletw force ; 
 
 Ard for deiii^ht of hlni who tracks its oourM, 
 
 immortal amaranth and pahns ahound. 
 
 Such a 8u))jec't as the growtli of the ecclesiastical forms and 
 principles oi a nation, so traditional and liistoriiial as it must 
 be in character, could not be expected to pn»sent su^^'gestive 
 and inspiring ideas to the poet in whom alnvuly was fading the 
 "shaping spirit of imagination." Perhaps but two of the 
 series, that found in these selections and that on Mutabiliti/, 
 are worthy of rank among his better sonnets. 
 
 King's College with its chapel was founded by Henry VI — the saintcil 
 Henry— in 1441, out of the funds of the dissolved alien priories. The 
 chapel, with its lofty pinnacles, frotted ronf of atone, and large windows 
 of stained glass, is the ])ride of Cambridge. 
 
 3, 4. white-robed scholars, students in academic dress. 
 
 6. Heaven regards tlie spirit of tiie giver, not the gift, its usefulness 
 or its extent. Note the uncommon and strained use of *' lore." 
 
 9-11. Ill these lines, Wordsworth has left us a line impression of 
 the stately pillars and of the (jrothic roof which, with its sweeping 
 arches, seemed hovering aloft. 
 
 13, 14. This Wordsworthian thought, highly serious and suggestive 
 though it may be, comes upon the reader quite unexpectedly. The poet 
 dearly loves a "tacked-ou" moral truth, whose connection with the 
 main thought of the poem is more (*r less loose and discursive. 
 
 Compare this sonnet in form with the preceding. 
 
 r 
 I 
 
\W'^ 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 \ 
 
 [.Saniufl Taylor Coleridge was bom in J772 in the vioamgo at 
 Ottory Saint Mary, in Dovonsliire. After the death of his father, 
 an amiable, HiuipU'-ininded and somewhat eccfMitric Hi-holar, Cole- 
 ridge was entered in 17H2 as a student i'l Chrisi '''S|iital School, 
 fiondon, then under the headmastership of the llev. o. .uea I'oycr, an 
 unusually stern but successful schoolmaster. A coiiiplete severinico 
 of home ties marked his school life at Chrif . II(»8pital, r.82-91, 
 and his subsi'quent Cambridge career, 17{U-;)4. At t' o iji>spital ho 
 liad befnenUod Lamb, and in his hist Canjliridgf vnuition ho be- 
 en iim acquainted with Southey. In 17H9, he reui with strange 
 enthusiasm the sonnets of Bowles, and in 17^3, he recognized in 
 the Descyiptire Skefclies (»f Wordsworth the work of a [)oetic genms 
 of the highest rank. Some achievements in Cireek veise, an unsuc- 
 cessful, almost ludicrous attempt at soldiering and a withdrawal 
 without a degree marked his college history, a hi.story wherein wore 
 strangely mingled poetry and metaphysics; radii alism and atheism ; 
 love, politics and debts. In 1790, with Southey, in Bristol, ho 
 wrote, lectured and discussed quixotic social reforms ; in 179G, he 
 took U}) his resitlence at Nether Stowey, in S(;niersetshire, near the 
 Wordsworths, with wliom in 1798, he proceeded to Germany to study 
 philosophy and literature. After his return to England in 1800, his 
 life though somewhat unsteady was a very quiet one: writing politi- 
 cal articles for the press, and lecturing upon literary subjects in Lon- 
 don ; journeying to Malta and Italy in search of health ; publishing 
 in the north a literary and ithilosophical journal, The Friend; living 
 (juictly with the Morgans at Hammersmith and Calne; and spending 
 peacefully the last eighteen years of his life under the treatment of 
 Dr. Gillman, at Highgate. His literary work covers many Gelds of 
 intellectual labour. Before 1800, his best poems, the Ancient 
 Mariner, Christabel and the Odes were written. He devoted him- 
 self from 1800-1817, to journalism, to literary criticism and to 
 
 [71] 
 
TT 
 
 72 
 
 LIFE OF SAMUEL TAYLOK COLEKIDGE. 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 iiliilosupliy, coiitributiiit,' to the Morning 'Post, lecturing on Shaks- 
 pure, writing tlie BiogrKjJiia Llfcraria^nnd studying tliv philosophic 
 systoniy of Kant and Scludling. From 1817 until his death in 1834, 
 hy printed book and familiar talk, he stnn'e to inij)art to the 
 English world his views in theology and philosophy. His dramas 
 K morse and Zapolya wore, perhaps, more successful than Words- 
 worth's Borderers.^ 
 
 Chronological List of Coleridge's Works with Dates of 
 
 Publication. 
 
 (In tlie case of longer works this order may bo only api)roxiniately correct. Different 
 editions often reiieiit i-ertaiii poems.] 
 
 Fall of Robespierre (in part) 1794 
 
 Poems— 1 3t Edition 1796 
 
 Ode on the Departing Year 17% 
 
 Poems — 2nd Edition (some liy Lamb and Lloyd) 1797 
 
 Osorio (Remorse) — a Tragedy 1818 
 
 Kubla Khan 1810 
 
 Ancient Mariner ( [^yrieal Ballads) 1798 
 
 Christabel 1816 
 
 France, an Ode ; Frost at Midnight ; Fears in Solitude. . 1798 
 
 Wallenstein (Translation) 1800 
 
 Poems 1803 
 
 Pains of Sleep 1816 
 
 Lay Sermons, Biographia Literaria 1817 
 
 Sibylline Leaves (Collected Poems) 1817 
 
 Zapolya — a Drama 1817 
 
 Aids to IJetlection 1825 
 
 Editions of Works in 1828, 1829, 1831. 
 
 li ii 
 
GENERAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 II > 
 
 Coleridge is a peculiar literary plienoinonoii whose real 
 sii^iiificaiice is not very easily estimated. As willj all plie- 
 nonieiia that liave risen and disappeared prior to our time, 
 our first impi'cssions of the man and of his works are wliat 
 Matthew Arnold calls the traditional or histoi-it-al estimate, 
 faint echoes of what his contemporaries thought of him, rever- 
 berations of tlie mighty volume of eulogy enthusiastically 
 p()ured forth by Hazlitt, Landoi-, De Quincey, 8cott and 
 Woi'dsworth. "The only wonderftd man T ever knew was 
 Coleridge," says Wordsworth, "lie was the only man 1 ever 
 knew who answe:wl to the idea of a man of getiius," said 
 Hazlitt, " he is the only pei-scm of whom I ever learnt any- 
 thing. His genius had angelic wings and fed on manna. He 
 talked on forever and you wished him to talk on f<ire\('r." 
 "He is," said De Quincy, "the largest and most spacious 
 intellect, the subtlest and most comprehensive that has yet 
 existed among men." " Imp'ety to 8hakspere ! " cried Landor, 
 " treason to Milton ! I give up all the rest, even I'acon. Cer- 
 tainly since their day we have Tiothing at all cc^mparable with 
 him. Byron and Hcott were l)ut gunllints to a gi-anite moun- 
 tciiu. Wordsworth has one angle of I'esemblance." Even 
 Blackwood's, whose references to Colei-idge's work during his 
 lifetime were marked by a severity amounting almost to ])er- 
 
 sonal rancor, said after his tieath that he .done p('rha])s of ali 
 
 [73] 
 
 1 r i 
 
 ! ', 
 
 i 
 
|U:;ii 
 
 
 
 nil 
 
 "'■:i : 
 
 fill 
 
 
 lA 
 
 \ ■:! 
 
 m 
 
 V- 
 
 74 
 
 COLEKIDGE. 
 
 men that ever lived was always a poet — in nil his moods, and 
 they were many — inspired. Now, what strikes most students 
 when they turn to Coleridge's works for a real as distinguished 
 from the historic estimate, is the discrepancy between the 
 historic estimate and their first impressions of hun. Passages 
 there are in abumlance, no doubt, of divine rhythm and 
 melody, of exquisite diction, of delicate observation of nature, 
 of subtle psychology, of penetrative insight into the obscurer 
 significance of phenomena, of sensitive feeling for the rarer and 
 more elusive visitations of spirit, those intimations of our higher 
 moments which Wordsworth speaks of as "gleams like the 
 tlashing of a shield," of sweeping comprehension and of pro- 
 found and solemn musings " on man, on nature and on liumaii 
 life." But these imperishable lines and passages are embedded 
 even more than in Wordsworth's case in a mass of inferior 
 work, or else the poem in which they occur has been left 
 unfinished. In the former case our approach to them is 
 clogged and obstructed and the high wrought mood chilled, in 
 which we leave them ; ia che latter case we are raised to the 
 loftiest sphere of contemplation, "pinnacled dim in the intense 
 inane," and left to reach the terra fir ma of ordinary emotion 
 as best we may. In other words, Coleridge's poetry contains 
 many noble passages, but is fragmentary, incomplete, lacking 
 in architectonics. 
 
 Turning to his prose works we meet with a somewhat sim- 
 ilar set of phenomena ; neat and happy turns of thought and 
 expression, deep insight into life, mingled with j)assages of the 
 purest boml)ast or the merest pettifoggalizing, numberless 
 tligi'essions which, thougli often excelleut in themselves, have 
 
iSSS 
 
 m^ 
 
 GENERAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 76 
 
 no direct becarin^ iij)<)n the matter in liand, in short, an almost 
 utter absence of organization, of sulwrdination of parts to a 
 whole. If we ask why a man capable of producing such mag- 
 nificent fragments both in prose and in verse did not leave us 
 more finished work, his contemporaries again are ready with 
 the explanation. " I am grieved," said Southey, " that you 
 never met Coleridge. All other men T have ever known were 
 mere children to him, and yet all is palsied by a total want of 
 moral strength." " Jfe is like a lump of coal rich in gas," said 
 Scott, " which lies expending itself in pull's and gleams uidess 
 some shrewd body will clap it into an iron box and compel the 
 compresst^d element to do itself justice." Here then, surely, is 
 a psychological phenomenon whose development may profitably 
 be followed. 
 
 
 Coleridge's Psychological Development. 
 
 " What shapes itself for criticism," says Walter Pater, of 
 Coleridge, in Ward's Se/ectio)is, " is not, as with most poets, the 
 gradual development of a poetic gift, determined, enriched, 
 retarded by the circumstances of the [)()et's life, but the sudden 
 blossoming through one short se" .on of such a gift already 
 perfect in its kind, which thereafter deteriorates as suddenly 
 with something like premature old age." Not exactly. This 
 is drawing too hard and fast a line of separation between the 
 poetic faculty and the ordinary reason. What shapes itself 
 for criticism is rather the growth of a mind, determined, 
 eni'iehed and retarded by the poet's life, stimulated by sp^^ci- 
 ally favourable circumstances into poetit; activity, and on the 
 witlulrawing of the stimulus, sinking into analytic and critical 
 
•m 
 
 11- 
 
 : j : 
 
 I' 
 
 7G 
 
 COLEIUDGK. 
 
 i 
 
 ! 
 
 ii 
 
 
 ii' 
 
 ■ 
 
 v 
 
 
 
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 1 
 
 
 'l^ii 
 
 ■ 
 
 i 
 
 if 
 
 1 i 
 
 tU 
 
 
 < 
 
 LJ 
 
 11, 
 
 work, but exhibiting even there its native delicacy and fineness. 
 Coleridge's life may therefore be divided into three periods : 
 (1) tlie period of growth ; (2) the creative period ; and (3) the 
 critical or analytical period. 
 
 1. — ACQUISITION. 
 
 Coleridge, the youngest of a family of thirteen children, 
 was born on the 21st of October, 1772, at his father's vicarage 
 in Devonshire. From his father, a gentle, abstracted and 
 unpractical clergyman of the ParsQn Adams type, Coleridge 
 seems to have inherited that Celtic organization which 
 is so marked a characteristic of the western counties, 
 where the Teutonic current of our blood is n:'no;led with larije 
 if not preponderant Celtic strain. As a child he was sociable, 
 alternately gay and solf-absorbed, a good talker, quick to per- 
 ceive, and even morbidly imaginative. There is a story that 
 in his fifth or sixth year, having quarrelled with a brother, 
 and being in dread of a whipping, he spent the whole of an 
 October night of rain and wind on the banks of the Otter, 
 where he was found at daybreak perished with cold and with- 
 out the power of using his limbs. 
 
 His first school was the free Crammar School of his native 
 place, of which his father was master. Here he showed great 
 precocity, but being the youngest and most favoured child he 
 was allowed to direct his own reading. He became an 
 omnivorous reader in out-of-the-way books of out-of-the-way 
 authors, and soon ac([uired the habit of taking refuge against 
 all boyish miseries in a weird, imaginary and supernatural 
 world of his own peopling. The world of sense became unvital 
 
GENERAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 77 
 
 to him. He lived not in the world of motion Imt in that 
 of ideas. ** I heard him," he says of his father's effort to 
 interest him in astronomy, "with profound delight and admir- 
 ation, but without the least mixture of wonder or incredulity. 
 For from my early reading of fairy tales and about genii and 
 the like, ray mind had been habituated to the Vast, and I 
 never regarded my senses in any way as the criteria of my 
 belief. I regulated all my creeds by ray conceptions, not by 
 my sight, even at that age." His father died when he was 
 nine years of age, and in the following year he was sent to 
 Christ's Hospital, London, where, severed thus early from 
 home and rural associations, he passed the next seven years 
 
 reared 
 
 In the great city, pent ! mid oloisters dim, 
 And saw nouffht lovely but the sky and stars. 
 
 At school he had the advantage of a very sensible though at 
 the same time a very severe master, the Rev. Jamos Boyer, 
 whose teaching had an important influence in giving his mind 
 its peculiar bent for criticism and speculation. He was 
 taught to "prefer Demosthenes to Cicero, Honif^i- to Virgil, and 
 Shakspere and Milton to Dryden and Pope, on the grounds 
 of plain sense and universal logic, to see that poetry, even that 
 of the loftiest and seemingly the wildest odes, had a logic of 
 its own as severe as that of science and more difficult, liecause 
 more complex and dependent on more, and more fugitive 
 causes, and that in truly great poetry there was a reason 
 assignable not only for every word, fjut for the position of 
 every word. At the same time he was taught to show no 
 mercy in his compositions to metaphor or image unsupported 
 
 !! 
 
 r 
 
w 
 
 f] 
 
 '"A 
 
 I" 
 'I' 
 
 
 li 
 
 -|: 
 
 11- 
 
 j 
 
 ■ 'i 
 
 : I'i 
 
 ^8 
 
 COLERlbott. 
 
 by sound sense." His craving for affection drew him into close 
 friendship with Lamb and Middleton. Lamb pictures him as, 
 at this time, a shy, shrinking Ijoy, fonder of books than of 
 play, though sociable and affectionate — a boy whom other 
 boys would like. It was his constant habit to be on the roof 
 of the school and dream of the vales and streams and woods of 
 liis native place. This and the critical nature of his studies 
 tended to throw his mind in upon itself, to make him moi-e 
 self-absorbed. One day in the street, wholly pre-occupied, 
 alone among crowds, deaf to the turmoil about him, he fancied 
 himself Leander Hwimming the Hellespont, and thrust out his 
 arms while l)uffeting the waves. In doing so he tugged at the 
 coat tails of a gentleman who at first took him for a clui> >y 
 young thief, but on hearing his explanation paid his subscrip- 
 tion to a circulating library. This was a high privilege to the 
 lonely, imaginative bo}' ; he read at the rate of two volumes a 
 day, and Lamb tells of the admii'ation of casual passers 
 through the cloisters to hear Coleridge unfold in his deep and 
 sweet intonations the mysteries of Plato and Plotinus. This 
 omnivorous reading had led him by his fifteenth year into 
 metaphysical and theological controversy. Nothing else 
 pleased him. History and particular facts lost all interest for 
 him, poetry, novels and romances became insipid to him. In 
 his friendless wanderings he tells us he was highly delighted if 
 any passenger, especially if he were dressed in black, would 
 enter into conversation with him. He soon found the means 
 of directing it to his favourite subjects 
 
 Of provirlencc, foreknowledge, will and fate, 
 Fixed fiitc, free will, forekiiowledyfe iihsolute, 
 And found no end, in waudorin); mazes lost. 
 
GENERAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 79 
 
 He read Voltaire and bloKson.ed into an infidel, and venturing 
 one day to offer that as a reason for declining to become a 
 clergyman, he received from the master a most severe flogging. 
 "So, sirrah! you are an infidel, are you," said he, ''then I'll flog 
 your infidelity out of you," and proceeded to exterminate Vol- 
 taire by the agency of the bii'ch. Wliatever may haye been the 
 efficacy of the flogging, two other influences were soon to with- 
 draw Coleridge from this premature absorption in abstract 
 thought — the shock of young love-liking and the sonnets of 
 Bowles, one of the precursors of Wordsworth. Some composi- 
 tions in English poetry belonging to this time, and not without 
 a touch of genius, were the fruits of these new influences. Of 
 these Genevieve was the chief : 
 
 ' I 
 
 Maid of my love ! sweet Genevieve 1 
 In beauty's light jou iflide along ; 
 Your eye is like the star of eve, 
 And sweet your voice as seraph's song. 
 Yet not your heavenly beaucy givis 
 This heart with passion soft to >,'low ; 
 Within your soul a voice there lives 1 
 It bids you hear the tale of woe. 
 When sinkinjf low the sufferer wan 
 Beholds no hand outstretched to save, 
 Fair as the bosom of the swan 
 That rises graceful o'er the wave, 
 I've seen your breas*; with pity heave, 
 And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve. 
 
 But the main tendency of the school was to turn his imagina- 
 tion into speculation and criticism rather than poetical pro- 
 duction. Even the sonnets of Bowles, for the a])i)iecifition of 
 which his previous reading of Milton and Shakspere had pre- 
 pared him, did more (indirectly) for his critical than for his 
 creative faculty, for among those who were attracted by his 
 amiable nature and remarkably entertaining conversation 
 
II 
 
 f 
 
 III 
 
 If 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 ii 
 
 80 
 
 COLKRUXJK. 
 
 were of course*, many adiiiirei'.s of the old school ; discussions 
 arose regnvd'uv^ the relative merits of Dryden and Pope and 
 Bowles ; Coleridge? was obliged to defend liis favourite, to find 
 reasons for his preference, and he carhe to see that the excel- 
 lence of the so-called classical poetry of the 18th century con- 
 sisted in just and acute observations on men and manners in 
 an artificial state of society as its matter and substance, and 
 in the logic of wit convej'ed in smooth epigrammatic couplets 
 as its form, that it consisted not so much of poetic thoughts as 
 of thoughts translated into the language of poetry. 
 
 Tn February, 1791, Coleridge went up to Jesus College, 
 Cambridge, an excellent Greek and Latin scholar, a tolerable 
 Hebraist, an acute and ci'itical student of Chaucer, Shaks- 
 pere and Milton, and one of the most widely read and keenly 
 speculative minds of the time. A school -fellow, who followed 
 him to the university, has described in glowing terms the 
 evenings in Coleridge's rooms, when "^schylus, Plato and 
 Thucydides were pushed aside, with a pile of lexicons and the 
 like, to discuss the pa.nphlets of the day. Ever and anon a 
 pamphlet issued from the pen of Burke. There was no need 
 of having the book before us : Coleridge had read it in the 
 morning and could repeat whole pages verbatim." He read 
 Burke to refute him, for at this time he was a radical of the 
 radicals, and with impassioned zeal strained every faculty in 
 defence of the Revolutionary movement. This effort gave 
 him great insight into the nature of the individual man, and 
 comprehensive views of his social relations, of the uses of trade 
 and commerce, and of the extent to which the relative wealth 
 and power of nations promote or impede their welfare and in- 
 
GENERAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 81 
 
 li(3rited strength. He began to regard the affairs of man as a 
 process moving forward, without hurry and without rest, to a 
 pieappointed end — a maturity of mind relatively greater than 
 that of most men of his age, and destined to make his olwingo 
 of attitude towards the Revolution less abrupt and reaction- 
 ary. At tlio same time he kept up the habit of omnivorous 
 reading and wide critical and comparative study of English 
 and classical literature, begun at Christ's Hospital. A lucky 
 ()l)servation threw great light on the causes of the formality of 
 18th century writing. Casting his eye on a university prize 
 poem he met this line : 
 
 Lactea purpureos interstrepit unda lapillos. 
 
 In the XatricAa of Politian, he remera})erGd this line : 
 Pura coloratos interstrepit unda lapillos. 
 
 Following the clue thus discovered, he found that the Latin 
 prize versifier first prepared his thoughts and then picked out 
 from Virgil or Horace the halves or quarters of lines in which 
 to express them. When young men trained in this wa}-^ came 
 to write their own language the result must be formality. He 
 was continually adducing in support of his criticism of ISth 
 century artificiality the metre and diction of the Greek poets 
 from Homer to Tlieocritus inclusive, and still more of our elder 
 English poets from Chaucer to Milton. Nor was this all. As 
 it was his constant reply to authorities brought against him from 
 later poets of great name, that no authority could avail in oppo- 
 sition to truth, logic and the laws of universal grammar, actuat- 
 ed, too, by his former passion for metaphysical investigation, 
 he laboured at a solid foundation on which to ground his 
 
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 82 
 
 COLRRIDOE. 
 
 Opinions, in the component faculties of tlie human mind and 
 tlieir comparative dignity and importance. According to the 
 faculty or source from which the pleasure given hy any poem 
 or passage was derived, he estimated the merit of such poem 
 or passage. As the result of all his reading and reflection h(5 
 abstracted two critical aphorisms which he then deemed to 
 comprise the conditions and criteria of poetic style : (1) that 
 not the poem which we have re-.^d, but the poem to which we 
 return with pleasure — the pleasure being a worthy one — 
 possesses the genuine power and claims the name of essc^ntial 
 poetry; (2) that whatever lines can be translated into other 
 words in the same language without diminution of their sig- 
 nificance, either in sense or in association, or in an}' othei' 
 worthy feeling, are so far vicious in their diction. He was 
 wont boldly to allirm that it would be scarcely more diflicult 
 to push a stone out of the pyramids with the bai'e hand than 
 to alter a word or the position of a word in ISIilton or Shaks- 
 pere without making the author say something else or some- 
 thing worse th.'in he does say. One great distinction he at 
 this time appeared to see between the characteristic faults of 
 the elder poets and the false beauties of the moderns. In the 
 former, from Donne to Cowley, there were the most fantastic 
 out-of-the-way thoughts in the most pure and genuine mother 
 English ; in the latter, thoughts the most obvious, in language 
 the most fantastic and arbitrary. Pope's 
 
 or 
 
 As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, 
 
 Around her throne the vivid planets roll 
 And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole 
 
 were good examples, he thought, of poetry, with its eye not 
 
OENERAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 ^ 
 
 upon llio ol»joct but on its brokon and hetorogonoous iiiiugciy. 
 Of the latter, as a translation of Ilomor's, 
 
 aaTpn (pcnivr'/u a/t(j)i at'ktjVTjx' ipnivtT' (ifnrrpF\en 
 (the stars round about the full moon shine preeniinentlj l)rijcht,) 
 
 it, was (litlirult, he thought, to say whotlicr the sense or the 
 diction were the more absurd, .^liiother example was Pope's 
 translation of Homer's simile of the dogstar, introduced h> 
 illustrate the ef!ect on Priam or the sight of Achilles' shield, 
 
 Terrific (^lory ! for his burninj; breath 
 
 Taints the red air with fevers, playues and death, * 
 
 in which, says Coleridge, " not to mention the tremendous 
 bombast, the dogstar is turned into a real dog, a vtjry odd 
 dog, a fire, fever, plague and death-breathing, red-air-tainting 
 (h)g, and the whole visual likeness is lost while the likeness 
 in the effects is rendered a))sard by the exaggeration." 
 
 During his last year of residence, Coleridge read Words- 
 worth's first publication, The Descriptive SketcJirs. Seldom, if 
 ever, he thought, was the emergence of an original poetic 
 genius above the literary horizon more e\idently announced. 
 *' In the form, style and manner of the whole poem, and in 
 the structure of the particular lines and periods, there was a 
 harshness and acerbity connected and combined with images 
 all aglow which might recall those products of the vegetable 
 world whose gorgeous blossoms rose out of the hard and 
 thorny rind and shell within which the rich fruit was elabor- 
 ating. The language was not only peculiar and strong, but at 
 times knotty and contorted by its own impatient strength, 
 while the novelty and struggling crowd of iujages, acting in 
 
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 84 
 
 GOLKtHDOC. 
 
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 conjunction with the dillicultios of the stylo, doinanded greater 
 closeness of attcintion than descriptive poetry has a right to 
 claim." In the following extract Coleridge fancied he saw an 
 emblem of the poom itsnlf and of the author's genius as it was 
 then displiiyed : 
 
 'Tia storm ! and hid in iniat from liour to hour, 
 
 All (lay the floo<la n, deeper niiinnur pour ; 
 
 The sky in veiled, and every ohcerful sijfht : 
 
 Dark is the re^'ion lis with coniitu; ni^ht ; 
 
 And yet whiit ffcpient hursts of overpourin^f light t 
 
 Triuiiiphunt on the hosoni of the storm 
 
 (JliiMies the flre-clad eiigle's wheelinj; form 
 
 Eastward, in lon^f persjiective jflitteriny, shine 
 
 The wood-crowned cliffs tliat o'er the lake re(!line ; 
 
 Wi<lc o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfoUl 
 
 At once to pillars turned tluit Hame with gold ; 
 
 Uuhind the sail the peasant strives to shun 
 
 The west, that hums like one dilate<l sun, 
 
 Where in a mi),'hty crucihle expire 
 
 The uiountans, glowing hot, like coals of fire. 
 
 From the contact with Wordsworth thore followed no doubt 
 some quickening of his long -dormant feeling for nature, but 
 the main influoiice was critical — he no sooner felt the excel- 
 lence of the new poetry than he sought t«> understand it. 
 
 In 1794 Coleridge left Cambridge without taking his degree 
 or deciding on his course in life. Fi'om Cambridge he went 
 to Oxford. At Oxford he met Sou they, whom he accompanied 
 to Bristol, then the rallying point of quite a circle of literary 
 people, including Hannah More and Robert Hall, the Baptist 
 minister. The young poets found themselves in sympathy 
 with many people, especially a family of young ladies, the 
 daughters of a Stephen Fricker, to one of whom Southey was 
 engaged, and with another of whom Coleridge promptly fell in 
 love. At Bristol they talked and planned Pantisocracy — a 
 
OKNRRAI, ESTIMATE. 
 
 86 
 
 coltiny to be estHl)lisli(Kl on tlie banks of (ho Su.s(|u»'lijiiin.i and 
 ba.s«'(l )n the principh's of Uberty, fraternity and «'(jiiality. 
 The soheine fell through for want of funds, much to Coleridge's 
 chagrin, to wliom tlie financial necessity seems scarcely to 
 havf occurred. From Bristol ho. went to London to renew 
 his fricn<lshij) with Lamb. He loiteied many months in the 
 metropolis, receiving, it is said, free (juarters from mine host 
 of the "Salutation and the Cat," and exj>ressing himsc^lf 
 vehemently in opposition to Pitt's policy and the war with 
 France, pn Mating and praying for the humiliation of IJritain 
 and the allie ., who, like *' fiends em})attled by a wizard's wand," 
 were marching to *' whelm a disenchanted nation," for he was 
 still an ardent republican, regarding the Reign of Terror then 
 at its height as the accidental accompaniment of a movement 
 in itself beneficial. Southey, at length, impatient of his 
 neglect of Miss Fricker, came up to London and brought him 
 back to Bristol. In 179-5, with no more visible means of 
 support than when he left Cambridge, he and Miss Fricker 
 were married. It was at this time that ho gave the course of 
 lectures at Bristol on religion and pliilosophy, only moderately 
 successful, which were afterwards published under the title 
 Condones ad Populum. From Bristol he moved to Clevedtm, 
 depending for subsistence on desultory journalism and the 
 proceeds of a forthcoming volume of poetry. He projected a 
 weekly publication, The Watchman. A thousand naufcs were 
 secured, but the paper livi'd only two months, the jacobin and 
 democratic patrons having been offended by Coleridge's luke- 
 warmness, his attacks on their infidelity and ad.^ption of 
 French morals, his defence of the government's gagging bills 
 
 ! 
 
 i! 
 
86 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 ill: 
 
 as likely to produce! an elT(!ct dchircd by all tiMie friends of 
 liberty, in d(!terriiig ii^iioiaiit niou tV(jin dcclaiiiiin^ on subjects 
 of wbicli they know notliini,', and his plcadini^' foi- national 
 education aceonipanied by the sj)i'e;id of the (losj)!'!. Con- 
 scientiously an oppoiu'nt of the war then goin<f on, yet with 
 eyes thoroughly opened to the true character of the favourers 
 of revolutionary principles in Kn^dan(l, a vehement anti- 
 ministerialist, but after the French invasion of Switzerland, a 
 still more vehement anti-Cxallican, he retired to a cottage at 
 Nether Stowey, and, pro\ iding for his scanty maintenance by 
 writing verses foi' a l.(.i. l(»n moi'ning paper, de\(»ted himself 
 to poetiy, ethics and psychology. The ti'ulh is, that in j)art 
 from constituti(mal indolence or dicuniness, antl in part from 
 the habits and influences of a classical education which in the 
 very hey-day of hope hiid, as we saw, r;i,.(»iialized and regu- 
 lated his enthusiasm, his mind said\ int»j tles[)ondency witli 
 regard to both political and i-eligious controversies and the 
 parties disputant. With more than poetic feeling he ex- 
 claimed, " the sensual and the dark rebel in vain — slaves by 
 tlieir own conipulsion." He devoted his thoughts and studies 
 to the foundations of religion and moi-al Here he found 
 himself all afloat. Doubts rushed in, brok<^ upon him from 
 the fountains of the great deep. The ft)ntal truths of natural 
 religion and the hooks of revelation alike contributed to the 
 flood, and it looked as if his ark would never touch an Ararat. 
 
 2. — ANNUS MIRAIULIS — CREATIVE INTERVAL. 
 
 About this time he met Wordsworth, who thereupon moved 
 to Alfoxden to be within reach of him, and thus began a 
 
 :i<i 
 
GENERAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 87 
 
 nu'inorable personal and literary friendship, resultini,' in a 
 poetic movement of tlu^ higiiest iinportan.ce. lOacli of tlicse 
 vigorous and original minds inlluenred the other. Coleridge's 
 intelligent appreciation restored tint foith in his own powers 
 which Wordsworth seemed to have lost, and -vvitluiut which 
 production would have been impossible. The first efl[ect of 
 this new companionship on Coleridge was to withdraw him for 
 the moment from philosophy and theology, and to foioo his 
 dormant l)uds of poetry into l)lossf)n). Speculation and critical 
 writing, could Coleridge like Ai'nold have fraidcl}' accepted 
 his limitations, was undoulttedly his main bent, yet on two 
 occasions he A\'as with great advantage temporarily withdrawn 
 from abstract thought. The first was whei' ]>owles' Sonnets 
 .saved him at the age of fifteen from premature absorj)tion in 
 theology, and the second, his meeting with Wordsworth in 
 179G. hi both cases he returned to the speculative sphere 
 with restored elasticity, obtained, Antieusdike, by fresh con- 
 tact with concrete fact. 
 
 The period of his residence at Nether Stowey in the society 
 of Wordsworth, 1707-98, was his annus luirahlHs, or period of 
 greatest poetical productivity. With peace and happiness at 
 home, and stimulated by the friendship of Wordsworth and 
 the hitter's finely gifted sister, he poured forth in poetical 
 form the results of his widely assimilative mental elForts, com- 
 posing or planning at that time nearly all tlie poems on which 
 his reputation as a poet de]»ends. A Jnint solume, the Lijrical 
 Ballads, was planned, in wiiich the homely themes were 
 assigned to Wordsworth whih' CnhMiiliic unrlcitook the hand- 
 ling of the suptM-natural. And ne\((r has the sup<;rnatural 
 
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 88 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 been used with such delicate art or made to express so well 
 the thought of a reflective age. The Ancient Mariner was 
 written, and the Dark Ladie and (.'hristabel begun in obedi- 
 ence to this compact. The Ancient Mariner and Cliridabel 
 are both exquisite treatments of the supernatural. The 
 Ancient Mariner is a perfectly rounded unity, and leaves an 
 impression of completeness on tlie mind of the reader. It is 
 " Coleridge's one really finished work in a life that promised 
 and planned many things." It is an exquisite treatment of 
 the supernatural from the point of view of modern scepticism 
 regarding objective visions. The mediaeval mind believed in 
 the objective reality of ghosts, phantoms and s})irits. The 
 modern mind, rational, analytic, self-scrutinizing, rejects this 
 as absurd and impossible and explains all sueii appearances as 
 subjective phenomena, states of the individual mind or uses 
 these crude old conceptions to convey a more delicately spir- 
 itual meaning. This is what Coleridge has done in the Ancient 
 Mariner. Coleridge in short originated that finely symbolical 
 use of the supernatural which Tennyson has used so effectively 
 in the Idylls of the King. Both poets found in popular story 
 a wealth of romance matei'ial capable of being made to convey 
 a finer meaning to modern men. 
 
 3. — CRITICAL PERIOD. 
 
 It soon became manifest that Wordsworth's influence would 
 be to strengthen his critical and speculative bent rather than 
 his poetical faculty. Coleridge set himself to understand 
 rather than to emulate Wordsworth. At first he wished to 
 emulate, but soon the master inclination prevailed, his poetical 
 
GENERAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 89 
 
 activity flagged, and lie set himself to discover the secret of 
 his friend's power. Repeated meditations upon the excellence 
 of Wordsw(3rth's poetry led him to suspect that fancy and 
 imagination were two distinct faculties. The establishiiicnt of 
 this distinction would have, he thought, incalculable results, 
 for in energetic minds truth soon changed, he said, by domesti- 
 cation into power, and from directing in tbs discrimination 
 and appraisal of the product becomes influencive in the pro- 
 duction. To admire on principle was therefore the only way 
 to imitate without loss of liberty. To establish this poetic 
 creed now became his main interest. lie returned to his 
 philosophy. The foundations of religion and morals from 
 which his temporary devotion to poetry had withdrawn him, 
 re-engaged his attention. Through repeated conversations 
 with Wordsworth, who makes a similar distinction in his pre- 
 faces, Coleridge esta))lished to his own and his friend's satisfac- 
 tion, the existence of distinct faculties in the human mind, 
 fancy and imagination, the former related to the understanding, 
 the latter, the organ of real poetry. With the problems of 
 religion and morals he had a severer struggle. He read, he 
 tells us, deeply in Locke, Leilmitz, Berkeley and Hartley, but 
 without finding an abiding place for his reason. All j)hiloso- 
 phies might be classed, he found, under the following heads : 
 Idealism, Realism, Dualism. The idealist denies the objective 
 existence of matter, and explains all phenomena by reference 
 to mind ; the realist tries to make all mental and spiritual 
 phenomena mere functions of matter ; the dualist recognizes 
 both mind and matter, but is unable to show their relation. 
 He began to ask himself whether a system of philosophy as 
 
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 90 
 
 COLKKIDGK. 
 
 distiiif^uishefl from mere history and liistoric classification wore 
 possible, and for a whiki felt disposed to answer no, and to 
 aflniit that the sole practical employment of the human mind 
 was to observe, to collect and to classify. Ffuman nature 
 rebelled, however, against this wilful resignation of intellect. 
 The (lerman mystics, especially the theosophist Jacob Behmen, 
 flattered his faith in the nobility of the human soul and in the 
 existence of God, though incapable of furnishing him with any 
 logical ground. He was pleased with Dos Cartes' opinion that 
 the idea of God was distinguished from all other ideas by in- 
 volving its own reality or in being self-evident, but he was not 
 wholly satisfied. lie began then to ask himself what proof we 
 liad of the outward existence of anything, of this sheet of 
 pap(5r for examjjle, as a thing in itself apart from the pheno- 
 menon or image in our perception. He saw that in the nature 
 of things such pi'oof was impossible, and that of all modes of 
 being that are not objects of sense, the existence is assumed 
 by a logical necessity arising from the constitution of the mind 
 itself, that the existence of God was proved by the absence of 
 any motive to doubt it. Still the belief in the existence of a 
 Being, the ground of all existence, was not yet the belief in 
 the existence of a moral Creator or governor such as was 
 required to inspire religion and morality. The belief in the 
 fatherhood of God was obtained from the moral consciousness, 
 as the belief in his existence had already been reached by con- 
 sidt;ring man's intellectual nature. Thus in a clumsy and 
 impei'fect way, i:nperfect as laying too nuich stress on the 
 interitive rather than the rational side of faith, on the impos- 
 sibility of deuKKistrating our intimations of the ideal and 
 
 . a. 
 
GENERAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 91 
 
 (liviiio, Coleridge liad discovered, as we lia\e all to discover or 
 retrograde, that the oidy certain I'ock of truth, the only })er- 
 maiient basis of human faith and ho])e, the everlasting granite 
 on which all human beliefs and institutions are built, is the 
 intellect and conscience of man. 
 
 The will is free, 
 Stronj^ is the soul and wise and beautiful, 
 The seeds of God-like power are in us still, 
 Gods are we, banb, saints, heroes if we will. 
 
 A visit to Germany and the consequent greatei- familiarity 
 with the Kantian philosophy and its distinction of phenome- 
 nal and noumenal understanding and reason, objects of sense 
 and things in themselves so akin to his own indejjendeht 
 thinking, settled his philosophical and religious oj)inions in 
 their permanent mould. He came undei- the influence of tlu; 
 great German critic I.essing, and was enabled to see the 
 weakness of English criticism, its dependence on factitious or 
 accidental canons, its submission to individual or racial dic- 
 tates or laws, its lack of method, its narrow and sensual con- 
 ception of art. He also acquired . such a master}'^ of the 
 laiiixuasje as enabhid him to complete the translation of Schil- 
 ler's Wal/exstein in six we(>ks. This, the finest piece of vcnvse 
 translatioiv in English, w^as highly appreciated by Scott and 
 other students of German, and it is to be regretted that 
 Coleridge never acceded to repeated requests that he should 
 undertake the trtinslation of Fanst. In many places Coleridge 
 expanded and added to the original, some of which additicms 
 Schiller himself incorporated in subsequent editions. During 
 the first two years of the century Colei-idge wrote many papers 
 for the Moniiny Fost. At first he opposed Pitt's policy, but 
 
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 COLERIDGE. 
 
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 later he separated from Fox on tlie question of a renewal of 
 the war witli Napoleon. Indeed he was charged by Scott 
 with having been mainly instrumental in bringing about a 
 renewal of hostilities, and is said to have incurred the resent- 
 ment of Napoleon, His own account of his change of view is 
 that, like Lord Minto, Mr. Windham and many other Whigs, 
 he felt that all questi(jns of domestic policy must, at a time of 
 European peril, be postponed. From this time forward, how- 
 ever, he came more and more under the influence of Burke's 
 writings, and showed increased respect for the ordered liberty 
 of constitutional govei'nment. But he never became a reac- 
 tionary, that very speculation which lie sometimes regretted 
 giving him at all times a power of living more in the abiding 
 realities and less in the ebb and ilow of things than most men 
 much older. Wordsworth, for example, thus describes his 
 feelings at the outbreak of the Revolution : 
 
 Bliss was it in that dawn to he alive, 
 But to he young was very heaven. 
 
 In his inexperience he even thought tliat possibly through him- 
 self, an insigniticant stranger, yet strong in hope and noble 
 aspiration, with a spirit thoroughly faithful to itself, the 
 needful direction and moving power for distracted France 
 might be found. When by pressure of facts he was driven 
 into alienation, his distress was great and prolonged, and the 
 i^uve a lieavy sacrifice. In Matthew Arnold's words, he went 
 : ''» a monastery, that is, he abandoned all interest in the 
 '•:'." e, dramatic and historic life of man, concentrating himself 
 v.ilu eminent success, it is true, on the study of Nature. 
 Coleridge, on the other hand, as he had read more widely, had 
 
 I i t* 
 
GENERAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 ds 
 
 more solier speculations, and was loss keenly disappointed at 
 the failure of the Revolution. His feelings he tells us in the 
 Ode to France were at the outset those of mingled hope and 
 fear, and as early as 1793 he saw, he says, and often enough 
 stated in public, the horrid delusion, the vile mockery of the 
 whole affair. When the end came, he neither [)articipated in 
 the moral exhaustion, the loss of enthusiasm which most of 
 the revolutionar}^ enthusiasts ex])erienced, nor withdrew him- 
 self from politics and history into a sphere more vital. Could 
 Coleridge have frankly acQ^ptod his limitations, have recog- 
 nized that his special gift was a gift not so much of creation 
 and synthesis as of analysis and interpretation, his own life 
 might have been happier, and the world very much richer for 
 his life. Matthew Arnold, for e'xample, discovering, by the 
 test of fifteen years experimenting, that he fell shoi-t of 
 supreme poetical performance, turned to criticism and inter- 
 pretation and achieved a distinguished success. Coleridge 
 longed to lie a poet and could not recognize his repeated falling 
 into criticism and speculation as indications of the line along 
 which he might hope to succeed, could not see that in giving 
 a superior dignity, gravity, logical arrangement and philo- 
 sophic method to British journalism not yet extinct, he was 
 doing a magnificent work. Throwing up a tempting offer of 
 a part proprietorship in the Moryiinr/ Post, he left London for 
 the Lakes to devote himself to literature, and in the hope, 
 it is said, of stimulating his flagging muse, h(^ resorted more 
 freely than ever to opium. The haljit, rapidly dtivcloping, 
 was pursued, and for fifteen years the record of (\»leridg(''s 
 life is a miserable history of estrangement from friends, self 
 
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 COLRIUDOK. 
 
 roj)i'()Ju;li, aii'l u(t(M' prostratidti of spirit. Tlic biltcriicss of 
 the poet's dcgnidatiou t'lnda expression in Yonlh and Age and 
 the Ode to Dejection. 
 
 At last, in 181G, he entered the family of ^Ii*. Oilman, under 
 whose kind and judicious treatnxuit the hour of mastery at 
 length arrived. Nature, wiiich so Ixmeticently turns loss into 
 gain, making his opium experience a means of understanding 
 the psychology of dre;im. Coleridge hardly ever went al^road 
 again, hut llighgate became the jNTecca of eveiy young and 
 generous sj)irit, whose interest in tlm ideal and di\ ine was 
 .sure to be stiniuhited by the magic of Coleridge's conversation. 
 To summarize our view of his psychological development, the 
 main phenomenon ot Coleridge's life is not the gradual growth 
 of a po(>tic gift determined, enriched and retarded l)y the cir- 
 cumstances of the poet's life, . but the spectacle of a richly 
 endowed nature deficient, however, in practical insight, eai'ly 
 getting a strt)ng oent towards speculation and criticism, 
 blossoming suddenly through one short season into |)oetry 
 perfect of its kind, then returning to its own proper line, 
 falling under the power of opium, at length gaining the 
 mastery over self, and finding in conversation its own true form 
 and the vehicle through which to exert an immense and 
 stimulating effect on literature and criticism ; a mind in which 
 ideas were so vivid, so numerous, and appearing in such 
 endless combinations and modifications, a mind in which the 
 feelings and affections were more closely attached to those 
 ideal creations than to the objects of the senses, a mind so 
 occupied with ideals as to preclude or arrest the impulse to 
 realize them ; a mind in short so sicklied o'er with the pale 
 
r.ENKRAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 or. 
 
 cast of thouglit lliat onlrrprisoK of groat pith and moment 
 turned awry and lost the name of action. In other woids, 
 Coleridge's was a temperament too Celtic to fall into Teutonic 
 prose and vnhfaHtv, but too insufficieiiilv enduVved with 
 Teutonic sanity to give to his life consisteney or to his sublime 
 conceptions ;i local ha])itation and a name, and yet acln'eving 
 Ihrough his very Celtic delicacy and love for ideas a magnifi- 
 
 cent success. 
 
 Development of Style. 
 
 In his earliest work, Genevieve^ done at Christ's Hospital in 
 178G, we catch amid much monotony of figure and epithet, 
 much allectation and insincerity of feeling the faint jireluding 
 of that delicacy and aerialness of verse music which is so 
 marked a characteristic of Christahel, Kiibla Khan and the 
 Ancient Mariner. 
 
 Maid of my love, sweet Genevieve ! 
 
 In beauty's liijht joii glide along: 
 Your eye is like the star of eve, 
 
 And sweet your voice as seraph's sonp. 
 Yet not your heavenly beauty gives 
 
 This heart with passion soft to glow: 
 Within your soul a Voice there lives 1 
 
 It bids you hear the tale of woe. 
 When sinking low the sufferer wan 
 
 B>>holds no hand outstretched to save, 
 Fair as tlie bosom of the swan 
 
 That rises graceful o'er the wave, 
 I've seen your breast with pity heave. 
 And, therefore, love I you, sweet Genevieve I 
 
 In the evolution of Coleridge's peculiar manner there are 
 three main stages : (1) the imitative period culminating in the 
 ode, the style of which h marked by obscurity, a general tur- 
 gidness of diction and a profusion of new-coined doublu- 
 
 ■i: 
 
 ! 
 
 t' 
 
 4^ 
 
 'i ', 
 
\ ,1 
 
 I! 
 
 i 
 
 •lii 
 
 Si' 
 
 ili 
 
 Ofi 
 
 COLKIUDOE. 
 
 opithots; (2) clarificilion or blank verse period, in which tho 
 poet attemptftfl to taino the swell and glitter of both thought 
 and diction ; and (3) the return to the ode whose freedom of 
 tnoveuient and lofty, impetuous and sonorous style make it tho 
 most suitable; vehicle for Cohn-idge's thought and feeling. 
 
 At Christ's Hospital Coleridge had almost incessant practice 
 in Latin and in lOnglish versification. In those scImjoI exercises 
 and juvenile pieces may be detected the echoes of various 
 tunes, ancient and mod<>rn. Milton is his model in the 
 Autninnnl Moon : 
 
 Mild si)lendour of the various-vested ni^'ht, 
 
 Motlier of wildly-working visions'. Hiiil I 
 I watuh tliy gliflint,', while with vested liyht 
 
 Thy weak eye glimniers through a fleecy veil ; 
 
 Gray in : 
 
 Whore f,'r.i('ed with many a classic spire 
 Cum rolls his reverend stream ulorii,' ; 
 
 Burns with his strung erotic colouring in: 
 
 As late each flower that sweetest hlows 
 I iilucked, the ^jarden's pride I 
 
 Within the petals of a rose 
 A sleejiing Love I spied. 
 
 There is an Ossianic ring about : 
 
 The stream with lanj^uid murmurs creeps 
 
 In TiUmiu's flowery vale ; 
 Beneath the dew the lily weeps 
 
 Slow-wavinj^r to the gale — , 
 
 or 
 
 IIow long will yc round me be swelling 
 ye blue tumbling waves of the sea? 
 
 Not always in caves was my dwelling 
 Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. 
 
 Now he is experimenting with the ballad jingle : 
 
 But soon came a woodman in leathern guise, 
 
 His brow like a i>enthouse hung over his eyes, 
 
 But w ith many a hem ! and a sturdy stroke, 
 
 At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak. 
 
OENEKAL R8TIMATE. 
 
 97 
 
 And now in the sweetness anrl joyousncss of a Greek me.isuie: 
 
 As late in wreaths ;;;iv flowers I bound, 
 Beneath some roses, love I fotuul, 
 And by his little frolin jiiiiion 
 As quick as thoui;ht 1 seizwl the niitiioii, 
 Then in my cup the jjrisoner threw 
 And drank hiui in its s))arkling dow : 
 And 8uri! I feel my anj,'ry yuest 
 Fluttering his wiiiffs within my lireasti 
 
 Even the capabilities of the rhyming' coui)let and the balanced 
 antithetical style of the 18th century are tested : 
 
 No, thou Shalt drink, and thou shalt know 
 Her transient bliss, her lastinj,' woo, 
 Her maniac joys, that know no measure, 
 And not rude atid painted pleasure; 
 Till (sad reverse I) the Enchantress vile 
 To frown converts her matrio smile. 
 
 And 3'et in all these imitative ellbrts there may easily be 
 traced a copiousness of diction, a picturesquentiss of epitliet 
 and phrase peculiarly Coleri<lge's own. While thus imitating 
 other poets in thought and manner, Coleridge was rapidly 
 developing his own individual powers. As a youth he was 
 given to habits of persistent introspection, of his own mental 
 states he was a close observer, and for the result of this subjec- 
 tive analysis he found adequate expression in the ode alone. 
 In the ode on the Destrucl'ion of ihn Bastille (1789), moulded, 
 it is probable, on Gray's Ode to Pocsif, Coleridge begins to 
 show a growing aptness in the choice of words, a concreteness 
 of expression, and a rhythmical \igour and energy. It was 
 natural enough, considering the richness and many-sidfedness of 
 his mind, that his work at this time should show .some 
 obscurity, some turgidness of diction, a profusion of new- 
 7 
 
 i'il 
 
 
 'il 
 
 ,1- 
 
 
 w 
 
 Hi 
 
 I: 
 
 ill 
 
 lii' 
 
99 
 
 coLEiunoi:. 
 
 coined double-epithets, some swell uiid flitter, both of thought 
 and diction, and against tliese tlio critics set up a howl. 
 
 The second stage in the evolution of his style was entered 
 upon when in deference to the criticisms passed upon the 
 swell and glitt(;r of his thought and diction Ik; began j)ractising 
 blank verse. There is in the work of this perio<l a marked 
 deer<!ase of insinc(!rity, artificiality, turgidness, swell and 
 glitter, and stitF classicaiity, and a marked increase in sincerity, 
 sonorousness and variety. The melody of the following is 
 inimitable : 
 
 And now its strings 
 lioldller swept, thu lonp^ Hcquaoioiis notes 
 Over delicious surges sink an<l rise, 
 Snch a soft Hoatintr witchery of sound 
 As twilijrht elfins niulte. 
 
 But on the whole his blank verse is imitative, at its best 
 Miltonic or Wordsworthian — Miltonic in the following passage: 
 
 In the primeval ajje, a dateless while, 
 
 The vac^ant shepherd wandered with his flock, 
 
 Pitching his tent where'er the green grass waved. 
 
 Wordsworth ian in 
 
 And what if all of aminated Nature 
 
 Be but orjfanio harps diversely framed, 
 
 That tremble into thouj^ht, as '.V- them sweeps 
 
 Plastic and vast, one intullectu.il hr ^eze, 
 
 At once the soul of each and God of nil ? 
 
 His experiments in blank verse did much to help him to a 
 simpler and sincerer style, but blank verse is the appropriate 
 vehicle for a dramatic or meditative synthesis, and cannot be 
 continuously handled with success by a poet whose utterances 
 remained so subjective as Coleridge's. Indeed the ability to 
 manage blank verse is to some extent the measura of one's 
 
 II 
 
 ■X. 
 
GENKHAT, KSTIMATF. 
 
 l)9 
 
 poetical power, and to 1)0 conipcllofl to roIin<|iiisli it ni;( look 
 for a more .suitHl)le style ou^'lit to liavo com imod Co t»ri(lgo 
 of his Huhordiiiatc poetical position aiid rcooiicilod him to 
 speculative and critit;al work. 
 
 In 171)^'), in hia Otie on the Departing Vfuw, he entered ujxtn 
 th(! third distinct staj^e in the evohitioti ot" his poetic foi'ni. 
 In th(! ode he foujid the metrical form most free and untr-am- 
 melled, lofty and impetuous in styU^ and capahle of l»ein<; 
 metrically vari<'d in harmony with tlie shifting' emotions of 
 the verse. One cannot but note the snl)limity of verse cadence 
 
 in 
 
 Departinsj year ! 'twas on no earthly shore 
 
 My soul beheld lliy vision I wlieru alone, 
 
 Voiuelcss and stL-rn, before the i!lond.\ throne, 
 
 Aye memory sils : thy rohe iii><('iitu(l with j,'ore, 
 
 W ith many an nnima;cinalile ;,'roan 
 
 Thoii storiecrst thy oad hours ! Silence ensuwl 
 
 Deej) silencx" o'er the ethereal mullilude, 
 
 Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with ;;lories shone. 
 
 The difTerence between his earlier style and his later and jnore 
 charticteristic manner is not a greater severity of (h'ction, u les.s 
 iil)und<uit miai^ery, or a less sonorous rhythm. The diet inn is 
 as copious and picturesque, the im.iLjery as gor<,'eous uiid the 
 verse as sonorous, but these elements are even mort; completely 
 under the control of the poet. 
 
 After 1802 there is a regular and rapid deterif (ration in 
 CohM'idge's poetical powers. Ci-eative impulses fiule ; his 
 mind busies itself with antdytic, discursive and metaphysical 
 thought; at rare intervals he made excursions into the realms 
 of poetry, as in Youth and Aye, catching but faint after-glows 
 of his early spirit. 
 
 
 
 'ii- 
 
!:!i; 
 
 100 
 
 COLEllIlDQE. 
 
 The Value of His Work. 
 
 Coleridge's poetry of nature comes nearest Wordsworth's, 
 and yet there, is a clear and well-defined distinction between 
 the two men. Coleridge has Wordsworth's sense of an 
 immanent spirit, manifesting itself in nature and in the life of 
 man: 
 
 And what if all of animated nature 
 
 Be but or!j;ariio harps diversely framed, 
 
 That trenil)le into thou,i,f|it, as o'er theia sweeps 
 
 Plastic and vtvst, one iiiiellectual breeze, 
 
 At once the soul of each and God of all ? 
 
 ii': 
 
 
 His eye for form and colour is quite as sensitive as Words- 
 worth's : 
 
 The thin grey cloud is spread on high, 
 It covers, but not hides the sky ; 
 The moon is behind and at the full. 
 And yet she looks both small and dull, 
 
 his feeling for the calm oblivious tendencies of things, the 
 silent ministries of dew and frost quite as strong : 
 
 A babny night 1 and though the stars be dim 
 Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 
 That gladden the green t.trth and we shall feel 
 A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
 
 He goes l)eyond Wordsworth in his perception of the weird 
 and m* _'cal element in nature : 
 
 A green and silent spot, amid the hills, 
 
 A small and silent dell ! o'er stiller place 
 
 The singing skylark never poised himself. 
 
 The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope, 
 
 Whii'li hath a gay aid gorgeous covering on, 
 
 AJl golden with the never bloomlfiss furze, 
 
 Which now blooms most profusely ; but the dell. 
 
 Bathed i)y the mist, is fresh and delicate 
 
 As vernal cornfield, or the unripe flax, 
 
 When, through its half-transparonl stalks, at eve, 
 
 
GENERAL ESTIMATE. 101 
 
 Tho level sunshine glimmers with green light. 
 
 The gust that roared and died away 
 
 In the distant tree ; 
 
 heard and only heard 
 
 In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass. 
 
 But the very passages in which lie surpasses Wordsworth 
 prove his inferiority. Beautiful as Coleridge's aerial and 
 magical treatment of nature often undoubtedly is, we feel 
 that he is distorting nature by his own sul)jectivity, that the 
 aeiialness and magic as described exist not in nature but in 
 the feeling of the poet, that in short he does not interpret but 
 forces or rea'ts a meaning into nature. Wordsworth's read- 
 ings are so unegoistic as to be ti'anscripts rather tlian studit.s, 
 what we should all hear were we to discipline our spirit as 
 Wordsworth did, and lean our ear as patiently as he has done 
 to catch the significance of things. Coleridge, full of his 
 Kantian and Fichtean idealisms, made nature merely the 
 immense sliadow of man : 
 
 I ! 
 
 
 'It 
 
 O Lady ! we receive but what we give, 
 And in our life alone doth nature live ; 
 Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! 
 
 To Wordsworth she had an independent and objective exist- 
 ence, furnishing, in the s[iectacle of her silent and orderly 
 processes, a curb and check upon the tumult and misrule of 
 man's life. 
 
 Coleridge's view of human life was wider and more sympa 
 thetic than Wordsworth's. Ha had gi-eater dramatic power, 
 and entered with the sympathy of complete understanding 
 into situations that Wordsworth could scarcely conceive of, 
 and saw good iu characters whom the latter would have 
 
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 102 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 judged liopelessly depraved. He was more in sympathy, too, 
 with the past efforts of the race, and with the literary and 
 artistic interests of his own time. His mind was richer, more 
 varied, more widely assimilative tlian Wordsworth's, but its 
 meditative depth was not so great. There are no lines in 
 Coleridge vith anything like the pregnancy of - Wordsworth's 
 best utterances. 
 
 But it is not by his poetry that Coleridge must be finally 
 iudijed: his critical work is a more abiding source of stimidus 
 and help. In the example of his persisteut effort to reduce all 
 his reading and obsei'ving to a single principle we have a legacy 
 more valuable than all he has left us in poetry. The need which 
 he was called to supply — it is unfortunate that he did not 
 more frankly and fully recognize his call and save much loss 
 of energy— was the need of criticism, the need of a new 
 synthesis to replace the old feudal synthesis wliich the destruc- 
 tive analysis of the 18th century had broken down. 
 
 Born in 1772, Coleridge arrived at manhood in the closing 
 decade of the 18th century. The 18th century was an age of 
 scepticism. All the great men at the close of the century 
 were engaged in a destructive criticism of the ideas on which 
 society was then supposed to rest. Volney and Voltaire in 
 France, and Gibbon and Hume in England, directed their logic 
 against the divine right of kings and the superstitions and 
 conventional creeds which were then '.»t;lie\(»d to be inseparable 
 from Christianity. No one would now deny that in attacking 
 the irrat-onal growths with which religion and society were 
 tuen overburdened, these acute but shallow thinkers did good 
 service, or would tind it difficult to underattind why they should 
 
GENERAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 103 
 
 have attracted for a time all the young and generous spirits 
 who looked upon the old and established as a hindrance to the 
 realization of their schemes of social regeneration. But the 
 overthrow of the false and irrational involved the loss of 
 mvtrh that was genuine, and after the terrible upheaval of the 
 French Revolution men moved about as in a dismantled world. 
 The crazy old edifice of feudal loyalty and medireval religion, 
 endeared to multitudes of men by its antiquity and its 
 having been the abiding place of their fathers, lay in ruins 
 about them. We know what follows in such cases, " disap- 
 pointed hopes, moral exhaustion, enthusiasm burnt to ashes, 
 the melancholy of discovered illusions and the remorse and 
 yearning that follow a supreme work of destruction." Men of 
 scientific mind dropped visions and concerned themselves with 
 the pursuit of practical ends, others like Shelley or Byron stub- 
 bornly refused to admit their disappointment, and remained 
 to the end exponents of the Revolution. Another class, like 
 Wordsworth, withdrew from practical concerns and con- 
 centrated themselves on a poetry of nature or sentiment, 
 others again were possessed, like the men of the Oxford move- 
 ment, with a pathetic and impotent yearning for the irrecov- 
 erable past which the Revolution had swept away. 
 
 Certain rare spirits like Coleridge strove to bring unity to 
 their time, to knit up the ravelled sleeve of thought, to build 
 up faith and loyalty again on a more permanent basis. To do 
 this they endeavoured to understand the world in which they 
 found themselves placed, believing with Arnold that the mere 
 desire to learn and know the truth even for our own personal 
 •fttisfaction was a beginning to make it prevail, a preparing the 
 
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 "I 
 
 'h'M 
 
 
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 104 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 way for that wliicli always served this, and that this desire was 
 wrongly therefore stamped with blame absolutely in itself, and 
 not only in its caricature and degeneration. What will, there- 
 fore, remain forever a source of stimulus in Coleridge's work, is 
 his perception of England's comparatively greater need, in the 
 earlier years of this century, for culture, for criticism, than for 
 poetry, and his persistent effort to supply that need. Compre- 
 hend this need, which is indeed our own need, the need of Can- 
 ada, where so many people run prematurely into poetry, compre- 
 hend his belief, repeated in numberless forms, that knowledge 
 is power, moral power, and his effort to spread the light, and 
 we have the ckie to all his work. Many people m.ike much 
 of his grand distinction between subject and object, phenom- 
 ena, and things in themselves, understanding and reason, 
 fancy and imagination, and indeed it does appear in all his 
 thinking ; in his criticism of poetry as the distinction between 
 fancy and the imagination, and in philoso[)hy and religion as the 
 distinction between truths of science and truths of revelation 
 or faith. It is this distinction tliat enables him to accept the 
 results of science along with a belief in a conventional religion 
 which he had once doubted. But the distinction will not per- 
 manently stand. Modern philosophy rejects Coleridge's dis- 
 tinction between phenomena which we ca!i know and the 
 real things behind the veil which we can only apprehend 
 through faith, as fundamentally unsound and atheistical. 
 Modern theology finds it daily more ditiicult to maintain its 
 belief in the special sanctity of particular places, objects or 
 things. Even criticism in. which Coleridge's native taste 
 enabled him to get great results from an inadecjuate theory, as 
 
 Au 
 
GENERAL ESTIMATE. 
 
 105 
 
 the earlier astronomers were able to predict eclipses by means 
 of the Ptolemaic hypothesis, rejects his distinction between 
 fancy and imagination, understanding and reason, as separate 
 faculties rather than different degrees of the same faculty, and 
 makes Wordsworth's dictum rather its guiding principle — 
 " poetry is the finer expression which is in the face of all 
 science." What will stand of Coleridge, however, is "the stimu- 
 lus of his continual effort, not a moral effort, for he had no 
 morals, but of his continual instinctive effort crowned often with 
 rich success to get at and lay bare the real truth of the matter 
 in hand, whether that matter were literary, or philosophical, 
 or political, or religious, and this in a country where, at that 
 moment, such an effort was almost unknown, where the most 
 powerful minds, Wordsworth, Shelley, Byron, threw themselves 
 upon poetry which conveys truth indeed, but conveys it indi- 
 rectly, and where ordinary minds are so habituated to do 
 without thinking altogether, to regard considerations of estab- 
 lished routine and practical convenience as paramount, that 
 any attempt to introduce within the domain of these the dis- 
 turbing element of thought, they were prompt to resent as 
 outrage." 
 
 France, that wrought such destruction in our feudal habits 
 of loyalty, and our mediteval ideas of religion, made an im- 
 potent attempt in Rousseauism to re-establish our faith, but it 
 was reserved for Germany, deep-thinlcing, indefatigable Ger- 
 many, to give us a rational basis for belief. Germany was 
 enabled thus to become the intellectual guide of the modern 
 world, through a great previous critical effort, and Goethe was 
 one of the new movement's most important organs. If Vol- 
 
 1 
 
 
 II 
 
 I 
 
■p* 
 
 i 
 
 106 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 taire may be regarded as the modern Mephistopheles, Goethe 
 is the Earth Spirit who builds again the beautiful world. 
 
 Coleridge's great usefulness lay in his recognizing the import- 
 ance of German thought, and in his attempt to domesticate it, 
 or in his supplying in England for many years, and under 
 .critical circumstances, by the spectacle of this effort of his, a 
 stimulus to all minds capable of profiting by it ; and his action 
 will be felt as long as the need for it continues. Coleridge 
 constantly regietted his scanty poetical production, and his 
 over-attentio., m riticism and philosophy, but that only 
 proves either that it is the last infirmity of noble minds to 
 yearn for what ''ey .<vve not, or that a man, even a great 
 man, is incapable of properly valuing his own work. England 
 needed criticism then as yet, and Coleridge supplied it. 
 
 
 ! !iy 
 
Dethe 
 
 port- 
 te it, 
 nder 
 lis, a 
 ition 
 idge 
 his 
 only 
 
 3 to 
 
 reat 
 and 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 IN SEVEN PARTS. 
 
 •' Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visilnles in rerum 
 uuiversitate. Sed horuiu omuium familiam quis nobis enanabit, et 
 gradus et cognationes et discrimiua et siiigulorum munera ? Quid agunt ? 
 Quiu loca habitant ? Harum rerum notitiain semper ambivit iiigenium 
 huiuaiium, nunquain attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, (luandoijue 
 in animo, tan([uain in tabuhl, majoris et meliorig mundi imaginein 
 contemplari ; ne mens assuefacta hodiernaj vitte minutiis se contrahat 
 nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea in- 
 vigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab iucertis, diem a nocte, 
 distinguamus."— T. Burnet, ArclueoL Phil. p. 68. 
 
 An ancient 
 Mariiiei- meet- 
 el h three (Gal- 
 lants hiddcTi to 
 a weddinii-feast, 
 and cietaiiieth 
 one. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 It is an ancient Mai'iiior, 
 
 And he stoppeth one of three. 
 
 " By thy long gray l)eard and glittering eye, 
 
 Now vvherefore stopp'^st thou me ? 
 
 " The Bridegroom's "loors are opened wide, 
 And I am next of kin ; 
 The guests are met, the feast is set : 
 May'st heai- the merry din." 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand, 
 "There was a ship," ijuoth he. 
 " Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon ! " 
 Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 
 
 The Wedding- He holds him with his glittering eye- 
 hound'by t'he The Wedding-Guest stood still, 
 seaf.aiinjr man, And Hstens like a three years' child ; 
 
 and constrained rni -\ir • u j.u u* mi 
 
 <o hear his tale. J^lie Manner hath hia will. 
 
 [107] 
 
 5 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 if 'i'. 
 
 h 
 
 
 ill 
 
10 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest sat mi a stone : 
 He cannot choose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 The bright-eyed Mariner: — 
 
 20 
 
 " The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, 
 
 Merrily did we drop 
 
 Below the kirk, below the hill, 
 
 Below the lighthouse top. 
 
 The Mariner "The sun came up upon the left, 
 
 tells hov the 
 
 ship siiiied Out of the sea came he ! 
 
 southward with . , , , ^ • ^ , i ,i .1 
 
 af,'ood\viiidaiui And lie shono bright, aTid on the right 
 fair weather, till ,__ , , • , li 
 
 it rea6hed the Went down into the sea. 
 
 line. 
 
 "Higher and higher every day, 
 
 Till nver the mast at noon " — 
 
 The Wedding-Guest here })eat his })reast, 
 
 For he heard tlie loud bassoon. 
 
 25 
 
 1 
 
 a 
 
 30 
 
 !i>i 
 
 The Wedding. The bride hatli paced into the hall, 
 
 Guest heareth t^ , . , 
 
 the bridal Keu as A rose IS she ; 
 
 music ; but the -vtit ji-i iii? i 
 
 Mariner con- iSoddifig their heacis betore her goes 
 
 tinueth his tale, ^tm • 1. ^ 
 
 The merry minstrelsy. 
 
 35 
 
 
 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast. 
 Yet he oarmot choose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man. 
 The bright-ej'^ed Mariner. 
 
 The ship drawn " And now the storm-blast came, and he 
 Was tyramious and strong : 
 He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
 And chased us south along. 
 
 by a storm 
 towards the 
 south pole. 
 
 40 
 
 I 5 Wl i|; 
 
 m 
 
20 
 
 25 
 
 
 30 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER. ^09 
 
 Wiili slopinn; masts and dipping prow, 45 
 
 As who pursued with 5'ell and blow 
 
 Still treads the shadow oi his foe, 
 
 And forward Vjends his head, 
 
 The ship drove fast, loud roared the l)last, 
 
 And southwai-d 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 land of ice. And through the drifts, the snowy clifts 5i 
 
 and o( fearful j ■,- 
 
 sounds, where Did Send a dismal sheen : 
 
 no liviiigr thing xr u u i ^ i 
 
 wan to be seen. iN or shapes 01 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 ! 
 
 S ■:: 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 Till a fjreat sea- 
 bird, ci.Ued the 
 Albatross, came 
 through the 
 miow-fog', and 
 was received 
 with great joj' 
 aud ho»pitality. 
 
 And lo ! the 
 Albatross 
 proveth a bird 
 of good omen, 
 and follovveth 
 the ship as it 
 returned north- 
 ward through 
 fog and floating 
 iue. 
 
 At length did cross an Albatross : 
 Thorough the fog it came ; 
 As if it had been a Christian soul, 
 We hailed it in God'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 ! 
 
 And a good south wind sprung up behind; 
 
 The Albatross did follow, 
 
 And every day, fur food or play, 
 
 Came to the mariners' hollo 1 
 
 i:! 
 
 65 
 
 70 
 
M:- 
 
 110 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
 
 It perched for vespers nine ; 
 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white. 
 
 Glimmered the white moon-shine." 
 
 75 
 
 The ancieijt 
 Mariner iiihos- 
 ]iitalil.v killeth 
 the pioiiH liinl 
 of iiood omen. 
 
 " God save thee, ancient Mariner, 
 From the fiends that plague thee thus !— n() 
 
 Why look'st thou so?'' — "With my cross-how 
 I shot the Albatross!" 
 
 PART II. 
 
 The sun now rose upon the right : 
 
 Out of the sea came he, 
 
 Still hi^l in mist, and on the left 85 
 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 And the good south wind still blew behind, 
 But no sweet bird did follow, 
 Nor any day foi' food or play 
 Came to the mariners' hollo ! 
 
 His shipmates And I had done a hellish thing, 
 
 cry out against . i •, i i •, , 
 
 the ancient And it would work em woe; 
 ki'iHnK tiieWrd For all averred, 1 had killed the bird 
 (,'00 uc . rpjjg^^ made the breeze to blow. 
 
 Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 
 That made the breeze to blow ! 
 
 But when the 
 fog cleared ofif, 
 they justify the 
 same, and thus 
 make them- 
 selves accom- 
 plices in the 
 crime. 
 
 Nor dim nor red, like God's own head. 
 
 The glorious 8un uprist : 
 
 Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That brought the fog and mist. 
 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 
 
 That bring the fog aiid miat. 
 
 90 
 
 95 
 
 100 
 
 «'} 
 
fUE ANCIENT MARINER. • • ' 
 
 oontinues^the "^^'^ ^"'^^ breezc blow, the white foam flew, 
 Hhip enteri the 'fi,e furrow followed free : 
 
 I'acint! 0('i'aii, ' 
 
 and Haiu north. We were the first that ever burst 105 
 
 ward, even till it 
 
 luacheathaLine. fnto that sileilt Sea. 
 
 The ship hath 
 I'een sudden' v 
 becahnea. 
 
 Down dropt the bre'jze, the sails dropt down, 
 
 'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
 
 And we did speak only to break 
 
 1 he silence of the sea ! 110 
 
 i 
 
 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, 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 110 
 
 2 ' 
 
 And the Alba- Water, water, everywhere, 
 
 tross begins to t i i • 
 
 be avenged. And all the boards did shrink ; 
 Water, water, everywhere. 
 Nor any drop to drink. 
 
 The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 
 That ever this should be ! 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with le£,rs 
 Upon the slimy sea. 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout 
 lowed them; The death -tires danced at night ; 
 visible inhabi- The water, like a witch's oils, 
 
 tantsof this n . i i i i i -j. 
 
 planet, neither iiurnt green and blue and white. 
 
 1-20 
 
 2 5 
 
 130 
 
 ; 1 
 
 : j 
 ■■ i 
 
 if 
 
 !l# 
 
 ll 
 

 k 
 
 'H 
 
 1 ■ 
 
 ill 
 
 l! 
 
 'n 
 
 ^': 
 
 P 
 
 '1 
 
 '■Ay 
 
 ,1'v ■ 
 
 112 
 
 TIIK AN(!IKNT MAUIVKR. 
 
 And Honio indrouins assurod \v(M'o 
 Of tlio spirit titat plagued us so; 
 Nino fathom <leep ho liad followed us 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 And every tongue, through utter drought, 
 Was withered at the root ; 
 We oould n<.)t speak, no more than if 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks 
 Had T from old and young ! 
 Instead of the Cross, the Albatross 
 
 depart e«l hoiiIb 
 nor hii^'oIh ; 
 ooricoi'iiiiii^ 
 whom the 
 lenrnod Jew, 
 JoMophuH, and 
 the Platonic 
 Constant inopo- 
 litan, Miohael 
 PselluH, may be 
 • •onsulted. 
 They are vory 
 mimeroiiH, anil 
 tht-re is no cli- 
 mate or dement 
 without one or 
 more. 
 
 The shipniatex, 
 in their 8oro 
 diatresH would 
 fain throw the 
 whole f^iiilt on 
 the ancient 
 
 Mariner; in sign About my neck was hunj'. 
 wliereof they •' " 
 
 hantr the dead 
 
 sea-bird round „ _ 
 
 hisneok. PART III. 
 
 There passed a weary time. Each throat 
 Was parched, atid glazed oach eye. 
 A weary time ! a weary time I 
 IIow glazed each weary eye ! 
 Tiie ancient When looking Westward, T beheld 
 
 Mariner behold- . ° 
 
 itiiasij,'ninthe A Something in the sky. 
 
 element afar off, ° "' 
 
 ur 
 
 140 
 
 .45 
 
 At first it seemed a little speck. 
 
 And then it seemed a raist : 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 : 
 
 And as if it dodged a water-sprite, 155 
 
 It plunged, and tacked, and veered. 
 
 Ai its nearer With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
 
 approacli, it 
 
 aeemeth him to We could nor laugli nor wail ; 
 
 : \t- 
 
 »■*■ 
 
TDK ANCIKNT M\RI\KR. 
 
 113 
 
 Im- ft Hhip; ntirl 
 at u dear r;iii- 
 HOMl hf fitjclh 
 IiIn Hpecch fi'oii, 
 Mil) buiidH of 
 (liirst. 
 
 Tliinii^'h utter (lniujL,'li( all diunb we stood ! 
 1 hit my arm, T .sncA«'cl the blood, 
 And crieil, A. sail ! a sail 1 
 
 160 
 
 With throats uuslaked, with black lipa baked, 
 Agape they lieard me call : 
 Aflashofjoy, Gramercy ! tliey for joy did gi-in. 
 
 And all at once their bieath drew in, 16') 
 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 And horror (oi- See ! See : (I cried) she tacks no more ! 
 
 lows; for tmn it ,,.,, . , , 
 
 »)LUMiiip that Hither to work ns weal ; 
 
 comes oiiwurd ,,r. 1,1 -.i , • 1 
 
 witiiout wind VN ithout a hroeze, witliout a tide, 
 
 8hb steadies wit)i upiiglit keel ! 
 
 The western w^ave was al a-llame, 
 
 T1h5 day was well-nigh doiifi ! 
 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 
 Rested the broad bright sun ; 
 
 \/hen that strangr sh;ipe drove suddenly 
 
 Betwixt us and the sua. 
 
 170 
 
 175 
 
 M 
 
 i^: 
 
 It seemetii him And straight the sun was flecked with bars, 
 ton of ft hhip. (Heavens .Mother send us grace!) 
 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
 Witli broad and burning face. 
 
 180 
 
 Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
 How fast she neurs and nears ! 
 Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
 Like restless gossameres 1 
 
 And its ribs are ^j.g those her ribs tlirou<'h which the Sun 
 
 seun as bai-s 011 o 
 
 the face of the pj^j pger, as through a grate 1 
 
 fiettiiii,^ sun. r ' 00 
 
 Tiie spectre- ^j^j ig that Woman all her crew 1 
 
 woman and her 
 
 8 
 
 185 
 
III!' 
 
 liili! 
 
 114 
 
 deftth-tnate, 
 and no other 
 on board the 
 skeleton ship. 
 Like vessel, like 
 orewl 
 
 THK ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 Ts that a Death 1 and are there two t 
 Is Death that woman's mate 1 
 
 Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
 Her locks were yellow as gold : 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
 The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 1 90 
 
 -'" h 
 
 
 Death and Life- The naked hulk alongside came, 
 
 in Death have * i ,i , • ,• t 
 
 diced for the And the twain were castmg dice ; 
 
 ship's crew, and ,,rru • J i t> t) i>» 
 
 she (the latter) Ihe game IS dote ! 1 ve won, 1 \ e won ! 
 
 winnefh the >-% j.i i j i,- ■! xi • 
 
 ancient Marin- C^uoth she, anci whiooles tlince. 
 er. 
 
 No twiliffht 
 within the 
 courts of the 
 nun. 
 
 The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out 
 At one stride comes the dark ; 
 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
 Ofl' shot the spectre-bark. 
 
 19.5 
 
 100 
 
 At the risin},' of We listened and looked sideways up ! 
 
 the moon. -r. , i i. a. 
 
 r ear at my heart, as at a cup, 
 
 My life-blood seemed to sip ! 205 
 
 The stars were dim, and thick the night, 
 
 The steerman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; 
 
 From the sails the dew did drip — 
 
 Till clomb above the eastern l)ar 
 
 The horned Moon, with one bright star 210 
 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
 One after 
 another. 
 
 One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
 Too quick for groan or sigh, 
 Each turned his face with a ghastly pan^, 
 And curbed me with his eye. 
 
 215 
 
THK ANCIENT MAHINER. 
 
 ■ ';* 
 
 115 
 
 "roMowf '' ■^'^"^ t^"^<3'^ ^'fty living men, 
 dead, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
 
 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
 They dropped down one by one. 
 
 ^I'tLife-in- The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
 
 Death bcyuis mi /« i • 
 
 her work on the Tliey fled to bliss or woe ! 
 
 ancient Mariner. ., 
 
 And every soul, it passed ine by, 
 Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! 
 
 220 
 
 t 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 The Wedding. "I fear thee, ancient Marin(;r ! 
 
 guest feareth 
 
 that a spirit is I fear thy y<innv hand ! 
 talking to him. » , , ' 
 
 And thou art long, and lank, and l)rown, 
 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand. 
 
 225 
 
 I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
 And thy skinny hand so brown." — 
 But the ancient Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 230 
 
 Mariner as- mi ■ i i i i 
 
 siireth tlim of This body dropt not down. 
 
 his bodily life, 
 and proeet'doth 
 
 to relate his Alone, alone, all all alone, 
 hornble pen- ' 
 
 anca. Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 
 jVEy soul in agony. 235 
 
 He despiaeth The many men, so beautiful 
 
 the creatures of "^ 
 
 the calm. And they all dead did lie : 
 
 And a thousand thousand slimy things 
 Lived on ; and so did I. 
 
 And envieth T looked upon the rotting sea, 
 
 that thevslioiild . i i 
 
 live, and so And drew my eyes away ; 
 many lie dead. ri i i i.i i.^- i i 
 
 1 looked upon the rotting deck, 
 
 240 
 
 And tliere the dead men lay. 
 
!■»-!- 
 
 ■■H 
 
 IIG 
 
 THE ANX'IRNT MARINER. 
 
 1 lookod to heavon, .'in;! tvutd to i»i'ay 
 But ()i- ever a [)rayer had guslit, 
 A wicked whisper came, and made 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 245 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 '1 
 
 li<jl 
 
 ■ :o ::'■ 
 
 ' 
 
 :l! 
 
 Rut the curse 
 liveth for liim 
 ill the eye of 
 the dead men. 
 
 I closed my lids, and kept them close, 
 
 And the balls like pulses l)eat; 
 
 For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky. '^^O 
 
 Lay like a load on my wearv 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 
 Had never passed away. 
 
 2 .TO 
 
 In his loneliness 
 and lixi-ilnuss 
 he yeiuiieth to- 
 wards the 
 joiirne.vini,'' 
 moon, and the 
 stars that still 
 sojourn,, vet still 
 move onwanl ; 
 and everywhere 
 the lilue sky he- 
 lon;;s to them, 
 and is their 
 aiiiiiiintod rest, 
 and iliuir native 
 coiinlry and 
 their ')\vri 
 natural homes, 
 whicliihcyenter 
 unannounced, 
 as lords tliat are 
 certainly ex- 
 pected, and yet 
 there is a silent 
 joy at their 
 Arrival. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Seven days, seven nights, 1 saw that curse, 
 
 xVnd yet I could nut die. 
 
 The moving moon went up the sky, 
 And nowhere did abide : 
 Softly she was going up, 
 And a star or two beside — 
 
 Her beams bemock'd the sultry main. 
 
 Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
 
 The charmed water burnt alway 
 
 A still atid awful red. 
 
 200 
 
 205 
 
 
 270 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 ."ifeSooSbe. r%ond the shadow of the ship, 
 
 crttres^o'ihe ^ "^^'^"^^'^'^ ^^e water-snakes : 
 
 great calm. Tliey iiioved in tracks of shiain- white, 
 
 And when they reared, the elfish light 
 
 Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watched tlieir rich attire : 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
 
 They coiled and swam ; and every track 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 117 
 
 Their beauty 
 and their 
 happiness. 
 
 He bles^seth 
 them in his 
 heart. 
 
 O happy living things ! no tongue 
 
 Their beauty might declare : 
 
 A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
 
 And 1 i)lessed them unaware ! 
 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on jue, 
 
 Ard I blessed them unaware. 
 
 to'brTakl^'''"" '^^^''' selfsame moment I could pray; 
 And from my neck so free 
 The Albatross fell oif, and sank 
 Like lead into the sea. 
 
 275 
 
 280 
 
 285 
 
 290 
 
 IS 
 
 PART V. 
 
 O 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, 
 That slid into ray soul. 
 
 By frrace of the The silly buckets on the deck, 
 
 holy Mother, mi i i 
 
 tiie ancient iluit had SO long remained, 
 
 -Mariner is re- , * 
 
 freshed with I dreamt that they were filled with dew 
 And whou I awoke, it rained. 
 
 2'J5 
 
 3U0 
 
^.1 -.1 1.1.,, 
 
 mmmm 
 
 I 
 
 i i 
 
 118 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
 My garments all were dank ; 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
 I was so light — almost 
 I thought that I had died in sleep, 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 He heareth And soon T heard a roaring wind : 
 
 sounds and t t i 
 
 seeth stranpe It did not cnme anear ; 
 
 sighte and com- ■ ^ • i • i i i m 
 
 motions in the 13ut With its sound it sliook the sails, 
 sky anil the ele- ,„, ^ ^, . , 
 
 ment. Ihat were so thin ami sere. 
 
 The upper air burst into life ! 
 And a hundred fire-Hags sheen, 
 To and fro they were hurried about I 
 And to and fro, and in and out, 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 
 305 
 
 310 
 
 315 
 
 And the coming wind did roar more loud» 
 And the sails did sigh like 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 bodies of The loud wind never reached the ship, 
 
 the ship's crew -er . • t i • j i 
 
 are inspirited, Yct HOW the sliip moved on 1 
 
 mo'lison!'^ Beneath the lightning and the moon 
 
 The dead men gave a groan. 330 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 119 
 
 but not by the 
 souls of the 
 men, nor by de- 
 mons of earth 
 or middle air, 
 but by a blessed 
 troop of angelio 
 spirits, sent 
 down by the in- 
 vocation of the 
 guardian saint. 
 
 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-blewj 
 
 The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 
 
 Where they were wont to do ; 
 
 They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 
 
 We were a gliastly 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. 
 
 " 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 cluster'd round the mast ; 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 
 And from their bodies passed. 
 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
 Then darted t-o the sun ; 
 Slowlv 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. 
 
 355 
 
 360 
 
m 
 
 120 
 
 The lonesome 
 spirit from the 
 Houth pole 
 carries on the 
 ship as far as the 
 line, in obudi- 
 ence to the an- 
 gelic troop, but 
 still requireth 
 vengeance. 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINEK. 
 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
 With their sweet jargoning ! 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments, 
 
 Now like a lom^ly flute ; 
 
 And now it is an angel's song, 365 
 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant n(jise 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 quiet tune. 
 
 Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
 
 Yet never a breeze did bi-eathe : 
 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 370 
 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 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 
 
 i 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 121 
 
 I 
 
 The Polar 
 Spirit's fellow- 
 demons, the in- 
 visible inhabi- 
 tants of the cle- 
 ment, take part 
 iTi his wronif ; 
 and two of them 
 relate, one to 
 the other, that 
 penance long 
 and heavy for 
 the ancient 
 Mariner hath 
 been accorded 
 to the Polar 
 Spirit, who re- 
 turneth south- 
 ward. 
 
 It flung the blood into my head, 
 And I fell down in a swoimd. 
 
 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, v 
 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 
 Who shot him with his bow." 405 
 
 The other was a softer voice, 
 
 As soft as honey-dow : 
 
 Quoth he, " The man liath penance done, 
 
 And penance more will do." 
 
 PART YI. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 410 
 
 Thy soft response 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 — 
 
 It 
 
",~' I -^- 
 
 ilij 
 
 ill 
 
 122 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER, 
 
 If he may know which way to go ; 
 For she guides him smooth or grim. 
 See, brother, see! how graciously 
 She looketh down on him. 
 
 420 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 But why drives on that ship so fast, 
 Without or wave or wind ? 
 
 The Mariner 
 hath been cast 
 into a trance ; 
 for the angelic 
 power causeth 
 the vessel to 
 drive northward 
 faster than 
 human life 
 
 rouid endure, j^^ ^j^^^gg f ^ora behind. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 The air is cut away before, 
 
 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. 
 
 The super- I woke, and we were sailing on 
 
 natural motion . , , 
 
 is retarded ; the As m a gButle weauher : 
 
 Mariner awakes, ,„, , , , • i i ji i • i 
 
 and his penance Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ; 
 
 Itocrina A.Tiour __ _ - 
 
 430 
 
 begins anew. 
 
 The dead men stood together. 
 
 All stood together on the deck, 
 For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 
 All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
 That in the moon did glitter. 
 
 The pang, the curse, v th which they died. 
 Had never passed away : 
 I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
 Nor turn them up to pray. 
 
 The curse is And now this spell was snapt : once more 
 
 finally expiated ^ . , ,, 
 
 I Viewed the ocean green, 
 
 And looked far forth, yet little saw 
 
 Of what had else been seen — 
 
 435 
 
 440 
 
 445 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 123 
 
 I 
 
 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 
 
 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. 
 
 It raised ray hair, it fanned 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, 
 Yet <^iie sailed softly too : 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 And the ancient Oli ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
 
 Mariner behold- 
 eth his native 
 
 Is this the hill 1 is thiy the kirk ? 
 
 The lighthouse top T see ? 
 Is this the hill 1 is thiy th' 
 Is this mine own countree 1 
 
 We drifted o'er the harbour-bar. 
 And I with sobs did pray — 
 * O let me be awake, my God ! 
 Or let me sleep alway.' 
 
 The harbour-bay was clear as glass. 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
 And the shadow of the moon. 
 
 150 
 
 I .■).■. 
 
 460 
 
 105 
 
 470 
 
 475 
 
 B m 
 
 :|./ 
 
 m 
 
■'■1 
 
 iiiii 
 
 
 i 
 
 1-4 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 Tlie rock shone bnVlit, the kirk no less, 
 That Htands above the rock : 
 The moonlight steeped in silentnes3 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 And the bay was white with silent light, \^0 
 
 Till rising from the same, 
 The atijfciio Pu^ many shapes, that shadows were, 
 
 sinnts leave the . 
 
 dead bodies, Yn crimson colours came. 
 
 and appear in A little distance from the prow 
 
 their own forms ,p, . , ■, .o^ 
 
 of light. ihose cnmson shadows were : iSo 
 
 I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
 Oh Christ ! what saw I there ! 
 
 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
 
 And, by the holy rood ! 
 
 A man all light, a seraph-man, 490 
 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
 
 It was a heavenly sight ! 
 
 They stood as signals to the land, 
 
 Each one a lovely light; 495 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
 No voice did they impart — 
 No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 But soon T heard the dash of oars, oOO 
 
 I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
 
 My head was turj\ed perforce away, 
 
 And I saw a boat appear. 
 
TIjl' nermit of 
 the wood 
 
 THE ANflKNT MARINRR. 
 
 The Pilot, and the Pi!ut',s l)oy, 
 
 I hoard thoiii ooiniiig fast : 
 
 ])ear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
 
 The dead iium could not blast. 
 
 I saw a third — I hoard his voice : 
 
 It is the Ifermit good! 
 
 He singeth loud liis godly hymns 
 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 
 He"i1 slirieve my soul, he'll wash away 
 
 The Albatross's blood. 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 Tliis Hermit good lives in that wood 
 Which slopes down to the sea. 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
 He loves to talk with raarineres 
 That come from a far countree. 
 
 He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 
 
 He hath a cushion plump : 
 
 It is the moss that wholly hides 
 
 The rotted old oakstump. 
 
 The skifF-boat neared : I heard them talk, 
 " Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
 Wliere are those lights so many and fair, 
 That signal made but now 1 " 
 
 125 
 
 505 
 
 510 
 
 515 
 
 520 
 
 525 
 
 !i' 
 
 approuchcthtiie "Strange, by my faith!" the Henuit said — 
 
 ship with 4 11 1 , II 
 
 wonder. " And they answered not our cheer ! 
 
 The planks look warped ! and see those sails, 
 How thin they are and sere ! 530 
 
 I never saw aught like to them, 
 XJnless perchance it were. 
 
 
12C, 
 
 THE ANCIENT MAHINEn. 
 
 Jii'own skeletons of leaves th;it lug 
 
 My forest brook along; 
 
 When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 535 
 
 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
 
 That eats the she- wolf's young." 
 
 "Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 
 
 (The Pilot made re])ly) 
 
 I am a-feared " — " Push on, push on ! " 540 
 
 Said the Hermit cheerily. 
 
 The boat came closer to the sliip, 
 
 But I nor spake nor stiried ; 
 
 The boat came close beneath the ship, 
 
 And btrai^ht a sound was heard. 545 
 
 ■' • i'! ■ 
 
 i iiliv 
 
 The ship siid- Under the water it rumbled on, 
 
 denly sinketh. 
 
 Still louder and more dread : 
 
 It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 
 
 The ship w ent down like lead. 
 
 The ancient Stunned by that loud and dieadful Kound, 550 
 
 irariner is saved '' 
 
 in the Pilot's Which sky and ocean smote, 
 
 Like one that hath bten seven days drowned 
 
 My body lay afloat; 
 
 But swift as dreams, myself 1 found 
 
 Within the Pilot's boat. 555 
 
 Hit;! 
 
 Upon the whirl where sank the ship. 
 The boat spun round and round ; 
 And all was still, save that the hiii 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
 And fell down in a fit; 
 
 MO 
 
TIlF .\N<MKNT MAKIN::n. 
 
 1"J7 
 
 The holy Meniiifc raisod his eyes, 
 And prayed where ho. did sit. 
 
 I took tlie oars : tlxe Pilot's hoy, 
 
 Who now doth crazy go, 
 
 Laughed loud and long, and all the wliiic; 
 
 His cyea went to and fro. 
 
 «♦ Ha ! ha ! " quoth he, " full plain I see 
 
 The Devil knows how to row." 
 
 r,G5 
 
 And now, all in ray own countree, HTO 
 
 I stood on the firm land ! 
 
 The Hermit stepped forth from the boat. 
 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 The ancient "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holv man!" 
 
 Mariner earn- mi tt • i i • i ' r^-e' 
 
 eptiy entreateth l.he Hermit crossed his brow. 0/5 
 
 the Hennit to . i « i i t i • i i 
 
 shrieve him; "Hay quick, quoth he, "1 bid thee say — 
 
 and the penance ,,;., ", » , ., ,„ 
 
 of life falls on What manner or man art thou ! 
 Uin. 
 
 Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
 With a woful agony, 
 
 Which forced me to begin my tale ; ^ 580 
 
 And then it left me free. 
 
 And ever and 
 anon through- 
 out his future 
 life an agony 
 constraineth 
 him to travel 
 from land to 
 land; 
 
 Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
 That agony returns : 
 And till ray ghastly tale is told. 
 This heart within rae burns. 
 
 I pass, like night, frora land to land ; 
 I have strange power of speech ; 
 The moment that h^s face T see, 
 I know the man that must hear me : 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 585 
 
 590 
 
it I 
 
 ii' 
 
 
 m< 
 
 128 THE ANCIENT MARINEU, 
 
 What. I(»u(l upro.'tr bursts froni lluit (]oor ! 
 
 Tlio wedding-guests ire there: 
 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 
 And bride-maids singing are : 
 
 And hark the little vesper bell, 595 
 
 Which Ijiddeth me to prayer ! 
 
 O Wedding-guest ! this soul hath been 
 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea : 
 
 So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 
 Scar<3e seemed there to be. GOO 
 
 O sweeter than the marriage feast, 
 'Tis sweeter far to me, 
 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 frien<]s, 
 
 And youths and maidens ga}^ ! 
 
 aiKitotcat^i, by Farewell, farewell ! but tin's I tell 610 
 
 his own ex- 
 
 aiiipiu, love and To thee, tliou Wedding-Ouest ! 
 
 rcvcrent'e to all ' n i i 
 
 thinf?sthatCJod He pi'ayeth well wJio loveth well 
 
 made and lov-j t, . , i i • i i i 
 
 eth. Ijotli man and bu'd and beast. 
 
 He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 
 All things Doth great and small : 615 
 
 For the dear God who loveth us, 
 
 He made and loveth all. 
 
 The Mai'iner, whose eye is ]>right. 
 Whose Iteai-d with age is hoar, 
 
595 
 
 THE ANCIENT MAUINEK. 129 
 
 Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 620 
 
 Turned from tlie l)ridegroom's door. 
 
 He went like one that hath been stunned, 
 
 And is of sense forlo^-n : 
 
 A sadder and a wiser man, 
 
 He rose the morrow morn. G25 
 
 GOO 
 
 605 
 
 610 
 
 615 
 
 -^»fer 
 
 9 
 

 
 * 
 
 I; 
 
 1: 
 
SELECTIOX FROM COLERIDGE. 
 
 YOUTH AXn AGE. 
 
 Vei'He, ca ))reeze 'mid ])]()ss()iiis strayiiig, 
 Wliere Hope clung feeding, like ii bee — 
 Both were mine 1 Life went a niaying 
 With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
 When I was young ! 
 When I was young? — Ah, woful when ! 
 Ah I for the change 'twixt Now and Then I 
 This breathing house not l)uilt with han<ls, 
 This body that does me grievous wrong, 
 O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands 
 How lightly then it Mash'd along : — - 
 Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
 On winding kikes and rivers wide. 
 That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
 That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
 Noui^ht cared this body for wind or weather 
 When Yout ind F lived in't t(»gether. 
 
 Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
 O ! the joys, that ca;ne down shower-like, 
 Of Friendshiji, Lo\e, and Liberty, 
 
 Ere I w;is okl ! 
 Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere, 
 Which tells nie. Youth's jio longer here! 
 O Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
 'Tis known that Thou and I were one, 
 
 'ii 
 
 5 
 
 10 
 
 1;-) 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 [131] 
 
132 
 
 vourn AM) AGi?, 
 
 il 
 
 I'll tliink it l)ut a foiul (conceit — 
 It cannot be, tliat 'riiou art gone ! 
 Thy vesper-bell hath ivot yet toU'd : — 
 And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
 What strange disguise hast now put on 
 To make l)elieve that Thou art gone 1 
 I see these locks in silvery slips, 
 This drooj)ing gait, this alter'd size : 
 But Springtide blossoms on thy lips, 
 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes I 
 Life is but Thought: so think I will 
 That Youth and I are house-mates still. 
 
 Dew-drops arc the gems of moining, 
 But the tears of mournful eve ! 
 Wli(>re no hope is, life's a warning 
 That only ser\-es to make us grieve 
 
 When we ai-e old : 
 — Tluit only ser^ es to make us grieve 
 With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
 Like some poor nigh-related guest 
 That may not rudel}' be dismist. 
 Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while, 
 And tells the jest without the smile. 
 
 •^^^ 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 j;t! 
 
30 
 
 NOTES ON COLERIDGE. 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 I 
 
 45 
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Afariner was written in the autumn 
 of 1797, and pubh'shed, as Coleridge's contriljution to the joint 
 volume of Li/iira/ Jkdlads, in the following year. During the 
 two years of Coleridge's residence at Nether Stowey, his con- 
 versation with Woi'dswortii "frequently turned on the two 
 cardinal juunts of poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy 
 of the reader by a faithful adherence t(j the truth of natui'e, and 
 the power of giving the interest of novelty by the modifying 
 colours of iniMgination." In one of their many conversations 
 on this subject the thought; sugge.st(Mi itself that a series of 
 poems might be composed, in some of which the incidents and 
 agents miglit be. in part at least, superiuitural, in others, 
 chosen from ordinary life. Wordsworth undei-took "to excite a 
 feeling analogous to the supernatural b}' awakening the mind's 
 attention from the letharg}' of custom and directing it to the 
 loveliness and wonders of the world before us," while Coleridge 
 directed his efforts to transferring from our inward nature to 
 persons and characters supernatural " a human interest and a 
 semblance of truth suificieut to procure for these shadows of 
 imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment 
 which constitutes poeti(; faith." Thus originated the plan of 
 the Lijrical BaJlmlK, for which Cohu'idge wrote the Ancient 
 Mariner and l»egan the Dark Ladie and Christahd. 
 
 The immediate occasion of the j)oeni w^as a strange dream of 
 one of Coleridge's friends, a Mr. Cruikshank, who fancied he 
 saw coming into port a skeleton ship with spectre figures on 
 
 [133] 
 
■':T-^]fi^ 
 
 ^ I 
 
 '*i 
 
 134 
 
 NOTES ON COLKRIDOK. 
 
 board. Many otlior ideas woi'e added to this first siinj)le 
 suggestion, and notliing bettei' illustrates Colei'idge's oniiiixor- 
 ous reading and widel}^ assimilative mind than his skilful 
 weaving into one com})lete and rounded whole of so many 
 suggestions from sueli a variety of sources. From the Witches' 
 Spell, Act I, sc. iii, Macbeth, he seems to have (obtained a hint 
 of the "night-mare Life-in-Death," as well as of the phantom 
 ship : 
 
 Sleep shall neither nij,'ht or day 
 Hang upon his pent-house lid ; 
 lie shall live a man lortiid : 
 Weary seven ni.iihts, nine times nine 
 Shall he dwindle, peak and pine. 
 
 From Shelvocke's Voi/iU/e Round the World, to which "Woi-ds- 
 worth drew his attention, he seems to have taken the idea of 
 man's ingratitude in slaying the binl and the world spirit's de- 
 termination to avenge the wanton dt^struction of its creature. 
 Wordsworth himself suggested the plan of reanimating the 
 dead men to work the ship. Similar and perhaps more delinite 
 suggestions came to him from a i-ude Danish ))allad, A Wonder- 
 ful Bdllml of Se< I far hi' I Mm, .-md from the epistle of Bishop 
 Paulinus of Nola to .Macar-ius, wherein is mentioned the 
 working of a vessel by a troop of angels. The conceptions of 
 the "slimy sea," and of the "ice, mast-high," and of the 
 "storm-blast, tyrannous and strong," were gathered— if we are 
 to judge from mai'ginal references in many note books — from 
 various sources, - from Captain Jam(\s' Strange Voi/(tge into tlie 
 South Sea, Cook's Voyages, Haklu3't's Voyages, and such out- 
 of-the-way reading as the visions of J^urnet and Purchas's 
 Pilgrinis. The su])se(iuent wanderings of the mariner, his 
 mental restlessness, his irresistible desire to impart his experi- 
 ences were ol)\iously suggested to Coleridge by the legend of 
 the "Wandering -Tew." Scvei-al details were suggested by 
 Wordsworth, who also wroU; ji iow lines, Itut the greater part 
 
 m 
 
NOTES ON COLKRIDOE, 
 
 135 
 
 of the poem is Coleridge's invention, original in that highest 
 sense of originality, wliich consists, not in inventing, but in 
 using in a uiastei'ly way what is already available. 
 
 The poem is written in tjie ballad stanza, the sti'ucture and 
 movement of which, however, Coleridge has very nmch modiiicd. 
 The choice of this form was owing partly to his compact 
 with Wordsworth, partly to that revived interest in the past 
 which since 1750 had been expressing itself in various ways, 
 and partly to tlie suitability of the form itself. 
 
 After love and adventure, the most common theme of the 
 (lider ballad and that which it most successfully rendered was 
 tlie supernatural. Men's minds in the days when the folk 
 songs originated were replete with wonder and mystery. They 
 saw the beau'iful, but always in the guise of the strange and 
 weird, and frec^uently in the form of an allegory. The ballad 
 springing from the living heart of the people has the excel- 
 lencies and defects of the natural imagination. It was 
 spontaneous, naive and natuid, often rapid and forcible, and 
 again garrulous and childish, unreflective, but very suggestive 
 and devoid of artitice or ornaments. In keeping with these 
 characteristics of thought, the metrical form was simple — two 
 couplets of tetrameters, or more frecpiently a (juatrain of 
 alternate tetrameters and trimeters. Rhyme often gave way 
 to assonance, while alliteration might aj)pear anywhere. The 
 cadence was a simple rude harmony. Figures of speech were 
 rare but fresh and unrellective, refrains and itei'ations were 
 common, the number of fctjt was variable, accent an<l even 
 pronunciation were freely modified on occasion. In this 
 ple.asing yet rude and narrow instrument Coleridge, so to 
 speak, pulled out many more stops. By pruning its repetitions, 
 heightening its diction, rendei'ing its imagery more reflective 
 and refining its rhythm, ho made it capable of conveying 
 exquisitely his delicately marvellous conception of tiie 
 Bupernatural. 
 

 136 
 
 NOTES ON COLERIDOK. 
 
 The literary value of the poem has boon variously estimated, 
 but all critics and commentators are agreed as to the simple 
 realistic force of the narrative and the vividness of the 
 imagery, and in allegoric;»l poetry it certainly is a merit 
 that the symbol should be definitely gras])ed, })ut should we 
 not endeavour also to have an appioxiniating definite conception 
 of the thing symbolized ? Arrogant and indolent dilettanteism 
 refuses to incjuire into the meaning of the poem, shiflding 
 itself behind Coleridge's reply to Mrs. ]iarbauld that the poem 
 had too much moral in it. Surely it is strange reasoning that 
 can extract from Coleridge's admission that the poem con- 
 tained a moral, indeed too much moral, the inference that it 
 has no moral at all. In the form of an allegory the poem is 
 a profound criticism of life, and those who have felt this are 
 nearer to the meaning of the poem, howe\('r much they may 
 differ fi-om one another in their interpretati<ms, than those 
 dilettante critics who retire into vague talk about beauty 
 when the thought of the jioem eludes their analysis. 
 
 The subject of the poem is the same as that of Goethe's 
 Faust, though the more obvious and suggestive comparison is 
 with Carl3'le's ^'^'artor liesarlus ; the struggle of a stnjng soul 
 with the entanglements of sense and the final emergence, 
 though ])earing tokens of the conflict, into spiritual serenity. 
 Joyous we set out in the morning of life, the world we think 
 was made to siipply our every wish as soon as it arises, from 
 the very vitality of our nature we are hurried into excesses, 
 moral coldness and discord ensue. From this we think to 
 escape by quenching our better intimations, a litwer state of 
 moral degradation — a life-in-death — follows, in which the 
 native force of the soul is all but lost. In our embers, how- 
 ever, is something that does live ; our better nature reasserts 
 itself, first in an awakened intei-est in the glories of colour, 
 and then in a sympatliy with animate things, our subjective 
 isolation is broken up, and we become conscious of a moral 
 
 \i 
 
NOTES ON COLERIDGE. 
 
 137 
 
 order of the universe in glad acquiescence with which wc find 
 peace and serenity. 
 
 THK RIME OF THE ANCIENT MAIIINKR. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 " Rinit! " here me;ius poem. Chaucer in the Cantcrhiiry Talvn calls 
 one tale The Rijm of Sir Thopaz, 
 
 1. Ancient Mariner. "Ancieut" means simply atlvunceil in 
 years. In ooavorsation Coleridge wouUl Bpeak of the Mariner as the 
 Ohl Navigator. It would he well to note here, as frequently throughout 
 tlie j)oein, the weird efFfct produced by certain features of the jjoet's 
 vocabulary. 
 
 2. One of three. Compare II. 588-590. What numbers are met 
 with throughout this ballad in the text itself and in its divi.sions 'i Why 
 such nunibi'is V 
 
 11. loon -a base fellow — now obsolete in this sense. Compare 
 Macbeth v. , 3 : 
 
 Thou creani-fa^ed loon — 
 
 12. Bftsoons ^ soon after. 
 
 13. 14. The Mariner's "glittering eye" expressed the spiritual 
 agony that convulsed his being until his tale was tohl. Insiglit into the 
 soul's workings won from a great spiritual crisis gave him strange 
 powers of fascination, 
 
 15, 16. liy Wordsworth. 
 
 21. 'Toyously he sets forth in life. 
 
 31. etc. Note the di-amatic elTect of the asides or interruptions so 
 common in this poem. 
 
 32. bassoon — a deep-toned wind instrument of music. 
 
 33. Compare Christahel, ll., 63-04: 
 
 The lovely maid and the lady tall 
 Are iHiciii'j both into the hall. 
 
 36. A body of minstrels. Cjmp.ire the D(trk La>lie : 
 
 Hut flrst the nodding minstrel.'? KO 
 With nmsio meet for lordly bowers. 
 
Wt 
 
 138 
 
 NOTES ON COL Kill DOE. 
 
 111! . 
 
 iiiif 
 
 u'f 
 § 
 
 :! ! 
 
 41. Amid the reckless buoyancies of youlli iirc fonnd excesses. 
 Compare in a somewViat similar sense, Arnold'^ /("",'/''// C/iapet: 
 
 Then on the ht'if,'hts ooineH the storm. 
 
 Gloss "tlrawn." Perliajis "driven " was intended. 
 
 55. clifts cliffs. Did the snow-ca]iped cliffs of ice send a dismal 
 light througli the drifting mist and snow ? or did the green ice send the 
 dismal light through the layers of drifted snow resting upon it ? 
 
 57 62. Moral isolation — spiritual coMncss and discord. 
 
 68. all between~all around, — between the ship and the open 
 sea. 
 
 62. Tiike noises one hears when in a swoon. 
 
 63. A large acfaatic l)ird with great breadth of wings and extra- 
 ordiiuiry powers of flight, often met with at great distances from land off 
 the Cape of (iood Hope or in Hehring Straits. Introduction here 
 suggested by Wordsworth. 
 
 'I'he bird is but a " better intimation," an inner and divine voice that 
 speaks to the benumbed soul. 
 
 76. vespers = evenings. 
 
 78. Kxamine closely into the poet's references to the great 
 heavenly bodies and into his treatment of colours and sounds through- 
 out this poem. Compare with similar references and treatments in the 
 ordinary' ballads. 
 
 81, 82. The Mariner would stifle this inner voice. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 91-4. Superstitious fears of sailors regarding the killing of stormy 
 petrels, albatrosses and other birds. 
 
 98. uprist - uprose. 
 
 101. I'he shipmen, at first horrified, rlnally acquiesce in and share 
 in the ungrateful act. 
 
 104. Altered in the edition of 1817 to : 
 
 The furrow streamed off free. 
 
 To the sailors on board tlie ship, which would be the more accurate 
 description ? 
 
 m 
 
NOTKS ON COI.KIUIXJK. 
 
 139 
 
 i 
 
 107. What does *' dropt down " iiioan here ? ([^oinjtuie 1. 311. 
 
 108. A lower state of moral degratlati >n follows, lie looks with 
 loathing upon the olijective world (1. 123, etc.). 
 
 123 130. Poetical • xaggeration — and yet " it is a well-known fact 
 that windrt and storms are important agents in keeping the ocean jmro. 
 In the hot latitndes a long period of dead calm gives oiipoitiiuity for 
 tiie devf lo|imeiit (»f innumerahle gelatinous marine animals, many of 
 which are pliospliorescent ; and their frail suhstance cannot resist the 
 force of the waves, l)ut is broken to i)iec*s." Cook, in his yvi/aijcs, 
 speaks of small gelatinous "sea-animals" swimming al)out on the 
 surface of the ocean, emitting the brightest colours, pellucid, blue, 
 sappliire, violet, green, etc. -and in tiu- dark, glowing like fire. 
 
 127. etc. Compare Murbdh, I., 3 : 
 
 The weird nisteiti, hand in hand, 
 I'osters (if tt>e sea and iaiul, 
 Thus do \iO ahout, aliniit. 
 
 128. death-flreS corpse candles, dead men's candles or will-o'- 
 the-wisps, as they were called among the superstitious. These are 
 generally phosphorescent lights that appear to issue from houses or 
 rise from the ground — a visible result of chemical action. Tiie}' were 
 believed to foretell death. 
 
 129. Oils l)urnt during the incantations of witches seem to have 
 bet II mixed with such substaiices as would colour the (lames and add to 
 the mystery of the scene. 
 
 139 142. Loathing both himself and the great objective world, he 
 is now haunted by the constant remembrance of his act. 
 
 Gloss. Josephus was a Jewish general and historian of the first 
 century. I'sellus, an authority ou denionology, lived in Constantinople 
 during the 11th century. 
 
 PAIiT III. 
 
 Gloss. Note the use of "element" here and elsewhere for "air," 
 or " sky," etc. 
 
 155. dodg'ed. Not undignified in Coleridge's day. 
 
 164. Grainercy = grand mercii=great thanks— an exclamation 
 ol joy and relief. In Table Talk, Coleridge says :— " I took the 
 
140 
 
 NOTES ON fOLKKIDCiR. 
 
 •ill 
 
 ii 
 
 iMi 
 
 '■' 
 
 
 i,:. 
 
 ''; 
 
 1 ;■ 
 
 i- - 
 
 'il 
 
 ll'' 
 I> i 
 
 ':-' 
 
 i: 
 
 thdught of j,'iiiiiiiiig for joy from my companion's riinark to nx) wlu-n 
 M'o h.id olimlifd to the top of I'liiiliinnion ami wero iitivily dfuil with 
 thirst. We could not speak from tlie constricticm till we found a little 
 puddlo under a Htone. iiti Haul to me, ' you grinned like an i<li()t.' Ilu 
 had done tin; same." 
 
 184. gossameres. 'I'ho filmy cobweb-like network to be seen 
 in summer weather. 
 
 193-4. 'I'hc earliest edition read : 
 
 And hJr' is far likcr ficatli than he ; 
 Her flesh makes th'' still air cold. 
 
 Conii»are the two readings, pointing out the j)oet'c signilicance of the 
 change. 
 
 It has fancifidly been tlunight that as Coleridge made the (iorrection 
 in 11. 1!>3 4 later in life, when under the benund)iiig inlluence of his 
 opium habits, the vague name "Night-mare liife-in-|)<ath " was sug- 
 gested by personal experiences. Compare with the ode, Dijecliun. 
 
 197. Lower he sinks. I^ife now is with him a I.ife-in-Death. 
 
 210-212. Such phenomena arou«e the superstitious fears (»f sailors. 
 It is denied that stars ever a])pear within the lower tip of the horned 
 moon. 
 
 222. Every death reminds the Mariner of his crime. For this 
 popular belief that a (h:j)arting soul may at times be heard or seen, 
 compare Tennyson's Talkiiuf Oak : 
 
 The gloomy brewer's (Cromwell's) soul 
 Wont by me like a stork. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 224 231. This interruption, .so much in the manner of the popular 
 ballad, relieves the monotony of the narrative, and indirectly reveals 
 to us tlie ellccts upon the Mariner of his great mental sutl'erings. 
 
 226 7. By Wordsworth. 
 
 234-5. Compare 11. 28(3. 294, etc. What is the artistic purpose of 
 these references or statements ? 
 
 245, or ever » before ever. 
 
 
NOTES ON OOr-KRlDGR. 
 
 HI 
 
 246, etc. rioathing has grown inoro intonRe ; degradation deeper, 
 ilia moral iiowers arc duail, aud in hid spiritual hlinduess, hfl uaiinot 
 pray. 
 
 282. At last, he can reach no greater depths of moral degeneration. 
 He longs for (loath, 
 
 264 6. f'oinparo in effectivencas with 11. 471-9. 
 
 270 81. Compare note on 11. 123-130, " Watersnakes." "Captain 
 Kingman, in hit. 8 deg., 46 niin. 8., long. lO.j deg., .30 min. E., paa.sed 
 through a tract of water twenty-three miles in brea<lth and of unknown 
 length 80 full of minute (and some not very minute) itho.sphorcscent 
 organisms as to present the aspect (at night) of a boundless plain 
 covered with snow. Some of these animals were *' serpents " of six 
 inches in lengtli, of transparent gelatinous consistency and very lumin- 
 ous. . . . The ptiosphorescence of the ocean prevails largely 
 tlirough the whole extent of the trojncal seas and proceeds from a great 
 variety of marine organisms — some soft and gelatinous, some minute 
 Crustacea, etc. , . . One of the most curious phases of i)hos- 
 j)horescence is the appearance on the surface of calm or but little 
 agitated water of luminous spaces of several square feet in area, sliining 
 fitfully and bounded by rectilinear or nearly rectilinear outlines, pre- 
 senting irrcgulir forms, across which the light flashes as if propagated 
 rapidly along tlu; surface." — Herschel's Plnjsical Gcoyrapliy. 
 
 There are, of course, no real snakes in mid ocean. 
 
 282. The native force of the soul cannot be altogether lost. Faint 
 gleams of the divine spark appear. He grows interested in the ol)jec- 
 tive world, in the moon, the stars, the sky, the watersnakes ; sympathy 
 with aninuite nature enters his heart, and thia sympathy atoning for 
 his ruthless act, teaches hiui how to pray. 
 
 PART V. 
 
 292. See references in notes on Wordsworth's sonnet To Sleep, 1. 13. 
 
 297. silly useless, empty. 
 
 314. The electrical lights that shine in the air. 
 
 325. jag pi'ong, point or projection. 
 
 350. In the old ballads, visitors from the other world, ghosts, etc., 
 always depart at dawu or at the cock-crow — often with song. 
 
pp 
 
 142 
 
 KOTES ON COLKIunoM 
 
 350 372. An oxct'lk'nt passage for a dctiiil'jd study of the delicacy 
 of (Joleridge'a imaginative touch and of the sweetness of his verse 
 melody. 
 
 362. jargon -ordinarily, confused talk. In ballads, as here, 
 it often denotes the chattering of birds. 
 
 369 372. I'he Mariner's thoughts turned longingly from the 
 horrors of tlio sea to the sweet melodies of the land. I'oiiit out tlio 
 rhythmic <tl'ect of t!je long stanza form. Ex;,iuine into and justify 
 other variations in this poem, in stanza and '/ersi; forms, in inetrical 
 foot ami cadence. 
 
 383 390. At the magical hour of noon th(! vessel r.;actied the 
 eijuator, beyond which the lnneso;);e spirit fi'om tlie Polar region.! could 
 not go. Hither at the cninmand of the angelic troop he had brought 
 th(! siii[), and now for a moment the vessel pauses, tiien under the 
 inlluence of the Polar spirit's demand for vengeance, which vengeance 
 the angelic troop will not consent to, the shi[) moves backwards an.l 
 forwards. Finally a comprt)mise is etlected, and the. Polar spirit leaves 
 the vessel. 
 
 394. T Am unable to tell, 
 living' = conscious. 
 
 These voices represent justice and mercy, 
 honey-dew ~ a sweet substance found in minute drops 
 
 395. 
 406. 
 407. 
 
 on certain jdants — a secretion from very small plant lice. 
 
 409. Man may not escape from s[)iritual conflicts and si)iritual 
 errors without the marks of the internal struggle. Penance must be 
 exacted. 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 414 17. C<im pare Coleridge's 0oo?7o .• 
 
 h 11 
 
 Oh woman ! 
 I have stood silent, like a .sl;i\e liefoiv thee ! 
 
 and Sir John Davies' Orchislr^ 
 
 Forlo! t,lie se.a th.at fleets ahout tiie laml, 
 Aiirt like a ;;ir(lle clips her solid waist , 
 Music and measure both doth iindci's' and : 
 For liis i;i'eat chryslal eye is always cast 
 Up to the moon and on her fixed fast. 
 
Notes oN CoT.ERinoE. 
 
 143 
 
 418 19. This refers to the moon's ii)fliiencfi in tlie production of 
 tides. What scientific law is referred to in 11. 424-5 ? 
 
 426-9. It may Ix; imagined that the spints ]\;\ve before tliem some 
 celestial goal to reach f.nd delay WiUiM render tlieir arrival inoppo; 'une. 
 
 James, in his VoyiKje to the South Sea, speaks of a co:!unon artilice 
 among Spanish and Portuguese sailors, lately returned from an unsuc- 
 cessful voyage towards the Pole, to conceal their ignorance of the 
 realities of tha Polar regions by mysterious whisperings of dreams, 
 trances, superuaturai interferences, under the intluence of wliioh they 
 were driven northwards. 
 
 435. charnel-dung'eon. A vault heneath or near a cluirch, 
 wherein were deposited the booes of the long-since d.ead. 
 
 448-61. Coleridge, says Whipple, gives in this ;:assag(^ poetic ex 
 pression to what is n all men, thougli uuconfessed — a 3Ui)eniatural fear 
 in the heart of something near us at which wj ihue not look. Hero we 
 have not fear caused hy conscience, hut a pure dread of tlie unknown, 
 whose colours ar'j woven by tlie imagination. 
 
 456-7. Compare 11. 30!), etc. 
 
 458. Perhaps his fears arise as he remembers the supernatural 
 nianifeS:tations that followed the wind referred to in 11. .SOD, etc. 
 
 464, etc. May the Mariner regain fully his former moral status ? 
 
 470-71. ^Vhy these alternative petitions? 
 
 504. The Pilot and the Hermit bring external help to the reti.irni!ii' 
 Mariner ; one representing in some sense practical wisdom and the othi;r 
 accing as the bearer of the truths of Christianity. 
 
 PAKT VII. 
 
 533-37. Mark the appropriateness and suggestiveness of tlie 
 Hermit's comparison. 
 
 The " ivy-tod " is a thick clump of ivy. 
 
 649. The Mariner must bear i'l liis own person the only traces left 
 of his mighty strug^df against the world of .-icnse. 
 
 660. Analyze here as throughout the poe:iis, Coleridge's nu-t)iod, 
 vague and yet suggestive, of revealing to us the effects of the great 
 spiritual struggle upon the Mariner's appearance. Conipirc in manner 
 with Milton's description of Sin and Death iu Paradise Lod, Hk. ii. 
 
■WP^ 
 
 144 
 
 SOTKS ON COLKHlDaK. 
 
 Gloss. " Penance of life " = life penance. 
 
 601, etc. Whilst the Mariner's spirit has attained to a peaceful 
 Berenity, have his sympathies and joys remained unchanged ? Com- 
 pare 11. 21, etc. 
 
 612 17. Have we here the lesson of the poem ? Do you agree 
 with ( 'oleridge himself that there is too frequent and too great obtrusion 
 of the moral of the poem ? 
 
 '{'he poet in this passage is consistent with the age and its noble 
 entliusiasm for all create<l things. Much of a like generous sensibility 
 is foun<l in Burns (To a Field Mouse), iu Wordsworth [Hart-Leap 
 Wall) an<l in Cowper : 
 
 I would not enter on mj' lists of friends 
 
 (Thouf,'!! fi^raced with iinlishnd tiiatiiiefs and fine sense, 
 
 Yet wantiiitr sensibility) the man 
 
 Who needlessly sets foot upon a woini. 
 
 623. forlorn = forsaken by sense. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 Poets have found no commoner subject for lyrical thought 
 than "youth" or "age" — youth with its ^movant enthusi- 
 asms, its ^oves, its joys ; age with its serenity, its gravity, 
 even, at times, its sterilities. Such lyrical thought has sprung 
 often from the common-place experiences of tlie great masses 
 of mankind in ballads, and has engaged the genius of our 
 noblest sj)iritual thinkers. Byron passionately laments the 
 loss of the warmth and glow of youthful emotions in his 
 Vouth and Age, Shelley, in his Lament, longs for the ideal 
 joy that in his youth crowned the "prime of the world", 
 Tennyson, " thinking of tlu; days that are no more," and 
 grieving over the failure of a j^outhful aspiration, feels 
 
 Tears from the depths of some divine despair 
 Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes. 
 
 Time and again Longfellow carries us back tlirough the 
 
NOTES ON CGLKiaDQE. 
 
 145 
 
 scenes of his boyhood ; time and again has lie lamented th<^ 
 benumhing power of years : 
 
 O sweet illusions of the brain 
 O sudden chills of fire and frost ; 
 Tlie world is in'if^ht while ye remain 
 And dark and dead when je are lost ! 
 
 Wordsworth, we liave ah-eady found, now lamenting the im- 
 poverishment of life by the extravagances of youth; now 
 mourning not nitTcly for what life in its contact with the 
 inexorable facts of the world has wrested from spiritual 
 consciousness, but al)ove all for what it has added or left 
 behind. His tone, howev(;r, even here, is manly, cheerful and 
 universal. Coleridge in later years fre([uently refers to his 
 youth and to the great, spiritual losses ho has sustain(Ml, but 
 about his regrets there clings an element of narrow {)er- 
 sonai feeling. Subject to intense physi(.-a1 suH'erings, rendered 
 d(ispond(Mit by his own metifal apathy, lu^ broods over his 
 loss(?s in a luiM'bidly egoistic and despairing way. 
 
 According to the statements of his daughter, Sara, the 
 thnie stanzas of Youth and Aye were written at various 
 periods of the poet's lite-. The first stanza was prefixed 
 to the second in 1824, and the last stanza was added in 
 18-7, whilst stanza ii \\'as written many years before 1821. 
 The whole poem, as completed, was published in 1832. Can 
 you detect any traces of this irregular composition? 
 
 It would be well to examine carefully into the metrical form 
 of the poem, to consider the appropriateness ot the figurative 
 language and to trace the logical connection of the ideas, 
 especially in stanza II. 
 
 the 
 
 9. Coleridge, during liis later years, suffered iuteusely from 
 rhonmatism and gout, from oppressiou iu breathing, and from tho 
 phyaical inertia resulting from atoutiiess ami his opium-eating liabits. 
 10 
 
m^^ 
 
 146 
 
 ^ssssm 
 
 NOTES ON COLERIDGE. 
 
 12. Like. Is this word connected in thought with " body,'' 1. 16, 
 or with "flash'd," 1. 1 1 ? Examine the punctuation. Note the peculiar 
 use of '* skiffs." The first boat propelled by steam was set afloat upon 
 the Hudson River in 1807. In 1812, the first steamboat appeared in 
 Great Britain — upon the Clyde. Until 1815-20, it was deemed impos- 
 sible to use these boats upon the open sea (1. 13). 
 
 37. A sentiment true to Coleridge's life and experience. 
 
 39-49. This last stanza has a strongly personal note. Written in 
 1827, it is the product of the old age of the poet — of a eeble, helpless, 
 and in some ways, hopeless old age. He longed for the relief that 
 death brought in 1834. For this same wailing tone, so frequently the 
 burden of his later poems and letters, the student might read the 
 Visionary Hope, Ode to Dejection and Work without Hope, 
 
 
 m . 
 
 i 1 : 
 
 w 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 [Thomas Campbell, a cadet of the respectable family of Campbell 
 of Kernan, in Argyllshire, was born in Glasgow, in 1777, where his 
 father was in business. He was educated at the Glasgow Grammar 
 School and University. Owing to the straitened circumstances of 
 his father, whose business ventures had been unfortunate, he had to 
 support himself partially during those years by private tuition. At 
 the age of twenty he moved to Edinburgh, attending lectures at 
 tlie University, soliciting employment from the booksellers and 
 making the ac(piaintance of a set of young men then resident in 
 the Scottish metro[)oii3 whose names have since become historical 
 — Walter Scot^t, Henry Brougham, Francis Jetfrey, Dr. Thomas 
 Brown and others. In 1799 he published his poem The Pleasures 
 of Hope, the success of which was Instantaneous. A short visit 
 to the <'^)ntinent in 1800 was followed by his marriage in 1803. 
 He moved to England shortly thereafter, settling in Sydenham, 
 whose refined and intellectual society he found congenial to his 
 taste. In 1805, a Government pension of £200 a year made him 
 practically inde])endent. He successfully contested, in 1827, the 
 Rectorship of Glasgow University with Sir Walter Scott, and was 
 re-elected the two following years. He removed to London in 
 1840, but the last years of his life were spent at Boulogne^ where 
 he died in 1844. He was burled in Westminster Abbey.] 
 
 Chionological List of Campbell's Chief Works. 
 
 The Pleasures of Hope 1798 
 
 Hohenlinden "^ 
 
 Ye Mariners of England j" ^^^^ 
 
 The Battle of the Baltic j 
 
 Gertrude of Wyoming \ \%qq 
 
 O'Connor's C^hild ) 
 
 T,'!'"""™ ] 1824 
 
 Mmor Poems j 
 
 Pilgrim of Glencite 1842 
 
 1147] 
 
DEVELOPMENT. 
 
 Campbell's life shows little of that strug«^le to realize a gift 
 of genius in spite of the solicitation of other tendencies, which 
 Wordsworth's or even Coh'ridge's life so sti'ikingly exhibits. 
 His importance in literature is ahnost wliolly owing to an 
 original emotional delicacy, a native feeling foi- style, and he 
 made scarcely any effort to ac(|uire by cultivation the qualities 
 in wliich his nature was ddicieut — the qualities of steadiness, 
 punctuality, prudence, in a woid, of sanity and practicality. 
 His strength and his limitations were largely those of the 
 Celtic temperament which was his by birth. We may doubt 
 the over-ruling importance of race without denying its inllu- 
 ence altogether. It is quite true that a man can by force of 
 will successfully combat the power of an inherited tendency, 
 say to drunk<inness, and it is equally true that the inherited 
 tendency will operate if force of character is lacking. Tacitus' 
 account of the Germans, and Caesar's of the Gauls, are as true 
 of the modern representatives of the Teutonic and of the 
 Celtic races respectively as they were when they were written. 
 The obvious inference is that certain racial characteristics 
 tend to become here<litary in a people except where modified 
 l)y the effort of particular individuals to ac(juii'e a broader 
 culture than that of their own people. Now Celtic character- 
 istics have possessed a peculiar attraction for writers of all 
 
 [U9] 
 
 i« 
 

 I'll 'I ' 
 
 ■;'5' i 
 
 150 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 ages. Tacitus noticed thorn, Caesar doscribod them, Matthew 
 Arnold, in liis Celtic Literature^ has observed them with great 
 precision and delicacy. "The Celtic is," he says, "an organi- 
 zation (juick to feel impressions and feeling them very strongly; 
 a lively personality, therefore, and keenly sensitive to joy and 
 sorrow. If the downs of life, too, outnumber the ups, the 
 temperament, because it so quickly awl nearly conscious of all 
 impressions, may no doubt seem shy and wouudod ; it may be 
 seen in wistful regret, in passionate, penetrating melancholy, 
 l)ut its essence is to aspire ardently after life light emotion, to 
 l)e expansive, adventurous, gay. The impressionable Celt, 
 soon up and soon down, is the more down because it is his 
 nature to be up, to be sociable, hospitable, eloquent, figui'ing 
 away brilliantly. He loves bright colours. He easily becomes 
 audacious, over-crowing, full of fanfaronade. The Celt is often 
 called sensual, but it is not so much the vulgar satisfaction of 
 sense that attracts him as emotion and excitement. Balance, 
 measure, patience, the eternal conditions of success are less 
 prominent in the Gelt. In poetry the Celt has shown genius, 
 indeed, splendid genius, but here, though emotion counts for 
 much, reason too, reason, measure, sanity count for more — and 
 the Celt has not produced great p(jetical works. He has only 
 produced poetry with an air of greatness, investing it all and 
 sometimes giving to shorter poems cjr to passages, lines, or 
 sna<^ches of longer poems, singular beauty and power. He 
 gives you only so much interpretation of the world as the first 
 dash of a quick, strong perception and then sentiments, infi- 
 nite sentiment can give . . . The sensibility of the Celt 
 is not to be blamed. It is a beautiful and admirable force if 
 
DEVELOPMENT. 
 
 151 
 
 everything else were not sacrificed to it. Sensibility gives 
 genius its materials, makes one full of reverence and enthu- 
 siasm for learning, eloquence, conversation and the things of 
 the mind. One cannot have too much sensibility if one can 
 keep its master and not its slave — if one can keep a law of 
 measure, of harmony presiding over the whole." 
 
 Of the Celtic temperament, Campbell had the quick, strong 
 perception. Owing to the straitened circumstances of his 
 father he was obliged, while attending college, to do private 
 tutoring, yet in spite of the additional labour he made rapid 
 progress in his studies and gained a distinguished place in the 
 classes of the university. He had its exquisite sensibility. 
 According to his friend and biographer, Dr. Beattie, " his 
 imaginative faculty had been so unremittingly cultivated that 
 circumstances, trifling in themselves, had acrjuired undue 
 influence over his mind. He drew from everything around 
 him with morbid ingenuity some melancholy presage of the 
 future." He early showed its fondness for the things of the 
 mind, for poetry and eloquence, and fur style, but he was 
 deficient in patience, perseverance and industry. In 17*J8, at 
 the age of 21, he published The Pleasures of Hope^ modelled 
 upon Rogers' The Pleasures of Memory, which appeared five 
 years previously. It has the fault, in common with its model, 
 of a prevailing didactic tameness, but neither the nature of the 
 subject nor the conventional form of the poem could altogether 
 obscure the fact that didactic subject t>nd conventional form 
 had been used with remarkable freedom. In it a delicacy of 
 thought and an occasional power of pathos were skilfully com- 
 bined with a beauty of imagery, a harmony of versification 
 
1 
 
 m 
 
 
 ;i ill' 
 
 152 
 
 CAMPHRLL. 
 
 and a roinurkahlc felicity of luiiguuge. It contains many 
 lines familiar to every ear : 
 
 'Tis diHtance lends enchaiitniont to the view, 
 
 and, 
 
 What though my \vin{;e<l hours of bliss have been 
 Like anjjel-visita, few and far between. 
 
 Notwithstanding its popularity- — the poem ran tlirougli four 
 
 editions within a year of its pul>lication, — Caiuphell was suth- 
 
 ciently aware of the direction of his own genius not to be led 
 
 away by his success. He had to listen to the new men of the 
 
 coming century for a few years longer before he caught the 
 
 metre and dicti(Mi that would give his Celtic nii.tur(; free play. 
 
 His travels on the Colli iiient in 1800-1 brought liim into contact 
 
 with the romantic thought of (Jormany and introduced him to 
 
 the critical canons of Schlegel, and these influences, directly 
 
 and indirectly, appear as moukling, to some extent, the fonn 
 
 and matter of such lyrics as were the product of these years 
 
 abroad. In Ye Mariners of EiKjlaud, in llohenlinden, we find 
 
 traces of the new romantic school, a Wordsworthian sincerit}' 
 
 and naturalness of manner, combined with what better and 
 
 more recent critical principles gave him, a less superb diction, 
 
 chaster imagery, greater warmth and freedom of metrical 
 
 form. It is characteristic, too, of the new inlluence, for the 
 
 arrival of which he had waited longer than other poets of the 
 
 age, that in these shorter poems he falls back upon earlier 
 
 ballad measures, through which he can give to his work greater 
 
 spontaneity, together with greater unity and compactness of 
 
 thought. The dull manner and desultory design of his earlier 
 
 poem. The Pleasures of Hope, to a large extent vanish in the 
 
 animated strains and singleness of poetic purpose of theses 
 
 war-songs. 
 
 
DEVELOPMKNT. 
 
 153 
 
 ad 
 
 
 For some time now, 1803-9, ho stifled liis juu'tic pdwerH l»y 
 c<jmnK)n liaok woik in piimpldets iind journuls, but Imck-woik 
 !is it was, this fununoii Htrugglo, phiin, utilituriaji and imn- 
 iinayiiiative, togotlior witli inbred chissical tastes did imuh, if 
 not more, than all other itilliumoes- than either tlie rniii;nitic- 
 isni of Wordsworth or the critical principles of Coleridge to 
 prune, moderate and shape; his poetic style. 
 
 Endowed from his Celtic nature with unusually keen 
 sensibilities and active intuitions, he never erred in appre- 
 liending and ex])ressing the as})irations (►f the age. The 
 lieroic temper of England in her Napoleonic struggle is 
 mirrored in his war lyrics; tlie new spiiit of interest in his 
 fellow-man cries out in him passioiuitely for the protection of 
 Poland and the liberation of the slave. An<.l not only did \n\ 
 with his acute Celtic sensibilities intuitively understand the 
 age and its aims, with sj^lendid Celtic adaptability of temp«'r 
 and genius he could shape himself anew to the shifting demands 
 of that age. Scott, with his long metrical romances, created a 
 new litei'ary taste — and in 1809, responding to this demand, 
 Campbell turned from his war-songs as mere "drum and 
 trumpet things " and wrote his G'erlrnde of WyoDiimj. The 
 bi'illiant platitudes, the disconnected thought, the forced plan 
 of the Pleasures of Hope all disappear. Ihu-e we ha\(! a 
 simple tale pervaded by much sweetness, purity and simplicity 
 of manner and thought and a deep pathos that mark the 
 developing poet. 
 
 In his short and charming f>a!lad, Lord UUiu^s Dauyhter, 
 published in the same year, his poetic powers have reached 
 the flow of the high-tide. Here we iii.d a terseness and coucise- 
 
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 154 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 ness uf form — almost epigrammatic in character, a warmth 
 and tenderness of feeling and a true vigour of descriptive 
 epithet : 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apaoe, 
 The water-wraith was shrieking ; 
 And in the soowl of heaven each faoe 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
 How strong and sincere is the pathetic touch in : 
 
 " Come back ! Come back ! " he cried in grltt, 
 " Across this stormy water ; 
 
 And ril forgive your Highland chief, 
 
 My daughter !— oh, my daughter I " 
 
 In O'Connor's Child, published also in 1809, we have the 
 noblest product of the noblest features of the Celtic character. 
 Here one cannot find reason or measure or sanity, but a 
 deeply wistful regret, a romantic, adventurous and weird 
 interest, j, truly tragic pathos. All didactic purpose has 
 vanished, and with much delicacy of touch can he sing : 
 
 Bright as the bow that spans the storm, 
 In Erin's yellow vesture clad, 
 A son of light — a lovely form, 
 He cornea and makes her glad ; 
 Now on the grass-green turf he sits. 
 His tassell'd horn beside him laid ; 
 Now o'er the hills in chase he flits, 
 The hunter and the deer a shade. 
 
 with passionate Celtic eloquence : 
 
 When all was hushed, at eventide 
 I heard the baying of their beagle: 
 Be hush'd I my Connooht Moran cried, 
 'Tis but the screaming of the eagle. 
 Alas ! 'twas not the eyrie's sound ; 
 Their bloody bands had trook'd lu out ; 
 Up-listetiiiig starts our couohant bound 
 And hark 1 again, that nearer about 
 Brings faster on the murderera, 
 
155 
 
 DEVELOPMENT. / 
 
 Spare, spare him— Rrazil— Desmond flcroe. 
 In vain — no voice the adder charma. 
 
 Their iron hands had dug the cluy, 
 And o'er his burial turf they trod, 
 And I beheld, -O God ! O Qod I 
 His life-blood oozing from the aod I 
 
 with some vividness and emotional suggestivoness of imagery : 
 
 No :— let the eagle change his plume, 
 The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom ; 
 But ties around this heart were spun, 
 ' That could not, would not, be undone I 
 
 After 1809, his poetic powers fade rapidly. " He seems," 
 says Scott, " to be afraid of the shadow of his own fame." 
 Years of sorrow come upon him, worldly cares and social 
 interests benumb him, passion and animation and sensibility 
 disappear, as they must disappear in all lives, and with them 
 go the whole creative power of the Celt ; with wife dead, son 
 mad, harp unstrung, he turns to write the prosaic, the affectedly 
 simple Theodoric, — and he fails. Again he attempts production 
 in the Pilgrim of Glencoe, and even more unworthy is the 
 result ! 
 
 To the last, however, he retains some classic purity of 
 phrase and line, some sense of beauty and proportion, and 
 exhibited some delicacy and grace of form. Strength has 
 departed, but much sweetness is left. Nothing, for instance, 
 can equal the perfection of form of : 
 
 The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded, 
 And sad, pale Adulgitha came, 
 When forth a valiant champion bounded 
 Aad slew the slanderer of her fame. 
 
 She wept, delivered from her danger ; 
 But when he knelt to claim her glov.e — 
 " Seek not," she cried, " oh ! gallant stranger, 
 For helpless Adelyitb^^.'s love. 
 
 r 
 
 I 
 
■ilBi 
 
 156 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 For he is in a foreign far land 
 Whose arm Rhould now have set me free 
 And I niviHt wear the willow garland 
 For him that's dead or false to me." 
 
 i 
 
 i.i 
 
 ii 
 
 •• Nay ! say not that his faith is tainted 1 
 lie raised his visor— at the sight 
 She fell into his arms and fainted ; 
 It was indeed her own true knight. 
 
 w 
 
ESTIMATE OF HIS WORK. 
 
 In attempting an estimate of Campbell's poetic work ' and 
 thought the student is at once met with what Arnold con- 
 siders the primary defect in the ptx'tic character of the Celt. 
 In poetry he may have genius, splendid genius, but in poetry, 
 "though emotion count for much, reason, too, reason, measure, 
 sanity count for more — and the Celt nas not produced great 
 poetical works. . . . He gives you so much interpretation 
 of the world as the first dash of a quick, strong percep- 
 tion and sentiments, infinite sentiments can give ." Of 
 
 thought deep and profound, of definite and methodical 
 philosophy, Campbell had none, and if he ever lost grip of 
 his poetic powers it was when he turned aside to express the 
 deeper unities of things. In the higher realms of imagina- 
 tion, he was strangely weak and tame ; insincere and un vital 
 are to him conceptions that thrill the souls of his greater 
 contemporaries. In his View from St. Leonard's he speaks 
 of the sea : 
 
 The spirit of the universe in thee 
 Is visible ; thou hast in thee the life~ 
 The eternal, graceful and majestic life — 
 Of nature, and the natural human heart 
 Is therefore bound to thee with holy love. 
 
 How tame and unsatisfactory compared with the sincerity 
 of: 
 
 I have felt 
 A presence that disturbs me with a joy 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 [157] 
 
 I 
 
 
'1, 
 
 158 OAXPBBLti. 
 
 Of something far more deeply Interfused, 
 WhoHc dwellintf is tlie light of setting mins, 
 And the round ooean and the living air, 
 And the blue sky and in the mind of mail ; 
 A motion and a spirit that impels 
 All thinking things, aU objects of all thougfats, 
 And rolls through all things. 
 
 In another sense also he was inferior to Wordsworth. The 
 great poet of nature, having once grasped the concrete facts or 
 relations of an object, an incident, or a tale, did not regard the 
 mere reproduction or reairanging of these facts as his particu- 
 lar mission. To the every-day colour that surrounded the 
 subject of his thought must be added the " light that never 
 was on sea or land " ; mind must enter into the very arcana, 
 the very being of the incident, clothe it with its rational 
 interpreting power and create it anew in the light of a great 
 informing idea. But this Campbell to a lar^3 extent was 
 unable to do. Poetic thought was with him the impulse of 
 the moment, a strong overmastering emotion which rapidly 
 flowed out upon the object and as quickly ebbed ; with him it 
 was not tranquil thought remembered in emotion, but a 
 quick, " sharp dash of perception," giving stimulus to rich and 
 overflowing sensibilities. 
 
 In many ways no English poet so closely resembles Camp- 
 bell in personal character and literary genius as that other 
 typical Celt, Goldsmith. Like Campbell, the Irish poet was in 
 private life unsteady, imprudent, immoderate, passionate ; 
 fond of flattery, indolent and even insincere. With their 
 Celtic instincts both men were benevolent, witty, eloquent, 
 and — at times — foolishly boastful. 
 
 In literary capacity they were singularly alike. While br^h 
 
1 
 
 ■' f 
 
 ESTIMAtE OF HIS WorfK. 
 
 169 
 
 poets were devoted to a chaste clearness and simplicity of 
 thought, their very efforts to secure this ended in smooth, epi- 
 grammatic verse, where sense was sacrificed to sound and 
 where exquisite melody hid tedious moralizings or irrational 
 logic. We hear Goldsmith speaking through Campbell's 
 couplet in : " ' 
 
 She studied not the meanest to eclipse, 
 And yet the wisest listened to her lipi, 
 
 and we catch the gist of the Irish poet's peculiar social views 
 in : 
 
 To gorgre a few with Trade's precarious prize, 
 
 We banish rural lite, and breathe unwholesor-.e skies. 
 
 As a result of their fastidiousness of taste, their classical 
 exactness, their polish, their singular felicity of diction, and in 
 some way, of their lack of constructive power, we possess from 
 these men a number of household quotations in single lines 
 and couplets altogether out of proportion with the relative im- 
 ' portance of their authors. How completely have the following 
 lines from Campbell become the common property of all Eng- 
 lish speakers : 
 
 To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die. 
 
 or 
 or 
 or 
 or 
 or 
 or 
 
 Coming events cast their shadows before, 
 Song is but the eloquence of truth. 
 To bear is to conquer our fate, ' 
 
 What millions died that Caesar might be great. 
 And muse on Nature with a poet's eye. 
 Like pensive beauty smiling in her tears, 
 
 /' 11 
 
 M. 
 
 
 't: -g 
 
li'i 
 
 I 
 
 160 
 
 or 
 
 or 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 'Tis diBtance lends enchantment to the view, 
 
 Like angel-viHits, few and far between. 
 
 And yet they differ ! Campbell possessed the greater mental 
 energy and the deeper spiritual power. Whether from the 
 stronger impulses of the age or the inherent capacities of the 
 man, certain it is that in his war-songs the Scotch poet shows a 
 force, a fire, an energy together with a freedom of thought 
 altogether beyond the limited range of Goldsmith. 
 
 t 
 
 
 11 
 
 i,| 
 
SELECTIONS FROM CAMPBELL. 
 
 m 
 
 4 
 
 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 
 
 That guard our native seas ! 
 
 Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 
 
 The battle and the breeze ! 
 
 Your glorious standard launch again 6 
 
 To match another foe : 
 
 And sweep through the deep, 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow ; 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 10 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave — 
 
 For the deck it was their field of fame, 
 
 And Ocean was their grave : 
 
 Where Bhike and mighty Nelson fell 16 
 
 Your manly hearts shall glow, 
 
 As ye sweep through the deep, 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow ; 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 20 
 
 Britannia needs no bulwarks, 
 
 No towers along the steep ; 
 
 Her march is o'er the mountain-waves. 
 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 
 With thunders from her native oak fiU 
 
 m 
 
 S; .. 
 
 1 *i 
 
 M 
 
 V' )l 
 
 II 
 
 [161] 
 
 ■ii 
 ■,fcf. 
 
Tf 
 
 ! h I 
 
 162 
 
 SELECTIONS PROM CAMPBELL. 
 
 She quell8 the floods below — 
 As tliey roar on the shore, 
 When the stormy winds do blow ; 
 When the battle rages loud and long, 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The meteor flag of England 
 
 Shall yet terrific burn; 
 
 Till danger's troubled night depart 
 
 And the star of peace return. 
 
 Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 
 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 
 To the fame of vour name, 
 
 When the storm has ceased to blow ; 
 
 When the fiery fight is heard no more, 
 
 And the storrxi has ceased to blow. 
 
 . 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 \:\ !' 
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 
 
 Sing the glorious day's renown, 
 
 When to battle fierce caine forth 
 
 All the might of Denmark's ciown. 
 
 And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 
 
 By each gun the lighted brand 
 
 In a bold determined hand, 
 
 And the Prince of all the land 
 
 Led them on. * 
 
 Like leviathans afloat 
 Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 
 While the sign of battle flew 
 On the lofty British line : 
 
 10 
 
6ATTLB Of TUB BALTIC. 
 
 163 
 
 ^\ 
 
 It was ten of April morn by the chime : 
 
 Aa they drifted on tlieir path 16 
 
 There was silence deep as death ; 
 
 And the boldest held his breath 
 
 For a time. 
 
 But the might of England flush'd 
 
 To anticipate the scene ; 20 
 
 To her van the fleeter rush'd 
 
 O'er the deadly space lietween. 
 
 'Hearts of oak !' «>ur cajitains cried, when each gun 
 
 From its adamantine lips 
 
 Spread a death-shade round the ships, 25 
 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 
 Of tlie sun. 
 
 Again ! again ! again ! 
 
 And the havoc did not slack, 
 
 Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
 
 To our cheering sent us back ; — 
 
 Their shots along the deep slowly boom 
 
 Then ceased-— and all is wail, 
 
 Aa they strike the shatter'd sail ; 
 
 Or in conflagration pale 
 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 Out spoke the victor then 
 
 As he hail'd them o'er the wave, 
 
 * Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
 
 And we conquer l>ut to save : — 
 
 So peace instead of death let us bring : 
 
 But yield, proud foe, thy fleet 
 
 With the crews, at England's feet, 
 
 And make submission meet 
 
 To our King.' 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 
 
164 8BLEOTION8 FROM TAMPHKLL. 
 
 Tlien Denmark bless'd our chief 
 
 That he gave her wounds repose ; 
 
 And the sounds of joy and grief 
 
 From her people wildly rose, 
 
 As death withdrew his shades from t he day : 80 
 
 While the sun look'd smiling bright 
 
 O'er a wide and woeful sight, 
 
 Where the fires of funeral light 
 
 Died away. 
 
 Now joy, old England, raise I 65 
 
 For the tidings of thy might, 
 
 By the festal cities' blaze, 
 
 Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; 
 
 And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 
 
 Let us think of them that sleep 60 
 
 Full many a fathom deep 
 
 By the wild and stormy steep, 
 
 Elsinore ! 
 
 Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 
 
 Once so faithful and so true, 65 
 
 On the deck of fame that died. 
 
 With the gallant good Riou : 
 
 Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave ! 
 
 While the billow mournful rolls 
 
 And the mermaid's song condoles 70 
 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 
 Of the brave ! 
 
 
 1^ •• 
 
 HOHENLINDEN. 
 On Linden, when the sun was low, 
 All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
10 
 
 ir. 
 
 H0HBNLIMDB9. |Q0 
 
 But Linden saw another sight, 5 
 
 When the drum heat at dead of night 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast array'd 
 Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
 And furious every charger ueigh'd 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Then shook the hills wu. / 'hundor riven; 
 Then rush'd the steed, to ! attle driven ; 
 And louder than the ^M)lts of Heavru 
 Far flauh'd the lod artille^'y. 
 
 But redder yet that ligVb (hall glow 
 On Linden's hills of sbiindd snow ; 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 20 
 
 'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, rollijig dun. 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 The combat deepens. On, ye Brave 25 
 
 Who rush to glory, or the grave 1 
 Wave, Munich I all thy banners wave. 
 And charge with all thy chivalry ! 
 
 Few, few shall part, where many meet ! 
 The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 30 
 
 And every turf beneath their leet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
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 166 
 
 r<BLECT10NS FEOM CAMPBELL. 
 
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 THE RIVER OF LIFE. 
 
 The more we live, more brief appear 
 
 Our life's succeeding stages : 
 A day to childhood seems a year, 
 
 And years like passing ages. 
 
 The gladsome current of our youth, 
 
 Ere passion yet disorders, 
 Steals lingering like a river smooth 
 
 Along its grassy borders. 
 
 But as the care-worn cheek grows wnn. 
 And sorrow's shafts fly thicker. 
 
 Ye Stars, tliat measure life to man, 
 Why seem 3'our courses quicker? 
 
 When joys lia^e lost their bloom and breath 
 
 And life itself is vapid, 
 Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, 
 
 Feel we its tide more rapid 1 
 
 It may be strange — yet who would change 
 Time's course to slower speeding. 
 
 When one by one our friends have gone 
 And left our bosoms bleeding ? 
 
 Heaven gives our years of fading strength 
 
 Indemnifying tleetness ; 
 And those of youth, a seeming length, 
 
 Proportion'd to their sweetness. 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 n 
 
 { ,1 
 
 \\M 
 
NOTES ON CAMPBELL. 
 
 1: 
 
 r 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 THE WAR SONGS. 
 
 The best of our folk-Kongs or ballads, springing as tlioy do, 
 naturally and spontaneously, from the heart of the whole 
 people, represent, in their application to a particular epoch, not 
 a trivial, ephemeral or local interest, but give utterance, 
 explicitly and implicitly, to a great national thought and a great 
 national movement. The Robin Hood ballads recall to us the 
 mediaeval struggle against unjust social and feudal conditions ; 
 the Border Minstrelsy had for basal thought the invincible 
 spirit of independence that hung about the vales and peaks of 
 the Cheviots. 
 
 What is true of the ballad a^^ the spontaneous product of a 
 nation's tendencies and a nation's aspirations is also true of the 
 greater works of the individual poet as well as of a special 
 "school" of poets. The peculiar significance of Shakspere's 
 dr<«ma lay in its expression of the new and powerful Elizabethan 
 interest in man ; the significance of the epics of Milton arises 
 from their interpi-etation of the Puritan's conception of the 
 relations between God and the human soul ; while Wordsworth 
 reveals to us — as the main principle of his poetic creed - the 
 restorative influences of the inter-action of nature and the 
 spirit of man. In like manner and to a degree quite in keep- 
 ing with his comparative inferiority as a poet, the greatness, 
 the true inwardness of Campbell's war- songs can be understood 
 only from a discovery in them of the sj)irit, the yearnings and 
 the enthusiasms of the age out of which they have directly 
 sprung. 
 
 [167] 
 
 
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 168 
 
 NOTES ON CAMPBELL. 
 
 Mighty impulses swayed men's minds. True, "the thing 
 we specifically call French Revolution," had in appearance 
 failed, had been " blown into space and had become a thing 
 that was," but on its ruins in France arose the gigantic 
 despotism of the first Napoleon. To this tyranny all Europe 
 responded with the spirit of strenuous effort, of patriotic self- 
 sacrifice and of undying resolve. Such a spirit reigning every- 
 where, found expression everywhere. The Arndts, the Kbmers 
 of Germany, sang to a glorious conclusion the " War of 
 Liberation " ; Burns had spoken out amid the trumpet tones 
 of his Scots Wha Hae, Scott thrilled all Britain with his 
 heroic death of Marmion, and gave us in Branksome Hall, 
 where warriors kept watch night and day in complete armour, 
 a picturesque image of the England of the time. The heroic 
 mood of the country, its national spirit and passion forced 
 a response from Campbell. 
 
 But Campbell's songs represent more than the war-spirit 
 of England. England's greatness, as well as her existence, 
 depended then, as it h;id depended for centuries before, upon 
 her naval supremacy, and upon their acceptance and glorifica- 
 tion of this assured and certain fact, palpably and essentially 
 significant, did his lyrics rely for their greatness and 
 permanence. 
 
 The subject-matter of these war-ballads is the subject-matter 
 of all such songs. The past with its heroic men and heroic 
 deeds is invoked ; the present is heralded with its opportunities 
 and its capabilities ; the future depicted with its oft-repeated 
 rewards of " song, feast and fame." The manner is the natural 
 manner of ballad poetry, brisk, animated, enthusiastic ; the 
 cadence is shifting and melodious, the movement rapid and 
 the imagery vivid and suggestive. At times, carried away by 
 the enthusiasm of the moment, the diction may grow vague 
 and meaningless, the figurative conceptions far-fetched, the 
 metrical form irregular, the logic of the thought involved and 
 
NOTES ON CAMPBELL. 
 
 169 
 
 complex, but these weaknesses only argue a corresponding 
 increase in spiritual energy and enthusiasm and rarely ma/ 
 what is the characteristic feature of the poems — a un'ty of 
 purpose and effect. 
 
 i 
 
 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 The exact date of production of this poem has been left in doubt. 
 Biographers generally assign it, together with Hohenlinden, to the year 
 1800; the poet's autobiographical remains tell as that the patriotic ring 
 of this lyric, when discovered among his papers in 1802, by the sherifT 
 of Edinburgh, saved him from arrest for suspected treason. It formed, 
 with The Pleasuren of Hope, The Battle of the Baltic, Lord Ullin's 
 Daughter, O'Connor's Child, an 1809 edition of Campbell's works. 
 
 6. The "other foe," referred to here, was Russia, with her allies 
 Denmark and Sweden, in the Armed Neutrality of the North. See notes 
 on the Battle of the Baltic. 
 
 9, 10. Note the repetition of this in other stanzas — an artifice 
 borrowed from old ballad measures. To what extent has Campbell in 
 these war-songs departed 'rem the rej^ular ballad form ? See notes on 
 the Ancient Mariner for the ballad measures, etc. 
 
 15. Blake, the great admiral of the Commonwealth time, died from 
 natural causes while entering Plymouth Sound on his return from an 
 expedition against Santa Cruz. This line when Hrst printed — before the 
 battle of Trafalgar — read : 
 
 Where Biake, the hoast of freedom, felL 
 
 31, 34. Compare with notes on the Battle of th" Baltic, 11, 19, 20. 
 
 36, 37. See Battle of the Baltic, 11. 65-8. 
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 The surrender of Malta to an P^nglish fleet in 1800 incensed the Czar 
 Paul, who looked upon himself as the patron of the hereditary i)roprie- 
 tors of that island — the Knights of St. John. Taking advantage of the 
 
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 i 
 
 
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 170 
 
 NOTES ON CAMPBELL. 
 
 «l: 
 
 i ■ 
 
 
 M^P 
 
 irritatiou in Denmark and Sweden over England's enforcement of the 
 Kight of Search over neutnal vessels, he drew them with himself into a 
 northern coalition against the latter power. An English fleet, under 
 Sir Hyde I'arker and Vice- Admiral Nelson, hoping to forestall a union 
 of the Baltic fleets, entered the Sound in April 1801, appeared before 
 Copenhagen, attacked and silenced the Danish batteries, captured the 
 bulk of the Danish ships and forced Denmark to withdraw eventually 
 from the coalition. 
 
 1. Compare with the opening verse of the ^Eneid : arma virumque, 
 cano, etc. 
 
 5. The Danish defences consisted of battle-ships, mortar-boats, land 
 batteries, and huge floating batteries. Compare 11. 10, 11 below. 
 
 8. The Prince Royal of Denmark was commander-in-chief. 
 
 15. The English fleet under Nelson weighe<l anchor in the offing at 
 9 o'clock and sailed before a gentle breeze into the harbour of (Copen- 
 hagen tlirough a narrow channel flanked by moored batteries. 
 
 19 20. " Perhaps absolute correctness or definiteness of diction is 
 less to be insisted upon in what is ejaculated than whav is concocted." 
 Exemplify what you may call Campbell's faults of diction and faults of 
 sound in these war-songs. What in part may account for these faults 
 and what in part condone them ? 
 
 21. Fleeter— implies a comparison. With what or whom ? 
 
 22. Deadly— from the dangerous shoals and from the raking fires 
 of the batteries. 
 
 26. Like the sun hidden by a southern storm. 
 
 Note the cumulative effect of 11. 23-27. Campbell with characteristic 
 power often in these ballads depicted a whole scene with a few graphic 
 touches. 
 
 27-36. An unusually stubborn engagement of four hours' duration. 
 
 37-45. Several Danish vessels had struck their flags and drifted 
 lielplessly into range of both the.r own and the English cannon. To 
 save the crews, Nelson humanely sent a messenger to the Prince Royal 
 with a flag of truce oflFering a temporary cessation of hostilities on con- 
 dition of surrender of the helpl-iss vessels, and expressing a hope for a 
 reconciliation of the two nations. " The brave Danes," he wrote, •' are 
 the brothers and should never be the enemies of the English." 
 
 40. Save from absorption by her great allies, Russia and France. 
 
 50. As the battle -smoke cleared away. 
 
NOTES ON CAMPBELL. 
 
 171 
 
 63. Blsinore. A Danish seaport on a rocky coast within twenty- 
 five miles of Copenhagen. It commands the Sound. Why used here 
 instead of Copenhagen ? 
 
 67. RioUi a gallant English captain, was slain in command of a 
 squadron. 
 
 HOHP]NLINDEN. 
 
 This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Austrians, under 
 Archduke John, and the French, under Moreau, in a forest near Munich 
 and not far from the Isar Kiver. Campbell claimed — though perhaps 
 untruthfully — to have been present on the scene either during or 
 immediately after the battle. 
 
 11-16. Compare in manner with Drayton's Battle of Ayincourt : 
 
 They now to fij^ht are (?one : 
 Armour on armour shone, 
 Drum now to drum did groan ; 
 To hear was wonder ; 
 That with the cries they make 
 The very earth did shake ; 
 Trumpet to trumpet spake ; 
 Thunder to thunder. 
 
 THE RIVER OF LIFE. 
 
 The strong and animated movement, the majestic Byronic 
 energy of Campbell's war-verse have here given place to a 
 gentler cadence and an air of delicate and pathetic mildness so 
 cluiracteristic of the later works of the poet. 
 
 The thought of the poem has been in ])art expressed in 
 almost the same figurative language by Longfellow : 
 
 The meadow-brook that seenietli to stand still 
 Quickens its current aa it nears the mill ; 
 And so the stream of time that lingereth 
 In level places and so dull appears, 
 Runs with a swifter current as it nearf 
 ^e gloomy mills of Deall^. 
 

 
 I'l ' 
 
 il. • 
 
 
HENRY WADSWORTTI LONGFELLOW. 
 
 [Henry W.vclsworth Longfellow was born Fobruiiry 27, 1807> 
 in Portland, Me., of worth}' New p]ngland stock. Trained in 
 private schools and in Portland Academy, he entered Bowdoin 
 College in 1821, was graduated with high jjonours in 1825, and, 
 looking with indifference upon the profession cliosun for him — law, 
 he enthusijistically accepted in the same year an appointment as 
 Professor of Modern Languages in his Alma Mater. Three years 
 were allowed him wherein to better fit himself for the duties of 
 his position, and these three years were spent abroad in France, 
 Spain, Italy and Germany, travelling, studying and acquiring 
 facility in the use of the great Eurojjean languages. Returning 
 to America in 1829 he entered upon his professional duties, giving 
 all his energies to the routine of class work, to researches into the 
 pliilology of tlie Romance tongues, and to the preparation of text 
 books for his students. Thus restricted in his powers by his petty 
 duties at Bowdoin, he gladly accepted in 1834 an appointment as 
 successor to Professor Ticknor in the chair of Modern Languages 
 at Harvard. Immediately he again went abroad to study the 
 languages of Northern Europe, especially those of Germany and 
 Holland. Whilst passing through tlie latter country he was detained 
 at Rotterdam by the sudden illness and death of his wife — a Miss 
 Mary Storer Potter, whom he had married in 18.'}1. He assumed 
 in 1837 the duties of his chair in Harvard, and remained in active 
 work as professor until 1854, Avhen he retired to devote all'his time 
 to literature. In 1801 he suffered a terrible loss in the distressing 
 death by fire of his second wife — a loss that for some years be- 
 numbed his poetic faculties and threw over his remaining days an 
 air of pensive and lonely e.xclusiveness. Third and fourth trips he 
 made to Europe in 1842 and 18(58, receiving in his last visit to 
 England the most cordial welcome from the Universities and 
 the literary world. In 1882, in his own home — Craigie House — at 
 
 [173] 
 
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 174 
 
 LIFE OP HENRY WADSWORTFI LONOFKtLOW. 
 
 Camhriflgo, near Boston, he quietly passed away — the peaceful 
 end of a singularly peaceful life.] 
 
 Chronological List of Longfellow's Chief Works as Published- 
 
 Coplas de Manrique (trauslatioii) 
 
 Outre-Mer (travels) 
 
 Hyperion (prose romance) 
 
 Voices of the Night 
 
 Ballads and other Poems 
 
 Poems on Slavery 
 
 Spanish Student (drama) 
 
 Poets and Poetry of Eur()j)e 
 
 Belfry of Bruges 
 
 Evangeline 
 
 Kavanagh (prose romance) 
 
 Seaside and Blreside 
 
 Golden Legend (dramatic poem) 
 
 Hiawatha 
 
 Miles Standish 
 
 Tales of a Wayside Inn 
 
 Flower-De-Luce 
 
 Divine Comedy of Dante (translation) 
 
 New England Tragedies 
 
 Divine Tragedy 
 
 Christus 
 
 Aftermath 
 
 Hanging of the Crane 
 
 Masque of Pandora 
 
 Keramos 
 
 Ultima Thule 
 
 In the Harbour (Ultima Thule, Pt. 11.) 
 Michael Angelo (dramatic fragment) . . . 
 
 1833 
 183") 
 1839 
 1839 
 1841 
 1842 
 1843 
 184r) 
 ]84(> 
 1847 
 1849 
 1850 
 18;-)! 
 18o5 
 1858 
 1803 
 1867 
 iSG7-70 
 1808 
 1871 
 1872 
 1873 
 1874 
 1875 
 1878 
 1880 
 1882 
 1884 
 
LITERARY LIFE ANt) THOUGHT. 
 
 " The literature of America," says Whipple, " is but an 
 insufficient measure of the realized capacities of the American 
 mind. When Sir William Hamilton declared that Aristotle 
 had an imagination as great as that oi Homer, he struck at 
 the primary fact that the creative energies of the human mind 
 may be exercised in widely different lines of direction. 
 Imagination is, in the popular mind, obstinately connected 
 with poetry and romance, and when the attempt is made to 
 extend the application of the creative energy of imagination 
 to business and politics, the sentimental outcry becomes almost 
 deafening. ... In fact, it is the direction given to the 
 creative facultv that discriminates between Fulton and 
 Bryant, Whitney and Longfellow. ... It would be 
 easy to show that in the conduct of the every-day transactions 
 of life, more quickness of imagination, subtllity and breadth 
 of understanding and energy of will have been displayed by 
 our business men than by our authors. 
 
 By the necessities of our position, the aggregate mind of 
 the country has been exercised in creating the nation as we 
 now find it. . . . The nation out-values all its authors, 
 even in respect to those powers which authors are supposed 
 si)ecially to represent. No one can write intelligently of the 
 progress of American literature during the pa-^t hundred years 
 
 [175] 
 
 1^ 
 
 1. ' ' 
 
 i: 
 
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 s 
 
176 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 
 I. 1 ;, SI' ' 
 
 
 
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 m 
 
 without looking at American literature as generally subsidiary 
 to the grand movement of the American mind." 
 
 In considering the literary character of any particular epoch 
 in American history, or in estimating the relative worth of any 
 particular American thinker — though he be like Longfellow, in 
 many respects the most interesting and in all respects the 
 most popular of her authors— the student of literature will 
 feel strongly the significance of the truth that underlies their 
 quotation, and will recognize to some extent the limitations 
 that mar the greatness of America's literary men. AVordsworth 
 and Coleridge, if not to their immediate contemporaries, at 
 least to our generation, stand forth upon the threshold of this 
 century as the commanding figures of the .age, the moulders and 
 wielders of English opinion, the philosophers whose thoughts 
 pervaded all phases of life, directed to some extent all the 
 energies of man, the prophets whose inspired visions revealed 
 the wonders of human life and the mysteries of the spiritual 
 world. From such heroic figures as these we turn to Bryant, 
 or Poe, or Whittier, or Longfellow, with a painful sense of loss. 
 Here is no shaping spirit, no inspired prophet, no profound 
 philosopher ! But here are literary men, translators, elegant 
 versifiers, and, to some extent, poets, relatively speaking, great 
 American poets, reflecting imperfectly, rarely leading or shap- 
 ing the aggregate of American thought. Here, too, are uttered 
 philosophies, borrowed in origin, detached and incoherent in 
 method, involving a body of thought " quite subsidiary to the 
 grand movements of the American mind." The student of 
 American literature, then, must approach lus work with the 
 conviction that however mighty are the great forces or ten- 
 
^m 
 
 r»och 
 
 LITERARY LIFE AND THOUOHT. 
 
 177 
 
 deiicies at work shapiiii; the current of the national life, these 
 forces spcMid their momentum in other and widely scattered 
 H(!lds of eiKM-^'y, not in literature ; that in so far as literary 
 thought, or aliove all, poetry, is the result of these mighty 
 influences, as such a result it must be regarded as compara- 
 tively insignifioant ana subsidiary. Or, to put it in another 
 way — the causes beinr; known as potent and far-reaching— the 
 student must add no fictitious value to the (^ll'ects. Of no 
 American author must he be more careful in his estimate than 
 r)f Longfellow, because of him it may be said that more 
 inade([uately than others does he represent the stronger and 
 gn^ater movements of the age. 
 
 Up to the beginning of the 19th century American life and 
 tendencies were altogether practical, material and utilitarian. 
 The range of thought and of spiritual experience had been 
 narrowed in the earnest struggle for existence against the 
 sterner forces of nature. Such creative powers and impulses 
 as had not become sterilized were busily engaged in matters 
 of industrial or mechanical progress. Externally, too, there 
 pressed upon the American the burdens of great foreign com- 
 plications : the mighty efforts for national existence put 
 forth tentatively early in the 18th century were not to cease 
 until the war of 1812 had removed all fears of foreign inter- 
 ference. Whilst in these external and objective relations 
 American life had narrowed, hardened and grown moi-e 
 intense, there were also at work mighty forces, shaping and 
 moulding the moral life of the ii-T/Ion. The early Puritan 
 temper — that of the Stuart days — so nibble in its sense of 
 
 personal independence and personal responsibility, so calm and 
 12 
 
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 I 
 
 } 
 
 I .,!!)!' 
 
 I: 
 
 ^^:| 
 
 "* 
 
 
 17« 
 
 T.ON'OFRLLOW. 
 
 self-controlled in its piimit,iv(( ;in<l idciil foiins, liiiJ grown 
 hurHli and limited in later years. Whilst honourin;^ at tirst 
 and (l«!velo|>irjg as no othor uiovenient, the true greatness of 
 tlin individual soul, this same Puritan temp(!r and spirit 
 expn\ssed itself hefore the end of the 17th century laigely in 
 caricature an<l degtMUiration — *' in arehitifcture as sipuii-e* 
 meeting houses with hippisd njofs and belfr-ies ; in sculj)ture aa 
 grave-stones with winged death's-heads in l»»w relief; in 
 poetry, as epitaphs and elegies; in decoration, whitewash ; in 
 music, the 'lining-out ' of psalms ;" — and yet in some featuies 
 the early Puritan tempei- ha<l not altogether disa|)peared. 
 Through the grotesipie excresences of 17th century bigotry, it 
 had suocessfull\' passed ; through, the materiaUsm, the immo- 
 rality', the fatalism of the Post-lie vol utionary period— and 
 now in the first (piarier of the l!)th icntury it was still a 
 livinj' factor in the Ameriv:an character. The American 
 temper was still sei'ious, still religious, and amid the restrain- 
 ing influences of a continued struggle with material things, 
 still altogether sane. 
 
 But the 19th century ushered in a new age — what we may 
 call an ethical age. Politically the country had asserted her 
 supremacy on this continent, had rapidly extended her boun- 
 daries and with unpjwalleled success developed her resources. 
 More than ever men's thoughts now turned to the investiga- 
 tion of internal and domestic problems. Before the mind of 
 the nation came up for settlement the questions of freedom 
 and uni(^n, of slavery and disunion. Standing, too, on the 
 verge of a new era of democratic life, truer, fresher, and more 
 robust than the old life, nobler and more humane in its 
 
LITERARY LlPfi ANt) TilOUOIlT. 
 
 179 
 
 Workings, the AiiUM-ican toinpor ])OcniiiP more cheorful ; wider 
 synipathicM arose ; man uiilnii'dcned liimsclf of tlie weakuessj'S 
 of 18th century thought ; self-love gradually (lis.ippeareii Itefoie 
 love of the race ; appeals to emotions and sympathetie in- 
 terests replaced appeals to reason. Such an era, so essen- 
 tially ethical in its aim and character, must hav(^ wielded ex- 
 tensive and far-reaching influences upon the whole succeeding 
 century. Tt wrought great changes in theology. lioftier 
 became the dignity of the naked human soul ; more human 
 ' licame the conc(^ption of th(^ life of Chiist; the world was an 
 incarnation of God ; man was a new-born bard of the Holy 
 (jrhost, ever open to the influx of the all-knowing s[»irit ; the 
 Bible was but one form of revelation ; through all was seen a 
 realization of the grander and more spiritual realities. And 
 it was not without its profound influence upon society and 
 social questions. Americans became leaders in the work of 
 philanthropic reform. Prisons and hospitals, intemperance 
 and slavery come under the processes of practical legislation — 
 woman's rights, missions, pantisocratic schemes, Brook Farms, 
 New Harmony societies, are fresh fields of ethical work and 
 thought. But greatest of all results was the new and jn-o- 
 found view of the relations existing between man and nature. 
 Channing by the seashore could say : " here in reverential 
 sympathy with the mighty power around me, I become con- 
 scious of power within;" here he found his noblest joy, "the 
 happiness of communing with the works of God." Emerson 
 felt that the greatest delight in nature was the suggestion of 
 the occult relation between man and the vegetable. Tt is 
 from this recognition in America of the new scheme of 01*60- 
 
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 11 
 
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 180 
 
 Loi^(jFKrj,oW. 
 
 tioii, that Nvc have tlie landscape-views of (^iflonl, the nature- 
 studies of Audulion, and the contein})lative jioenis of Bryant, 
 No sli_i;lit propelling force in thus turning nu^n's thoughts to 
 the relations between man and nature, and through and 
 beyond nature-woi-ship to transcendentalism must have l)(»en 
 th(i study of foreign mo(h>ls. Wordswoi'thianism gently made 
 its way aci'oss the Athmtic to burst forth in that enthusiastic 
 nature-song, Thanatopsis. Coh'ridge did not remain without 
 his influence. In an edition of his Aids to Hijlection, his 
 transcendental ideas first came to American minds. (Termany 
 added her influence through the translations and essays of 
 Carlyle and thrt)ugh the widespread interest gathering around 
 th(! last days of Coethe. These new foi'ces, native and assimi- 
 lated, togetlier with the re\ival hi universities of CJreek 
 studies, condjined to produce l^^n rson, ;;«?' excellence, the 
 king of Amei'ican ti-aiiscendentalists. 
 
 As the (uirly and purely ethical or sentimental stage of the 
 thouu'ht movement of this centuiv a(l\anced towards tran- 
 scendentalism, the indi\ idual American became more and more 
 emancipated from custom, less and less timid and obsequious 
 to public (tpinion ; less sensiti\e <» foreign criticism, and 
 moi'e ap[)reiiensive of a moral law and of the indwelling of (he 
 universal S})irit in the hearts of men, working the fusion of 
 (bid, man and nature. "The uniscrse becomes trans}»arent," 
 e.xclaimed Emerson, "and the light of highei- laws tlian its 
 own shines through it. Tlie moral law lies at the centre of 
 nature and radiates to tlie ciicumfi'rence. The .spirit alters, 
 moulds, makes nature." 
 
 Such an age, moved by such suggestive and far-reaclujig 
 
LITERAKY LIFK AND THOUGHT. 
 
 181 
 
 ^chiliy 
 
 iiiduences, rich in thought and life, cheerful, buoyant, fresh, 
 impulsive, yet growing more and more spiritual, demanded 
 interpreters. Channing, Etnerson, Wliittier, Bryant and 
 Longfellow appear. Where and in what rank shall we place 
 Longfellow? We have already said that he, of all great Ameri- 
 can thinkers of the day, represented most imperfectly and most 
 inadec^uately tlieso greater national movem(»nts to winch we 
 have referreil. Indeed to these mighty inHuenct^s in their 
 entirety he could not enthusiastically respond ; his life and 
 temper were n(\gative in character ratluM- than positive. 
 Living in the same age;, he had little of the moral intensity or 
 [)assion of Wliittier, of the spiritual fei-vour of Channing, <<t 
 Bryant's minute and loviiig a{)pi't^3iation of naturt;, of J^jner- 
 son's lofty intellectual courage and his transcendentalism. 
 And ytit Longftdlow's thought is moral, is s{)ifitual ; lie 
 does love nature and has ii\tellcctual independence. Possessed 
 of moderate intellectual power, of I'crtned sensibilities, of 
 scholai'iy tast<vs, ]w, caught just so much of tin; aims and 
 aspirations of the day as was within the reach of the gi-eat 
 mass of the American people, and his poetic fame rests up(m 
 the skill of word, of verse, of imagery, of illustration, with 
 which he has re[»i'esented these aspirations to the conscious- 
 ness of man. In ord;M- more clearly to understand this, let us 
 hurriedly re\iew his literary life and growth, attempting, as 
 h(! ]>asses through the \arious stages of his development, to 
 point out the comparatively insignilicjvnt intluences of the 
 great forces of the age ujxrn his work and character. It will 
 be convenient to regard his development under two distinct 
 heads : (a) The appi-enticeship period, wherein he was but a 
 
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 182 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 man of letters; (6) the poet period, wherein he attempted 
 native and spontaneous v/ork. 
 
 (a) APPIIKNTICKSHIP — THE MAN OP LETTEHS. 
 
 Born in Porthind, Maine, in a north-eastern state, the 
 poet's youth was passed amid tlie fading influences of Puritan- 
 ism. Little was there in his surroundings, whether at home 
 01' at school, to arouse in him passionate and soul-stir)-ing 
 energi<;s, to stimulate him to strong and strenuous effort. 
 His father, blessed with no creative genius in himself, sur- 
 rounded the youth with a refinement, an austerity, a moral 
 exactness that recall another father and a much greater son — 
 the (Toethes. The mother — a typical product of what was 
 characteristic in Puritanism — was intensely fervent and reli- 
 gious. In this strongly moral atmosphere, with its culture and 
 yet with its sturdy connnon sense, the boy lost all traces of 
 coarseness and gained his delicacy of taste, his sensitiveness, 
 his steady, moral and moralizing temper, and his indifference 
 to the warmth and glow of the passions of life. Nature, in so 
 far as he lived in her presence at Portland, did little to 
 develop his growing mind. Indeed all influences to him, 
 other than those of his home, were of an earthly, materialistic 
 cliaracter, narrow, non-stinmlative and uiivital. E^ en his 
 memories of youthful joys are non-suggestive. 
 
 His early productions in verse — for as early as his Bowdoin 
 College (lays he had written verses — possess some smoothness 
 of versificati(m but embody no poetic thought, boast no spark 
 of poetic fire : they are imitative, derivative, and issue from a 
 very slender poetic reed- Even here, however, is revealed his 
 
LITERARY LIFE AND THOUGHT. 
 
 183 
 
 relation to the great external world. Nature and human lifi; 
 are his su])joets only so fai- as in them he sees reflected artistic 
 forms and possibihties of treatment. Instinctively lu; turns 
 from (lie elemental significance, the spiritual content of things, 
 to colour, richness and decorative grace. 
 
 It is interesting to note in Longfellow the sti'uggle for the 
 attainment of a vehicle of expression. lie had very eai'ly in 
 life felt the yearnings of a literary spirit — not of a creative 
 impulse -and calmly stated to his father his determination to 
 seek expansion in literature : " I most eagerly aspire after 
 future eminence in literature ; my whole soul burns ardently 
 for it and every earthly thought centres in it. . . Surely 
 there never was a better opportunity offet-ed for exertion of 
 literary talent in our own country than is now offered. 
 "Whether natuie has given me any capacity for knowledge or 
 not, she has at any rate given me a very strong predilection 
 for literary pursuits ; and I am almost confident in believing 
 that if 1 can rise in the world, it must be by my exercise of 
 my talent in the wide field of literature." 
 
 This letter, vith its ([uiet tone of settled conviction, leads us 
 to expect what later years tui'iKHl into fact. From intiuiate 
 knowledge of his own powers and limitations, he shaped his 
 life with singular felicity in harmony with the capacities that 
 were his by birth. Whether from the instinctive tastes and 
 sensibilities of his own being or from the force of his own 
 voluntary effort, certain it is that amid all the vicissitudes of 
 a long life, Longfellow never failed to follow that path "which 
 his mtellectual and emotional endowment pointed out." 
 
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 184 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 
 11 
 
 
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 ID 
 
 At college he lived in his liooks, untouched by outside 
 influences, ))ut catching in his linguistic studies the intei-pret- 
 ing j)ower of litei-ature. In foi-eign literary models, indeed, 
 not in actual contact with iiien, he sought interesting revela- 
 tions of life, and in the ordinai'V duties of his instiuctorship 
 he went to those literary pi'oductions wherein was end)odied 
 hu)nan experience in its most sympathetic foini. Jlis ti'aveis 
 in I^]nrope, 1826-29, gave him so widened an acipiaintance 
 with historic and contemporaneous literature, s«» cniai'ged the 
 stores of his knowledge^ that he must moi'e imperativel}' than 
 ever seek a means of expre»ision. And this necessity for 
 utterance did not now point irresistibly towards poetry. 
 *' My poetic career is finished," he wrote his father when 
 returning from the continent. " Since I left America 1 have 
 hardly put two lines together " Such means of expression of 
 concrete facts as wei'e naturally his — the text-book for his 
 classes, the lecture, the pamphlet, the essaj' — grew distasteful 
 to him. In them it was impossible regulai'iy to classify and 
 arrange the wealth which his travels had poured upon him, 
 and now, in addition, his delicacy of taste demanded more 
 permanent and more artistic forms. As a natural result of 
 this striving for utterance, he published the im})ressions and 
 lessons of his trip abroad in Ontre-Mer : A Pilgrimage B<yond 
 tlie Sen. No deep insight into the heai-t of man has the 
 author as yet, no love of the finer products of man's genius — 
 paii»ting and sculpture, no originality of thought, imperfect 
 mastery of the material he had amassed, and but little con- 
 structive power. In 1839 he published the impressions of 
 his second voyage woven into a prose romance, Ilyptrion. 
 
 rn? 
 
LITEF^ARY LIFK AND THOUGHT. 
 
 185 
 
 Little skill in design does the romance show, but growing 
 lyrical and imaginative power. Tendencies, indetMl, are now 
 heading him strongly back towards poetry, and his own dis- 
 criminating taste is soon to be convinced that in prose, 
 thoughful, practical, argumentative prose, he can never find 
 complete utterance. 
 
 In his Ilijperion we note distinct traces of (xerman influences 
 — the pathetic, emotional, stMitimental colouring, the growing 
 tendency towards subjective thought, towards self-satisfied 
 moralizings, the air of I'omance with which the characters are 
 invested — and yet but few transcendental ideas have reached 
 him. His nature is altogether too earthly, tocj non-spiritual 
 to be moved as Emeivson was by the ideal conceptions of the 
 new philosophy. Spain he has already imitated in a transla- 
 tion of Cu/)/as lie Jfimrif/H,e ; Italy was to l)e studitul in Iwu' 
 masterpiece, 77ic' Divine Comedi/, and of English poets he did 
 not refrain from imitating lioth thought and form. We seem 
 to hear the music of More's Melodies in : 
 
 »re 
 
 of 
 
 nd 
 
 Olid 
 
 the 
 
 They died in tlieir fjrlory, siin'oiiiided hy fame, 
 .\rid victory's loud trump llieir deiit.ji did proclaim ; 
 They are dead ; but they live in each patriot's breast, 
 And their names are enirraven (in hunour's l)rit,''ht crrst. 
 
 And Wordsworth's thought appears — sadly .shorn — in : 
 
 If tliou art worn and hard l)Oset 
 With sorrows, that tlioii wonldst forijet. 
 If ttiou wouldst read a lesson that will keej) 
 Tiiy heart from faintinj,' and th^' soul from sleep, 
 Go to the woods and iiills ! No tears 
 Dim the sweet look that tiature wears. 
 
 Longfellow at first instinctively and later in life intention 
 ally, accepts these foreign influences as tuicessary f<>r the 
 
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 1R6 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 
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 Ml 
 
 growth of American literature. " Ere the new world," he 
 says to "Whitman, " can be worthily original and announce 
 herseh and her own hoi'oes, she must be well saturated with 
 the originality of others and respectfully consider the heroes 
 that lived before Agamemnon," To the study of these foreign 
 models he brought his scholarly instincts, a pure, chivalrous 
 temper, and the modest, impressionable mind of a poet, com- 
 mingled with a gentle charity, a joy in life and a zeal for the 
 beautiful. But to this study he did not and he could not 
 bring that intensity of purpose, that strength of soul, that 
 prot\)und spiritual sympathy or that warmth and geniality of 
 nature that would renew, revivify, re-create in him the spiritu- 
 ality of the medi;>3val Italians, the transcendental philosophy 
 of the Germans or the nature-poetry of England. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 AVith the publication of Hyperion in 1839 we enter upon 
 the true })oetic period of Longfellow's life. He is now a 
 finished scholar, with taste and powers expanded and matured 
 by years of study and experiment — and he remained a scholai', 
 though the urgency of the student's mood nmst vanish in the 
 full flush of intellectual manhood. His personal experiences 
 had luHM) enlarged and deepened ; maturity had brought its 
 hours of reflection and turned the eyes of the youth away from 
 the external world of fact. With a definite purpose he now 
 resolutely faces the realms of poetry as the sphere of his allotted 
 work, and with the exception of a disastrous effort in Kavanagli, 
 a rural romance, al)andons prose for life. Now, too, begins in 
 him what we may call the period of original production. He 
 
LITERARY LIFK AND THOUGHT. 
 
 18: 
 
 liiinsclf feels assured !it last of the possession wifliin liiirisclf 
 of inatu!'e(i capacities for native poetic work. In the Prelude 
 io the Voices of the. Nvjltt we are told that his soul has now, 
 mingled and couihined with its experiences, 
 
 Dreiiins that fhu soul of youth eiigajje 
 Ere fancy has Iiihii <|uellL'(l ; 
 old legends of the monkish pajje, 
 Traditions of tlio saint and sajfe, 
 Tales that have the rime of age, 
 And chronicles of eld. 
 
 And with this wealth of specific and legendary fact went the 
 now vital memories of youth : 
 
 FIven in tho city's throng 
 I felt the freshness of the Htreams, 
 That crossed liy shndes ami sunny gleams, 
 Water the gieen land of dreams, 
 The holy land of song. 
 
 With a calm conviction of deeper and richer reflective powers, 
 he can sing : 
 
 Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! 
 Yes, into life's (leep stream ! 
 All forms of sorrow and delight. 
 All solemn voices of the night, 
 That can soothe thee or affright, — 
 Be these henceforth thy theme. 
 
 Henceforth the man of letters is gone and the poet reigns. 
 
 He is still inoulded, it is true, to some extent by foreign 
 influences. German thought predominates in the Voices of the 
 JVi'/ht (I8.3i>). There is heard the tender, roiuuntic and senti- 
 mental voice of Heine without his deeper pathos or his wilder 
 scorn, but in its domestic, reflned, humane spirit, the volume 
 is Longfellow's^and in its ever-growing tendency to moral i/e. 
 In fact, the tem[)er of the poet is changing. The fanciful 
 
 I 
 
188 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
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 romantic element of Iliji»rion is jL^radually melting into a 
 second pliase of thought in which the gicat American tcTid- 
 ency ai the day, its respci t for the innate worth of man, 
 and for the oneness of spiritual existence, l)attle<l strongly 
 with the serious Puiitanical temper of his own life and the 
 scholai'ly instincts of his Cambridge environment. Though 
 his thought for the next decade, l(S40-50, was more spon- 
 taneous, more native, more original, the ethical tendencies 
 were too strong for him, and at times he j)reached in verse, 
 Psalm after Psalm was pul)lished, turning with polished lines 
 and connnon-place thought upon the (piestions of every-day 
 American life— its hopes, energies, struggles, and its faith. 
 
 It is dirticult to say of Longfellow, as has been said of \^ ..<i- 
 ridge, that in spite of his own j)ersonal longings and of the 
 demands of the age, lie followed, in directing his creative im- 
 pulses, the trend of the develoi)ment of liis own thought, bong- 
 fellow's temper consorted well with the temper and genius of 
 the average American. With an instinctive consciousness of 
 the narrow compass of his poetic voice he shaped, in his lyrics — 
 his more spontaneous, though most didactic work — his thought 
 and expression in harmony with the connnon-place demands of 
 the great mass of Americans. From these sermons in verse, 
 he passed into more national forms, the ballads, and with a 
 definite purpose. " I have broken ground," he writes in 1840, 
 "in a new field with the * Wreck of the Schootier lle^peras^ on 
 the reef of Norman's Woe, in a great storm. I shall send it 
 to a newspaper. I think I shall Avrite more. The national 
 ballad is a virgin soil here in New England, and there are 
 great materials. Besides, I have a great notion of working 
 
MTKKAnv LIFK AND THOUGHT, 
 
 ] rJ 
 
 "6 
 
 upon tlie peoj)l(i'.s focliiiqs. T dosiro a now sensation an<l a 
 new sot of critics." 
 
 The absence of the transcendental spirit from his Voices of 
 the Night, In's successful strui^gle against the broadenini; 
 Unitarian tendencies of the age were due to a large extent to 
 the non-inipressionnble character of his mind and perhaps to 
 his dry-as-dust scholarly instincts. Tn harmony with the same 
 instincts lu? turned quickly away from the great political 
 movements of the hour, the practical problems of education, 
 temperance, freedom and union. His poems on the slave 
 cjuestion are forced and uninspired, the righteous indignation 
 fictitious, and the spirit not national, whilst during the great 
 civil war his voice was almost silent. 
 
 P>utj»his poetic greatness is not to be estimated by his shorter 
 and perhaps more spontaneous poems alone. Of a healthy 
 temperament, his moral and mental powers bles.sed with more 
 tliuii usual activity, he could not be content with swallow- 
 lliiihts of song. Since 1S41, a conceptif)n of a gn^at poem had 
 lain uiiwi'ought in the mind of the poet. In 1842, growing 
 dail}' in mastery of the teehnicjue of his art and more conscious 
 of the powers within him, he had written . 
 
 Half of my life has gone and I lia\x' let, 
 The years slip from me and liave not fulfilled 
 The aspirations of my youth, to build 
 Some tower of sonj? with lofty para])et. 
 Not indolence, nor pleasure nor the fret 
 Of restless passions that would not he stilled, 
 But sorrow and a care that ahnost killed, 
 Kept me from what I nia\ acciniiplish yet. 
 
 The thought had c;ome to him to undertake a long and 
 elaborate poem with the name of Christ, the theme of which 
 

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 190 
 
 tOVOFP.M.OW. 
 
 would lt(> tho various aspects of Ohristendoiii in the apostolic, 
 middle and modern ages. Planned in 1841, this work was in 
 part completed in IST.'i. Lik(? (loethe's Fxit.st, the production 
 of the inasterpiece reflected the onw. "d march of the author's 
 intellect, recorded his most intimate thoughts, his hopes, his 
 faith, and his solution of life's pro})leiiis. Longfellow has 
 halllcd all douhts, is sincere in his trust, and catching 
 something of the century's spii'ilual enthusiasm relies u[)on 
 man's ultimate realization of the divine in mnn. Here we 
 have the riptMied and matured fiith of tin; singer; the con- 
 crete ethical pi'inciples of his short poems, the spirituality 
 Itocn of Dante, the tender ecclesiasticism i-etlected fi-oin jiis 
 mcdiicval studies are all combined in the final stage of his 
 creeil — "in man the divine is transparent" — and here he, in a 
 non-enthusiastic, unvital way, a})pi-oaches most closely a reali- 
 zation of the great religious movement of his time. 
 
 Of his other longer and more ambitious poems little need 
 be said. Tln^y may possess a wide sweep, gi-eat technical 
 skill, a nice sense of fitness, and may show a deep national 
 spirit, l)ut whethei- as /'Jvatujellnc, I/iaivafJid or MUes Standish, 
 they reveal to us nothing new in the inner life of the poet, A 
 great grief came to Longfellow in ISOl in the sudden death of 
 his wife. "][(; felt the need," says his biographer, "of some 
 contiimous and trantjuil (-)ccupation for his thoughts, and after 
 some months he sunnnoniMl courage to tak(> up ag.iin the task 
 of translating Dante.'' With distinct pleasure he returns to 
 his former means of contact with the minds of other poets, 
 but his long training in original work has strengthened his 
 powers, increased his skill, and enlarged his independence. 
 
I.ITKUAHY MFK AND TiroifSJlT. 
 
 191 
 
 's, his 
 
 fn this task (»f translating he found a gentle stinuihis for liis 
 poetic life, and a (luickening of his spirit, *' I agree with 
 y(m completely," Ik^ writes to Fi'eiligrath, "in what yon say 
 al)out translations. It is like running a ploughshare thi'ongh 
 the soil of one's mind ; a thousand germs of thought start up 
 which otherwise mi^ifht have lain and rotted in th(^ •'round." 
 Translation seems to have heen particularly the field of work 
 for Longfellow's genius. And in conjunct ion with his worlc, 
 the word has a new and enlarged significance. His was not an 
 original mind ; out of th(^ rough nuiterials of lifo and nature 
 he could not hew definite and oi'ganized thought ; but of 
 thought as mirrored in history, in the arts, in jioetiy — as in 
 these it had liecn caught and organized by othei" and more 
 original minds,- -he could make a reari-angemcnt, in his own 
 most exquisite language, of what he found or admired. Tn 
 other words, he could not create, rarely did he rtjconstruct, ; in 
 rearranging find expressing the work of others he achi(!ved 
 success. 
 
 The poet never seems to have been without some greater, 
 more ambitious poem whei-ein to mirror his inner life. Ctm- 
 stantly — to within a year of his death — he did dash off light 
 snatches of song expressive of passing incidents (»r intei'ests, 
 but in secret some greater work called for his dcfpcr s\inpa- 
 thies, his calm reHections, the wealth of his inticr life. In 
 this greater work we see that a mild, serene temper has iictw 
 become his ; the beautiful platitudes of his middle age are 
 gone ; with greater classical rtigularity come finer critical 
 discrimination and a less fanciful glow. The iJirhie Tntgpihi 
 he completed in 1870, and innnediately l)egaa a dramatic 
 
Rpna 
 
 192 
 
 LONOKRF-LOW. 
 
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 't, ' 
 
 poem, Michad AikjpIo. This work, the socrot prodiK't of (lie 
 last docude of liis life, exinesscs his daily tli(tii<,'jit and records 
 his final views upon human life. 
 
 In the form of Michael Angelo we have no douht the 
 poet himself, With wisdom and calm reflection he broods 
 over the prohlems of life— and feels its failures, lleisunder a 
 spell which allects (die like : 
 
 Malaria of the iiiiiul, 
 Out of fhe toinl) of the majestic jiast; 
 That fever to accomplish some jrreat work, 
 That will not let us sleep. He must go on 
 riitil lie (lies. 
 
 ami he continues : 
 
 I Haw the anficiue statues, 
 The forms auf^nsl of yoda and Ood-like men, 
 And the i,'reat world of art re\eale<l itself 
 To my youiif,' eyes. Then nil that man liath done 
 Seemed jwssihle to me. Alas! liow little 
 Of all I dreamed of has m\ hand achieved ! 
 
 I, " 
 
 ti II 
 
 And this sense, this conviction of toils unproductive, of work 
 unfinished, mijilit it not be the poet's consciousness of a yearn- 
 ino; to leave })ehind a .sometiiing created anew out of the 
 materials of his own af, > and country, seeing which men would 
 not lightly let his tjame die, or might it not he a confession of 
 a failure on his part oy the sli er force of mighty introspective 
 power to see into the very life an<l soul of things, and leave 
 them revealed to his fellowman? 
 
 Catching, then, and representing only so much of the age's 
 more stimulating ideas as came within the conscious recogni- 
 tion of the average American mind, Longfellow's influence 
 upon the subseijuent progress of thought in his country, upon 
 
 'V^' 
 
LITEHARY LIFB AND TFIOUOHT. 
 
 193 
 
 its onward an«l upw.inl course tmist li.ivo hecn alight. But 
 greater far tliaii the iulhieiice of his philosophy of life or hia 
 gift of iti^piration was the sweet, pure, refining influenc*! of 
 his life itself, and the sirni)lieity of his life was his, not alone 
 by birth, by education, by environment, but became peculiarly 
 his through conscious ollbrt. " In life, ho chose and refrained 
 accordiug to the law of his will, and took clear views of hia 
 nature and its tendencies." "There was," says Soudder, "a 
 notable sanity about all his modes of life, and hia attitude 
 towards books, and nature, and man." 
 
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EVANGELINE. 
 
 A TALE OF ACAIJIE. 
 
 This is the forest primeval. The murmuriMj^ pines and the 
 
 hemlocks, 
 Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the 
 
 twilight, 
 Stand like Druids of eld, witii voice's sad and prophetic, 
 8tand like harpers lioar, with l)eards that rest on their bosoms. 
 Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring 
 
 ocean r, 
 
 Speaks, ani in ac;;ents disconsolate answers the wail of the 
 
 forest. 
 
 This is the forest primeval , })ut where are the hearts that 
 beneath it 
 
 Leaped like the roe, wlien he hears in the woodland the voice 
 of the huntsman 'I 
 
 Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian 
 farmers, — 
 
 Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the wood- 
 lands, JQ 
 
 Darkened by shadows of earth, but retlecting an image of 
 
 heav n 'I 
 Waste are those pleasant faru.s, and the fanners forever 
 
 departed ! 
 Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of 
 
 October 
 Seize them, and whirl them aloit, aiuJ sprinkle them far o'er 
 
 the oceaii. 
 Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of 
 
 Grand-Pre. ir 
 
 [195] 
 
196 
 
 KVANGKLINE. 
 
 Yo who believe in affection tliat hopes, and endures, and is 
 
 patient. 
 Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's 
 
 devotion, 
 List to the mournful tradition still sung \)y the pines of the 
 
 forest ; 
 List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. 
 
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 II": 
 
 i: 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 I. 
 
 In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 2(y 
 
 Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre 
 
 Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the 
 
 eastward, 
 Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without 
 
 number. 
 Dikes, that the hands of the farmer had raised with labour 
 
 incessant, 
 Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the flood- 
 gates 25 
 Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the 
 
 meadows. 
 West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and 
 
 cornfields 
 S})readiiig afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the 
 
 northward 
 Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains 
 Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty 
 
 A tl antic 30 
 
 Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their ctation 
 
 descended. 
 
EVANGELIKB. 
 
 197 
 
 ind is 
 iman's 
 )f the 
 
 lias, 2ft 
 to the 
 
 vithout 
 labour 
 flood- 
 
 25 
 
 I'er the 
 
 and 
 
 to the 
 
 mtains 
 [ghty 
 
 30 
 
 Ictation 
 
 Tliere, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. 
 Strongly builfc were the houses, with frames of oak and of 
 
 hemlock, 
 Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the 
 
 Henries. 
 Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; and gables 
 
 projecting 35 
 
 Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. 
 There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the 
 
 sunset 
 Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the 
 
 chimneys, 
 Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles 
 Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs vspinning the 
 
 golden 40 
 
 Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles witliin 
 
 doors 
 Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the 
 
 songs of the maidens. 
 Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the 
 
 children 
 Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless 
 
 them, 
 lleverend walked he among them ; and up rose matrons and 
 
 maidens, 45 
 
 Hailing his slow approach with words of affeetionato w(^lcom(>. 
 Then came the labourers home from the field, and serenely tlii^ 
 
 sun sank 
 Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the 
 
 belfry 
 Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the vilhige 
 Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, c,o 
 Hose from a hundred heai'ths, the homes of peace md 
 
 couteutment 
 
 •'■V' 
 
fp' i, 
 
 iij 
 
 108 
 
 EVANORMNK. 
 
 Thus dwelt tojj^otlior in love tliose sinni)l<' Acadian f.-nniors, — 
 Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were tliey free 
 
 from 
 Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of 
 
 repul)lics. 
 NeitluM' locks had they to tlieir doors, nor bars to their 
 
 windows ; 55 
 
 But tlipii- dwellings were' open as day and the hearts of the 
 
 owners : 
 There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. 
 
 1f 
 
 |f,',|, 
 
 Hi 
 
 'Hi 
 
 
 ii 
 
 i? i 
 
 
 
 Somewh.'it apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of 
 Mi nils, 
 
 Benedict i^ellefontaine, tlie wealthiest farinei' of Grand-Pi-e, 
 
 Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his house- 
 hold, (!0 
 
 Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and tlie pride of the village 
 
 Stal worth and stately in form was the man of seventy wintei-s; 
 
 Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow- 
 flakes ; 
 
 White as the snow weie his locks, and his cheeks as brown as 
 the oak-leaves. 
 
 Fair was she to beliold, that maiden of seventeen summers ; m 
 
 Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by 
 the wayside, 
 
 Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade 
 of her tresses ! 
 
 Sweet was hei- breath as the breath of kine that feed in the; 
 meadows . 
 
 When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide 
 
 Flagons of home-bi-ewed ah', ah ! fair in sooth was the 
 maiden. 7o 
 
 Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, v/liile the bell from its 
 turret 
 
 m 
 
EVANGELINE. 
 
 199 
 
 of 
 
 Sprinkled with holy sounds the uir, as the priest with his 
 hyssop 
 
 Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, 
 
 Down the long street she passed, with hw ciiaplet of heads 
 and her missU, 
 
 Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear- 
 "ngs, 7- 
 
 Brought in the olden time f-om France, and since, as an heir- 
 loom. 
 
 Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. 
 
 liut a celestial brightness — a more etlureal beauty 
 
 Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after con- 
 fession, 
 
 Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon 
 her. 8„ 
 
 When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite 
 music. 
 
 Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the faniuM 
 Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; and a shady 
 Sycamoi-e grew by the door, with a w oodbine wreatliing around 
 
 it. 
 Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath, and a foot- 
 path g5 
 Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in tlie meadow. 
 Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse 
 Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside 
 Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. 
 Farther down, on the slope of a hill, was the well with its 
 
 moss-grown 
 
 90 
 
 Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the 
 
 horses. 
 Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns 
 
 and the farm-yard ; 
 
 I- 
 
i^^i ' ^m^ 
 
 W ii 
 
 > * 
 
 ' f 
 
 • 
 
 
 200 
 
 EVANGELINR. 
 
 There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs 
 and the harrows ; 
 
 There were the folds for the sheep ; and the.e, in his feathered 
 seraglio, 
 
 Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the self- 
 same 95 
 
 Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. 
 
 Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In 
 each one 
 
 Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and a staircase. 
 
 Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. 
 
 There too .- i dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent 
 inmates loo 
 
 Murmiu'in^ -^vei : love ; while above in the variant breezes 
 
 Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. 
 
 t'<'%\ 
 
 ri " 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 % 
 
 
 
 
 1 1_ 1 
 
 
 ■ii 
 
 Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of 
 Grand-Pr(5 
 
 Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his house- 
 hold. 
 
 Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his 
 missal, i05 
 
 Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion ; 
 
 Happy was he wlio might touch her hand or the hem of her 
 ijaiinent ! 
 
 Many a suitor came to her door by the darkness befriended. 
 
 And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her foot- 
 steps, 
 
 Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of 
 iron : no 
 
 Or, at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village, 
 
 Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered 
 
 Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. 
 
 But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; 
 
(.f 
 
 ?red 
 
 EVANG KLINE. 
 
 '201 
 
 Gabriel Lajeuiicsse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, us 
 
 Who was a mighty man in the village, and honoured of all men; 
 For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations, 
 Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. 
 Basil was Benedict's friend. Tiieir children from earliest 
 
 childhood 
 (}re\v up together as brother and sister ; and Father 
 
 Felician, 120 
 
 Fi-iest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them 
 
 their letters 
 Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and 
 
 the plain-song. 
 But when the hymn was sung, and tlie daily lesson completed. 
 Swiftly they hurried away to the foi-ge of Basil the blacksmith. 
 There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold 
 
 him 125 
 
 Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything. 
 Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the tire of the 
 
 cart-wheel 
 Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. 
 Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering 
 
 dai'kness 
 Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny 
 
 and crevice, iw 
 
 Warm by the forge within they watched the labouring bellows. 
 And as its jmnting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, 
 Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. 
 Oft on sledge? in winter, as swift as the swoop of th ' eagle, 
 Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the 
 
 meadow. 135 
 
 Oft in the barns they clindoed to the populous nests on the 
 
 rafters, 
 Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the 
 
 swallow 
 
 f: 
 
 
202 
 
 EVi»Nr.KT.INK. 
 
 i 
 
 l>n*n<fs fiom th'^ shore <»f the sea to restore the sight of its 
 
 ilt^ljUtliiijLjs ; 
 Luckv was he who found tliat stone in the nest of the swallow ! 
 Thus passed a few swift years, and they no loM<(er were 
 
 children. iw 
 
 He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the 
 
 morning, 
 (iladdened the eai'tli with its light, and ripened thought into 
 
 action. 
 She was a woman now, witli the heart and hopes of a woman. 
 " Sunsliine of Saint Eulalie" was she called ; for that was the 
 
 sunshine 
 Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with 
 
 apples ; ur, 
 
 She too would brii g to her husband's house delight and 
 
 ai/jndance, 
 Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. 
 
 .I. 
 
 ' iS rt 
 
 .^-M' 
 
 ' i: i 
 
 ■ -' .- K 
 
 ■ -• ■( ,' 
 
 ..,■■ , II 
 
 It : t 
 
 II. 
 
 Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder 
 and longer. 
 
 And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. 
 
 Birds of passage sailed through the leatlen air, from the ice- 
 bound, 150 
 
 J)esolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. 
 
 Harvests were gathered in : and wild with the winds of 
 September 
 
 Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with tlie angel. 
 
 All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 
 
 Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had horded their 
 honey if.5 
 
 Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters assert.xl 
 
 Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the fo^^es. 
 
KVANOFIIVK. 
 
 203 
 
 Sucli was the julvtnit of autumn. Then followed tluit beautiful 
 season, 
 
 Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Suinni tr of All- 
 Saints ! 
 
 Filled was the air with a diH.niiv and niaL'ical lidit ; and the 
 landscape leo 
 
 Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. 
 
 Peace seemed to reig/i upon eailh, and th(> restless heart of the 
 ocean 
 
 Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony 
 blended. 
 
 Voices of children at phty, the crowin<,' of cocks in the farm- 
 yards, 
 
 Whir of wings in the drowsy :iir, and the cooiiif' of 
 
 pigeons, 
 
 16& 
 
 All were subdued and low as the muiuiurs of love, and the 
 
 great sun 
 Looked with the eye of \o\f- through the golden vapours 
 
 around him ; 
 While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet ai d yellow, 
 Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittei-ing tree of the 
 
 forest 
 Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantUis 
 
 and jewels. i7o 
 
 Now recommenced the reign of i-est and affection and still- 
 ness. 
 
 Day with its burden and heat had ileparted, and twili<dit 
 descending 
 
 Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the 
 homestead. 
 
 Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each 
 other, 
 
.it 
 
 
 
 
 .'t* 
 
 t 
 
 .«vl; 
 
 204 
 
 EVANORLINK. 
 
 And vvitli their nostrils distpiidod inhaliiij' the fi-ivsliness of 
 
 eveiinig. 
 
 157 
 
 Foremost, bearin<^ tlie hell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, 
 Proud of iier snow-white hide, and the ribbon that w.ived from 
 
 her collar, 
 Quietly paced and slow, as if coiisci )us of hum;ui affection. 
 Then came the shepherd b-xek with his bleating flocks from the 
 
 seaside. 
 Where was their favourite pasture. J^ehind them f(jllow(^d the 
 
 watch-dog, ISO 
 
 Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his 
 
 instinct, 
 Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly 
 Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers ; 
 Regent of flocks was he when the shepluMxl slept ; their 
 
 protector, 
 When from the forest at night, through the starry silenct;, the 
 
 wolves howled. 185 
 
 Liite, with the rising moon, returned the \/ains from the 
 
 marshes, 
 Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor. 
 Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their 
 
 fetlocks. 
 While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous 
 
 saddles, 
 Painted with brillant dyes, and .adorned with tassels of 
 
 crimson. 
 
 11)1) 
 
 Nodded in bright array, like holl3'hocks heavy with blossDuis. 
 Patiently stood the cows nif^anwhile, and yic^lded their udders 
 Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and iji regular o;idence 
 Into the sounding paih; the foaming strea^iilets descended. 
 Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were lieu-rd m the farm- 
 yard, Ida 
 Echoed back by the barua. Arion they sank iut«* stdlness ; 
 
RVANGKLINE. 
 
 205 
 
 Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of I lie barn- 
 doors, 
 Rattled the woodrn bars, and all for a season wfis silent. 
 
 ir 
 
 us 
 
 ot 
 
 .1)0 
 
 IS. 
 
 ra 
 
 a- 
 
 Tn-doors, vv;inr. by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the 
 farmer 
 Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the tlanies and the 
 smoke-wreaths 20(i 
 
 Stru,ij;g]ed together like foes in a burning city, jlehind him. 
 Nodding and mocking along the wall with gestures fantastic, 
 Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into dark- 
 ness. 
 Fac s, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair 
 LaugJHid in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the 
 dresser 205 
 
 (!!!aught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sun- 
 shine. 
 Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Chi-istmas, 
 Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him 
 Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vine- 
 yards. 
 Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated, 210 
 Spinning flax for the loom that stood in the corner behind her. 
 Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle. 
 While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a 
 
 bagpipe, 
 Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments 
 
 together. 
 As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals 
 
 ceises. 
 
 216 
 
 Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the 
 
 altar, 
 So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the 
 
 •;lock clicked. 
 

 
 
 ( 
 
 ■■■■' \ I ■ 
 ■ .ii • 
 ■■i'i« 
 
 Mill 
 
 J < 
 
 ,i 
 
 !! 
 
 
 200 
 
 KVANOKLINR. 
 
 Tliiis as lilt'}' si(,, tlici'c; \v('i'(! fiMilslfjis liciid, jiiid, suddctily 
 
 lifted, 
 Soundi'd the v.oodeu latch, and tlif do'-r :-\vuii^ back on its 
 
 liiii,i,'(\s. 
 Jjenedict kiu^w by the lioh-iiailcd shoes it was iJasil hlack- 
 
 sniidi, -i-M) 
 
 And hy her heating heart Evangeline kninv who was with him. 
 "Welcome!" the farnjer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused 
 
 on the threshold, 
 "Welcome, JJasil, my friend ! Come, take thy place on the 
 
 settle 
 Close by the chinniey-side, which is always empty without tliee; 
 Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of 
 
 tobacco ; 226 
 
 Never so much thyself art thou as when, thi'ough the ui'ling 
 Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly ai.d j( (al face 
 
 gleams 
 
 Rounfl and red as the harvest moon through t> v.- mi^u of the 
 mai'shes." 
 
 Then, with a smih; of content, thus ;';i...»'ered J^c'isil the black- 
 smith, 
 
 Taking with easy air the accustomed seai ^y the iire-side: — 230 
 
 "Benedict Bellefcm'aine, thou hast ever th^ jest and thy ballad! 
 
 Ever in the cheerfullest uuhhI art thou, wK n others are filled 
 with 
 
 Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin bel !'^ them. 
 
 Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked ip a horse- 
 shoe." 
 
 Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought 
 him, 235 
 
 And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly 
 continued : — 
 
 "Four days now are passed since the English ships at their 
 anchors 
 
 
EVANOKLINi;. 
 
 f>OT 
 
 l{\(\v ill 111*' f!jisj)«'i'«'au'K iiumtli, willi flicir rjimum jMiinlfMl 
 
 H<^aiiist us. 
 What their (Icsi^'ii maybe is unknown; hut all are <'o)nTnanile<l 
 On the nioiTow to meet in the cluuvh, wlieie his iMiijest) s 
 
 mandate -lU' 
 
 Will he pfoclaimed as law in the land. Alas I in the mean- 
 
 time 
 Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." 
 Then made answer the farmer: — "Perhaps soua^ friei.dier 
 
 purpo.se 
 lirings these .ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in 
 
 England 
 ]l\ untimely rains or untimelier heat have heen hli;>hted, 24.') 
 And from our l)ursting barns they would feed their eattle and 
 
 children." 
 "Not so think(;th tlie folk in the village," said, warmly, the 
 
 blacksmith. 
 Shaking his head as in doubt ; then, heaving a sigh, ho 
 
 continued : — 
 
 " IjOuisl)urg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, noi- Vnrt Hoyal 
 
 Many already have iled to the forest, and lurk on its out- 
 skirts, 2r.() 
 
 Waiting with anxi<»us hearts tlie dubious fute of to-morrow. 
 
 Arms liave })een taken from us, and warlike weapons oc all 
 kinds ; 
 
 Nothing is left but the blacksmith's .•;ledge and the scythe of 
 the mower." 
 
 Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer : — 
 
 "Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our Hocks and oui- 
 cornfield.s, 255 
 
 Safer within these peaceful dikes Vjesieged by the ocean, 
 
 Thafi our fatheis in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. 
 
 Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no sliadow of sorrow 
 
m 
 
 mssmmmmm 
 
 208 
 
 EVANGEriNR. 
 
 i-i. 
 
 Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night of the 
 
 contract. 
 Built are the house and tlie barn. Tlie merry lads of the 
 
 village 260 
 
 Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe 
 
 round about tiiern, 
 Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelve- 
 month. 
 Kone Leblanc will be here anon, with his pa})ers and inkhorn. 
 Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our 
 
 children ?" 
 As apai-t by the window she stood, with her hand in her 
 
 lover's, 265 
 
 Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had 
 
 spoken, 
 And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered. 
 
 III. 
 
 Berit like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, 
 Bent, but n<.>t broken, by age was the form of the notary 
 
 public ; 
 Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, 
 
 hunij 270 
 
 Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and glasses with 
 
 horn bows 
 
 Sat astride on his nose, with a*look of wisdom sui)ernal. 
 Father of twt'nty children was he, and more than a hundred 
 Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch 
 
 tick. 
 Four long vears in the times v)f war had he laii'ifuished a 
 
 captive, 27;') 
 
 Suft'erirtg much in an old French fort as the friend of the 
 
 English. 
 
 t ' 
 
EVANGELINR. 
 
 200 
 
 maize, 
 
 270 
 
 with 
 
 [■ed 
 ,'atch 
 
 Now, though wanVr grown, without all guile or suspicion, 
 Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. 
 He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children ; 
 For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, 280 
 
 And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses. 
 And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened 
 Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers (»f 
 
 children ; 
 And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in tlie stable, 
 And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nut- 
 shell, 285 
 And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and 
 
 horseshoes, 
 With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. 
 Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the bla'^ksmith. 
 Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his 
 
 right hand, 
 " Father Lebhuie," he exclaimed, " tliou hast heard tlie talk 
 in the village, 290 
 
 And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and 
 
 their errand." 
 Then wath modest demeanor made answer the notary public, — 
 *'Go.ssip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser; 
 And what their errand may be T know no better than others. 
 Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention 295 
 
 Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then molest 
 
 us 
 
 .?■ 
 
 " God's name I " shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible 
 
 blacksmith ; 
 "Must we iji all things look for the how, and the why, and the 
 
 wherefore 1 
 Daily injustice is done, and might is tlu^ right of th(! stron"-est!" 
 But, without heeding his warmth, c<mtimied the notary 
 
 public, - auo 
 
 14 
 
m 
 
 i 1 
 
 210 
 
 EVANGELINE. 
 
 11' 
 
 h r-t- 
 
 *' Man is nnjust, but God is just ; and finally justice 
 Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me, 
 When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal." 
 This was the old man's favourite tale, and he loved to repeat it 
 When his neighbours complained that any injustice was done 
 
 them. 305 
 
 " Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, 
 Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justi"'"- 
 Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in z left hand, 
 And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided 
 Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the 
 
 people. ' 310 
 
 Even the birds had built tl.eir nests in the scales of the 
 
 balance, 
 Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above 
 
 them. 
 But in the course of time the laws of the la'^d were corrupted 
 Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, 
 
 and the mighty 
 Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's 
 
 palace 3i5 
 
 That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicion 
 Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. 
 She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold. 
 Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. 
 As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, 320 
 IjO ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the thunder 
 Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left 
 
 hand 
 Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the 
 
 balance. 
 And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie. 
 Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was 
 
 inwoven. 
 
 )} 
 
 826 
 
EVANGELINE. 
 
 211 
 
 36. 
 
 320 
 
 der 
 left 
 
 the 
 
 was 
 
 826 
 
 Silenced, Imt not convinced, M'hen the story was ended, t!ie 
 
 blacksmith 
 Stood like a man who fain would speak, but j&iideth luj 
 
 language ; 
 All his thoughts were congealed into lijies on his face, as t];o 
 
 vapoui's 
 Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the wintcM-. 
 
 Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, .'WO 
 Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-bi'owed 
 Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in tlie village 
 
 of Grand-Pre ; 
 While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn, 
 Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of tlie j)arties, 
 Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in 
 
 cattle. 335 
 
 ( )iderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed, 
 And the jjtreat seal of the law was set like a sun on the niaririn. 
 Tlien from his leathern ])()uch the farmer threw on the table 
 Three times the old man's fe>> in solid pieces of silver; 
 And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bi-ide- 
 
 groom, 340 
 
 Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their W(!lfare. 
 W^iping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed, 
 While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, 
 Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. 
 Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old 
 
 men 34C 
 
 Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful mana'uvre, 
 Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in 
 
 the king-row. 
 Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure. 
 Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon 
 
 rise 
 
 m 
 
212 
 
 EVANOELINE. 
 
 '''im t] 
 
 m- 
 
 "!"» 
 
 I' 
 
 li - 
 
 i' 
 
 ()v(»r tlie pallid s<^a aiul the silvory mist of the meadows. 3.^0 
 Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, 
 Blossomed the loverly stars, the foi'get-ni<'-nots of the angels. 
 
 Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry 
 Hang out the liour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway 
 Rose the gur^sts and departed ; and silence reigned in the 
 
 houselu)ld. 35.5 
 
 Manv a farewell word and a sweet good-night on the door- 
 
 step 
 Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with glad- 
 ness. 
 Car'efulJy then were covered the embers that glowed on the 
 
 heafth-stone, 
 And on ihe oaken st^a-rs resounded the tread of the farmer. 
 Soon with a soundless step the fo(^t of Evangeline fol- 
 
 k»\\'ed, 3G() 
 
 Up tlie stain-ase moved a luminous space in the darkness, 
 Liglited less by th-.^ lamp titan tli'^ shilling face. f)f the nit'den. 
 Silent she passed through the hall, and entered tiie dour of her 
 
 chamber. 
 Simple that chamber was, with its curtuin> of white, una its 
 
 clothes-press 
 Am}»le and iiigh, on whose spacious shelves were carefnlly 
 
 folde<l 305 
 
 Linen and woolh^i stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven, 
 'i'his was the prfciious dcjwer she would luring to her husband 
 
 in mai'riage, 
 Better ihan fiorks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a 
 
 hnUKe-wife. 
 S''on slit: extinguished her lamp, for the rnellov and radiant 
 
 m«HH. light 
 Streamed through the windi<\v,-i, and lighteii the roouj, till the 
 
 heart of the maiden 370 
 
EVANGKLTNB. 
 
 213 
 
 sr 
 
 V 
 
 ii 
 
 $70 
 
 SwelJefl and obeyed its power, like the trcimulous tides of the 
 
 ocean. 
 Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to l)ehold, as she stood with 
 Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chaiiiljer! 
 liittle she dreamed that below, among the trees of the oirhard, 
 Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and 
 
 her shadow. 375 
 
 Yet were lier tlioughts of liim, and at times a feeling of sadness 
 
 Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moon- 
 light 
 
 Flitted acioss the Moor and darkened the room for a moment. 
 
 And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely tlie moon 
 pass 
 
 Forth fi'ORi the folds of a clouil, and one star follow her foot- 
 steps, 380 
 
 As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with 
 Hagar. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of (Jraid- 
 
 Pre. 
 
 Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, 
 
 Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at 
 anchor. 
 
 Life had long been astir in the village, and clamcn'oiis 
 
 labour 38(1 
 
 Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the 
 
 m«»rning. 
 Now from the country around, from the farms and neighbourin<' 
 
 hamlets. 
 Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. 
 Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh fi-oni the young 
 
 folk 
 JNIade the bright air brightei', as up from the numerous 
 
 meadows, 890 
 
214 
 
 EVANfiELINE. 
 
 iiii 
 
 Where no path could l)o seen hut th(! track of wheels in tlie 
 greensward, • 
 
 Group after group apjxared, and joined, or j)assed on the high- 
 way. 
 
 Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labour were silenced. 
 
 Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at 
 the house-doors 
 
 Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 3!).') 
 
 Every house was an inn, M'liere all wer^ welcomed and feasted; 
 
 For with this sini])le people, wlio lived like brothers together. 
 
 All things were held in conunon, and what one had was 
 another's. 
 
 Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant ; 
 
 For Evangeline stood, among the guests of her father ; 4(io 
 
 Bright was her face with smiles, and svords of welcome and 
 gladness 
 
 Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as .slie gave it. 
 
 
 
 
 h 
 
 Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, 
 Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. 
 There in the shade of the porch were the })riest and the notary 
 
 seated ; 504 
 
 There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. 
 Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-p:-ess and the 
 
 beehives, 
 Michael the fiddlei- was placed, with the gayest of hearts and 
 
 of waistcoats. 
 Shadow and light from the leave.^ alternately played on his 
 
 snow-white 
 Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face of the 
 
 fiddler 410 
 
 Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the 
 
 embers. 
 Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, 
 
EVANGRLINF. 
 
 •21-) 
 
 Tovs les Bovrgeois Je CharfreH, and Le CoriJlon <1e Din>krrque^ 
 And anon with his wooden shoes lieat time to the music. 
 Merrilv, merrily whirled the w heels of the dizzvinir daricrs 4i.'i 
 Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows ; 
 Old folk and young together, and children mingled among 
 
 them. 
 Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter! 
 Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the ))lacksmith ! 
 
 So passed the morning away. And lo ! with a summons 
 
 sonorous 4-20 
 
 Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a dium 
 
 beat. 
 Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in 
 
 the churchyard, 
 Waited the women. They stood by the giaves, and hung on 
 
 the headstones 
 Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the 
 
 forest. 
 Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly 
 
 among them 425 
 
 Entered the sacred portal. With a loud and dissonant clangor 
 Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and case- 
 ment,— 
 Echoed a moment only, and slowly the [jonderous portal 
 Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the 
 
 soldiers. 
 Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the 
 
 altar, 4«o 
 
 Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. 
 "You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's 
 
 orders. 
 Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have answered 
 
 his kindness, 
 

 216 
 
 EVANGKI.INK. 
 
 ■..^S:ili 
 
 m 
 
 
 
 ^:^m 
 
 f ' 
 
 ■„i 
 
 ill 
 
 ■(Tl 
 
 I 
 
 Let your own hearts reply! T<» tny riratural make and my 
 temper 
 
 Painful the task is T do, which to you T know must be 
 grievous. 435 
 
 Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch: 
 
 Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all 
 kinds 
 
 Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves from this 
 ))i-ovince 
 
 Be transported to other lands, (lod grant you may dwell 
 there 
 
 Ever as faithful subjects, a hai)py and peaceable people! 440 
 
 Prisoners now 1 declare you, for such is his ^Majesty's pleasure !" 
 
 As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, 
 
 Suddenly gathers a storm, and the leadly sling of the hail- 
 stones 
 
 Beats down the farmer's corn in the field, and shatters his 
 windows. 
 
 Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the 
 house-roofs, 446 
 
 Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures ; 
 
 So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the 
 speaker. 
 
 Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then 
 rose 
 
 liouder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and ancrer. 
 
 And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door- 
 way. 450 
 
 Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations 
 
 Hang through tlie house of prayer ; and iiigh o'er the heads of 
 the others 
 
 Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the black- 
 smith., 
 
 As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. 
 
i:.^ 
 
 EVANGKIJNE. 
 
 217 
 
 Flushed was his face and distortc^d with passion ; and wildly 
 
 he sliouted, — 45.'> 
 
 " Down with the tyrants of Enufland I we never have sworn 
 
 tluiin allegiance ! 
 Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and 
 
 our harvests 1 " 
 More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a 
 
 soldier 
 Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the; 
 
 pavement. 
 
 440 
 
 In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry conten- 
 tion, 400 
 
 Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician 
 
 Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the jiltar. 
 
 liaising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into sik^nce 
 
 All that clamourous throng; an thus he spake to his people ; 
 
 Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and 
 mournful 465 
 
 tSpake he, as, after the tocsin's alarm, distinctly llu- clock 
 strikes. 
 
 "What is this that ye do, ray children? what madness has 
 seized you 1 
 
 Forty years of my life have I laboured among you, and taught 
 you. 
 
 Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ! 
 
 Is this the fruit of my toils, of m;' vigils and prayers and 
 privations 1 no 
 
 Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and tbrgivenoss 1 
 
 This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you pro- 
 fane it 
 
 Tims with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred ? 
 
 Lo ! where the crucified Christ from His cross is gazing upon 
 you : 
 
■-'M^t3nFSSmj^SJSL 
 
 '?'-^*-''rr2iiJP£^i'?i 
 
 
 h m 
 
 m. 
 
 218 
 
 KVANGELINE. 
 
 J., 
 
 ''(II 
 
 '.'i 
 
 f 
 
 See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy 
 «jom passion ! 475 
 
 Hark ! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, 
 forgiven them ! ' 
 
 Let us repeat that prayer in the liour when the wicked assail us, 
 
 L(!t us repeat it now, and say, ' O Fatliei-, forgive then* ! ' " 
 
 Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his 
 people 
 
 8ank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate out- 
 break, 480 
 
 While they repeated his prayer, and said, " O Father, forgive 
 them ! " 
 
 Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from 
 
 the altar; 
 Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people 
 
 responded, 
 Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; and the Ave 
 
 Maria 
 Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with 
 
 devotion translated, 486 
 
 Rose on the ardour of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. 
 
 Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and 
 on all sides 
 
 Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and 
 (jhildren. 
 
 Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right 
 hand 
 
 Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, des- 
 cending, 490 
 
 Lighted the village street with mysterious splendour, and roofed 
 each 
 
 Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its 
 windows. 
 
 • JS. 
 
EVANOELINK, 
 
 219 
 
 Tjong witliin li.id boon spread the snow whito clofli on the. tiiblo ; 
 There stood tlic wheaten loaf, and the honey fVugrant with 
 
 wild tlowers ; 
 There stood the tankard of ale, and the chee.se fresh l)rou«^ht 
 
 from tlie dairy ; 405 
 
 And at the head of the hoard the great arm-chair of the 
 
 farmer. 
 Thus did Evani,'eHne wait at her father's door, as the sunset 
 Threw the long shadows of trees o'er tlu! broad ambrosial 
 
 meadcnvs. 
 Ah I on her s{)irit within a deeper shadow had fallen, 
 And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial 
 
 ascended, — 500 
 
 Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and 
 
 patience ! 
 
 Then, all-for^'etful of self, she wandered into the village, 
 
 CTieering with looks and words tlu^ mournful hearts of the 
 women, 
 
 As o'er the darkening fields with lingei'ing st«^ps they departed. 
 
 Urged by their household cares and the weary feet of their 
 
 children. 505 
 
 Down sank tlie great red sun, and in golden, glimmering 
 
 vapours 
 Veiled the light of his face, like the Prtjphet, descending from 
 
 Sinai. 
 Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. 
 
 Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline 
 
 lingered. 
 All was silent within j and in vain at the door and the 
 
 windows 610 
 
 Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion 
 "Gabriel!" cried she aloud wit^h tremulous voice; but no 
 
 answer 
 
 ':^! 
 
lip 
 
 I' ,(!"■■ 
 
 
 
 2 -JO 
 
 EVANnKLINK. 
 
 Chiih' from ^h^'. jjravfH of tli(^ dead, nor the gloornior grave of 
 
 the living. 
 Slowly at length she r<»1urned to the tenantless house of hn 
 
 fathei". 
 Smouldered th(! fire on tlu; hearth, on the board was the supper 
 
 untasted. r.i,. 
 
 I*]ni{)ty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms 
 
 «»f terror. 
 Sadly eehotMl her step on the stair and tin; llowr of her chatnlxM'. 
 Tn the dead of tlit^ nit^dit she heard the disconsolate lain fall 
 Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree hy the 
 
 window. 
 Keenly tlu^ liglitning (lashed ; and the voice of tin; eeh(»ing 
 
 thund«;r 6Jii 
 
 Told her that (tod was in heaven, and governed the world He 
 
 created 1 
 Then she rememhei'eid the tale .she had heard of the justice of 
 
 h(?aven ; 
 Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully filumboi-rd 
 
 till morning. 
 
 V. 
 
 Four times the sun had risen atid set ; and now en the fifth 
 day 
 
 Cheerily called tlie cock to the sleeping maids of the farm- 
 house. 525 
 
 Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent an'1 rv arnful procession, 
 
 Came fiom the neighbouring hamle , farms tin Acadian 
 
 women. 
 
 Driving in ponderous wains Mieir Iioum iiold L'joods to the sea- 
 shore, 
 
 Pausing and looking back to gaze once m ire on their dwellings. 
 
 Ere they were shut from sight by the windijig road and thf 
 woodland. 330 
 
;rav(' of 
 I of hrt 
 
 6ir. 
 lutitoins 
 
 n full 
 by the 
 
 echoing 
 
 orltl He 
 
 jstice of 
 
 iiiibercd 
 
 u! fifth 
 e t'arrn- 
 
 525 
 CC>.si(>ll, 
 
 Vcadiau 
 
 the sea- 
 
 'elliui^s, 
 and tlif 
 
 S3U 
 
 PA'ANfJRr.TN'R. 
 
 S31 
 
 (!I<>se at, tlieir sides tlieij- children ivui, and uiLjcd on tli(^ 
 
 oxen, 
 \\'lul(! in their little hands they clasped some fiai,'inents of 
 
 playthings. 
 
 Thus U} t\\v Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; and tliere on 
 
 the sea-heach 
 I'iled in confusion lay the household <,'oods of the ))easants. 
 All day loni; hetwcH'ii the shore and the ships did the boats 
 
 ply ; r.n5 
 
 All (lav lon-i the wains came labouriny down from the village. 
 Late in th«; afternoon, when the sun was near to his set tin*;, 
 lichoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from tin; 
 
 churchyard. 
 Thither t;;e women and ciiildren thronged. On a sudden the 
 
 chur(;h doors 
 Op(»ned, and forth canm the guard, and marching in gloomy 
 
 procession 540 
 
 I'ollowed the hmg-impi'isoned, but patient, Acadiiin farm(M's. 
 1'iVen as pilgrims, who journey afar from their h(»mes and their 
 
 country, 
 Sing as they go, and in singing forget tliey ai-e weary and way- 
 worn, 
 So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants ilescended 
 Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and 
 
 their (laughters. 545 
 
 I'oi-emost the young men came ; and, raising togetlmr their 
 
 voices, 
 Sang with ti-(!mulous lips a cJiant of the Catholic Missions :— 
 •' Sacred luiart of the Saviour I « > inexhaustibh' fountain ! 
 ImII our hearts this day with strength and submission and 
 
 patience.! " 
 Then the old men, as tlu;}' marched, and the women that stood 
 by the waj'side 660 
 
rsm 
 
 
 n ] 
 
 
 i;-: :? 
 
 '!, . '\ 'lii 
 
 '■V 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 222 
 
 EVANOKLINE. 
 
 Joinod in the sacn'd psalm, and the birds in the sunshine 
 
 above tliem 
 ]\[ingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. 
 Half-way down to the shore Kvangeline waited in silence, 
 Not overcome with grief, but strong in the liour of affliction,- - 
 Calmly and sadly she waited, until tlie procession approached 
 
 he I', ftoo 
 
 And she beheld the face of Ga})riel pale with emotion. 
 Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, 
 Clasped she his hands, and laid iier head on his shoulder, and 
 
 whispered, — 
 " Gabriel ! be of good cheer ! for if we love one another 
 Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may 
 
 happen ! " 5co 
 
 Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, for her 
 
 father 
 Saw she, slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed was his aspect ! 
 Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the iire from his eye, 
 
 and his footstep 
 Heo.vier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his 
 
 bosom. 
 But with a smile and a sigh, slie clasped his neck and embraced 
 
 him, 5(ir. 
 
 Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed 
 
 not. 
 Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful pro- 
 cession. 
 
 I 
 
 There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of em- 
 
 barking. 
 
 Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion 
 Wives were torn from their husbands, and '.nothers, too late, 
 saw their children 57o 
 
 Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. 
 
EVANOELINR. 
 
 00<^ 
 
 unshiiir 
 
 ^parted, 
 ice, 
 
 ction,-- 
 roached 
 
 555 
 
 t him, 
 :lei', and 
 
 er 
 
 3es may 
 
 500 
 
 , for her 
 
 i aspect ' 
 his eye, 
 
 ) in his 
 
 tnbraced 
 
 665 
 
 availed 
 iful pro- 
 
 Oi em- 
 
 boo late, 
 
 570 
 
 i-eaties. 
 
 So unto separate ships wore }>asil and (Jahi'iel carried, 
 
 While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her 
 
 father. 
 Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the 
 
 twilight 
 Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refhicnt 
 
 ocean 575 
 
 Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-lK>ach 
 
 Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea- 
 weed. 
 
 ^'arther back in the midst of the household goods and the 
 
 waggons. 
 Like to a gipsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle. 
 All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, 5S0 
 Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. 
 J>ack to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, 
 Dragging adown the beacli the rattling pebbles, and leaving 
 Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailois. 
 Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their 
 
 pastures ; ' 585 
 
 Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from thcii- 
 
 udders ; 
 Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the 
 
 farm-yard,^ — 
 Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the 
 
 milkmaid. 
 Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no Angelas 
 
 sounded, 
 
 Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the 
 windows. 590 
 
 But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been 
 kindled. 
 
 Built of the drift wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in 
 the teuipest. 
 
^u 
 
 KVANGRLINE. 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 
 *' 
 
 i 
 
 
 m 
 
 11: 
 
 lloiiiid them sh;ip(^s of i^louinand sorrowful faces were gatliered, 
 Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of 
 
 children. 
 Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his 
 
 parish, 695 
 
 Waiidercd the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and 
 
 chocriug, 
 Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. 
 Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her 
 
 father, 
 Aufl in the llickering light beheld the face of the old man, 
 Haggard and hollow and wan, and v/ithout either thought or 
 
 emotion, 600 
 
 E'cii 'IS the face of a clock from which the hands have been 
 
 taken. 
 Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer 
 
 him, 
 Vainly offered him food ; yet he moved not, he looked not, ho 
 
 spake not, 
 But, with a vacant stai'e, ever ga/.ed at the flickering fire light. 
 ^^ Jienedicite !" murmured the priest in tones of compassion. C05 
 More he fain would have said, l)ut his heart was full, and his 
 
 accents 
 Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a 
 
 threshold. 
 Hushed by the scene hv. beholds, and the awful presence of 
 
 sorrow. 
 Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, 
 liaising his tearful eyes to the sih>nt stai's that above 
 
 them 610 
 
 Moved on their way, unpertui'bed by the wrongs and sorrows of 
 
 mortals. 
 Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in 
 silence. 
 
evangelinf:. 
 
 
 Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the 
 
 blood-red 
 Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon 
 Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and 
 
 meadow, 615 
 
 Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge sliadows 
 
 together. 
 Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the 
 
 village, 
 Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the 
 
 roadstead. 
 Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were 
 Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering 
 
 hands of a martyr. 620 
 
 Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, 
 
 and, uplifting, 
 Wliirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred 
 
 house-tops 
 Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flaines intermingled. 
 
 ion. C05 
 Lud his 
 
 (1 on a 
 
 Mice of 
 
 iiaiden. 
 above 
 
 610 
 
 •<nvs of 
 lier in 
 
 These things belu'ld in dismay the crowd on the shore and 
 on shipboard. 
 Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their an- 
 guish, 625 
 "We shall beliokl no more our homes in the village of Gi'and- 
 
 Pr^ ! " 
 Loud on a sudd(ui the cocks began to ci'ow in the farm-3'ards, 
 Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the lowing of cattle 
 Came on the evenini!; breeze, bv the harking of doi^s in1crrur)ted. 
 Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the slee])ing en- 
 campments 080 
 Far in the western prairies of forests that skirt the Nebraska, 
 When the wild horses allVighted sweep by with the speed of 
 the whirlwind, 
 
 Iff 
 
'1-: 
 
 H- 
 
 I 
 
 22G 
 
 KVANGELINE. 
 
 Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. 
 Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and 
 
 the horses 
 Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er 
 
 the meadows. 635 
 
 H^i^; 
 
 il* 
 
 Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless the priest and 
 
 the maiden 
 Oazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before 
 
 them ; 
 And as they turned at length to speak to their silent 
 
 companion, 
 Lo ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the 
 
 seashore 
 Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 640 
 Slowly the j)riest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden 
 Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. 
 Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. 
 Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber ; 
 And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude 
 
 near her. 645 
 
 Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfidly gazing upon 
 
 her, 
 Pallid, with teaiful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. 
 Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape, 
 Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around 
 
 her. 
 And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. 650 
 Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people, — 
 "Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season 
 Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, 
 Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." 
 Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the 
 
 sea-side, 655 
 
 
fcVANGELINE. 
 
 227 
 
 Having the glare of the buniing village f »r funeral torches, 
 But without bell or book, they buiied the farmer of Grand-Pr^. 
 And as the voice of the priest repeated t}\e service of sorrow, 
 Lo ! with a mournful sound like the voice of a great congrega- 
 tion, 
 Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the 
 dirges, mo 
 
 'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, 
 With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying 
 
 landward. 
 
 Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking; 
 
 And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the hai'l)(jur, 
 
 L(;aving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in 
 
 ruins. cus 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 3S. 650 
 
 Many a weary year had passed since the buj-ning of Grand- 
 
 Pre, 
 When on the falling tide the freighted vessels dei>art('d, 
 Bearing a natittn, with all its household gods, into exile, 
 Exile without an end, and without .'in example in story. 
 Far asunder, on separate coasts, the AcadiaiKs landed ; «)70 
 
 Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from 
 
 the northeast 
 Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the J^anks of 
 
 Newfoundland. 
 Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandeied from city to 
 
 city, 
 From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savaimas, — - 
 Froni the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father 
 
 of Waters 75 
 
IT 
 
 ■< S 'f 
 
 w ,■■-.■■■' 
 
 -)i '.^ 
 
 
 li 
 
 
 
 228 
 
 EVANGKLINK. 
 
 Seizes tlie hills in his hands, and flra,i,'s tliein flown to the 
 
 ocean, 
 Deep in their sands to bury the scattered b:>nes of the 
 
 niaiiimoth. 
 Friends th(\y sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart- 
 
 bi'oken, 
 Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a 
 
 fireside. 
 Written their history stands on tablets of stone in uhe church- 
 yards. 680 
 Long among them was seen a niaidcm who waited and wandered, 
 Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. 
 Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her extended, 
 Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway 
 Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suifered 
 beft)re her, C85 
 Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, 
 As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by 
 Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sun- 
 shine. 
 Sometliing there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, un- 
 finished ; 
 As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, <i'.K) 
 Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended 
 Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. 
 Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever witliin 
 
 her. 
 Urged l)ya restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spii-it. 
 She would commence again her endless search and endeavour; mo 
 Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses 
 
 and tombstones. 
 Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its 
 
 bosom 
 He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. 
 
'; '••" 
 
 EVANGELINE. 
 
 229 
 
 ua- 
 
 (VJO 
 
 ithin 
 
 )ii-it, 
 r; 695 
 D.sses 
 
 ill its 
 
 hiin. 
 
 Sonuitimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, 
 Came v;ith its aiiy hand to point and beckon her forward. 700 
 Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her bt^loved and 
 
 known him. 
 But it was k)ng ago, in some far-off phice or forgotten. 
 " Gabi'iel Lajeunesse!" tlie" said; " Oh, yes ! we have seen 
 
 him. 
 He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the 
 
 praii'ies ; 
 Coureurs-des-bois are they, and famous hunters and trap- 
 pers." 705 
 " Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said others ; " Oh, yes ! we have seen 
 
 him. 
 He is a voyageur from the lowlands of Louisiana." 
 Then would they say, " Dear child ! why dream and wait for 
 
 him longer 1 
 Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others 
 Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loA'al ? 7io 
 Here is Baptiste Lei)lanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee 
 j\lany a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and be liaj)py ! 
 Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses." 
 Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, "I cannot ! 
 Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not 
 elsewhere. 7i5 
 
 For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the 
 
 pathway, 
 Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." 
 Thereupon the priest, her friend and father confessor, 
 Said will" si smile, "O daughter ! thy God thus speaketh within 
 
 thee ! 
 Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; 720 
 If it enrich not the heart ot another, its waters, returning 
 Back to their spring.s, like the i-ain, shall fill them full of re- 
 freshment ; 
 
l^'i ' ;^ 
 
 - - ( 
 
 / 
 J 
 
 1 
 
 * 
 
 ' i' 
 
 1 
 
 ^Snas^S^^SBSHSHHI 
 
 I' 
 
 ;i ' 
 
 I! 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 ■1 1 
 
 230 
 
 EVANGELINK. 
 
 That which the fountain sends forth returns again t;0 the 
 
 fountain. 
 Patience; accomplish tliy la})Our; accomplish thy work of 
 
 alFeotion ! 
 Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is god- 
 like. 725 
 Therefoie accomplish thy labour of love, till the heart is made 
 
 godlike, 
 Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rend<ired more worthy of 
 
 heaven ! " 
 Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline laboured and 
 
 waited. 
 Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean. 
 But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, 
 
 " Despair not ! " 730 
 
 Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless dis- 
 comfort. 
 
 Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. 
 
 Let me essay, O Muse ! to follow the wanderers footsteps ; — 
 
 Not through each devious path, each changefid year of exist- 
 ence ; 
 
 But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the 
 vallc}'' : 785 
 
 Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water 
 
 Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only; 
 
 Then drawing nearer its banks, through sj'lvan glooms that 
 conceal it. 
 
 Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ; 
 
 Happy, at length, if he find a spot where it reaches an out- 
 let. 740 
 
 II. 
 
 It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, 
 Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash, 
 Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, 
 
EVANQ KLINE. 
 
 L'31 
 
 tluit 
 
 Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. 
 
 It was a band of exiles : a raft, as it were, from the ship- 
 wrecked 746 
 
 Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, 
 
 Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common mis- 
 fortune ; 
 
 Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hear- 
 say, 
 
 Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred 
 farmers 
 
 On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. 750 
 
 With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father 
 Felician. 
 
 Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with 
 forests. 
 
 Day after day they glided adown the t iirbulent river ; 
 
 Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its 
 borders. 
 
 Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where 
 plumelike , 755 
 
 Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the 
 current. 
 
 Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars 
 
 Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their 
 margin, 
 
 Shining with snow-white phnues, large flocks of pelicans waded. 
 
 Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, 760 
 
 Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens. 
 
 Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots. 
 
 They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual 
 summer, 
 
 Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and 
 citron, 
 
 Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. 765 
 
 '■%■■' 
 
:!m 
 
 
 0^0 
 
 KVANGKLINK. 
 
 They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering the Bayou 
 
 of PlfKjueinine, 
 Soon wore lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, 
 Wiiicli, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. 
 Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the 
 
 i?!y press 
 Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air 770 
 
 Wfi,v«!d like bannei-s 1 lint hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. 
 Deathlike the silence seemed, and un})roken, save by t,he herons 
 Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset. 
 Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. 
 Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the 
 water, 775 
 
 Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the 
 
 arches, 
 Down through whose broken vaults it fell like as through 
 
 chinks in a ruin. 
 Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around 
 
 them ; 
 And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sad- 
 ness, — 
 Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be com- 
 passed. 780 
 As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies, 
 Far in advance are closed the leaves o^' the shrinking mimosa, 
 So, at the h(tuf-beats of fate, with sad forebodings <.f evil, 
 Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has at- 
 tained it. 
 But Evangelinf^s heart was sustained by a vision, that 
 faintly 785 
 rioatCvl before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the 
 
 moonlight. 
 It v\ as r.he thought of her brain thai assumed the shape of a 
 phantom. 
 
KVANQKLINE. 
 
 233 
 
 Through those sh.adowy aisles had GHl)riel windorod before 
 
 her, 
 And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and 
 
 nearer. 
 
 Then in hia place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the 
 
 oarsmoii, 700 
 
 And, as a signial sound, if others like them peradvenlui'e 
 Sailed on those gloomy and midnight sti'eams, blew a t)last (»n 
 
 his bugle. 
 Wild through "ihe dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast 
 
 rang, 
 Breaking the seal of silence and giving tongues to the forest. 
 Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirr-ed to the 
 
 music. 7!».T 
 
 Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, 
 Over the watery floor, and beneatli the reverljerant branches ; 
 But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the darkness ; 
 And when tlie echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the 
 
 silence. 
 Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed through the 
 
 midnight, 80O 
 
 Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian V)oatsongs, 
 Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers, 
 While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of 
 
 the desert. 
 Far oil", — indistinct, — as of wave or wind in the forest, 
 Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim 
 
 alligator. 
 
 805 
 
 of a 
 
 Thus ere another noon they emerged from the sliades ; and 
 before them 
 Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. 
 Water-lilies in myriads rocked on tlie slight undulations 
 Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus 
 

 UM' 
 
 ill 
 
 234 
 
 KVANGKLINK. 
 
 Lifted 1mm- ;,'nM«'n cmwn abovo the ln'juls of tlie boatmen, sio 
 
 Fuiiit WHS the air with tho odorous breath of magnolia blos- 
 soms, 
 
 Aiici with th«! heat of noon ; and nundjerless sylvan islands, 
 
 Fragrant and thickly cmhowcrod with blossoming luMlges of 
 roses, 
 
 Near to whose shore they glided along, invited to slumber. 
 
 ►Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were sus- 
 })ended. 816 
 
 Under the boughs of Wac^hita willows, that grew by the margin, 
 
 Safely their boat- was moored; and scattered about on the 
 greensward, 
 
 Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered. 
 
 Over them vast and high extended the coj)e of a tedar. 
 
 Swinging from its great arms, the trunipet flower and the 
 grapevine 820 
 
 Hang their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jao<jl), 
 
 On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, 
 
 Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to 
 blossom. 
 
 Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered be- 
 neath it. 
 
 Filled washer heart with love, and the dawn of an opening 
 heaven 826 
 
 Lighted hei' soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. 
 
 Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless islands. 
 Darted a light, swift boat, that sped .away o'er the water, 
 Ui'ged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trap. 
 
 pers. 
 Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and 
 beaver. 880 
 
 At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and 
 ' careworn. 
 
 
 ik. 
 
 
825 
 
 KVAVOKI.IVR. 23.5 
 
 D.uk and noglectod ktcks over.slmduwcd his l)i'u\v, {'.ml a siid- 
 
 ness 
 Soniewliat btij'ond liis years on Iiis face was I('i,'i1»ly writlcti. 
 (<al)iiol was it, who, weary witli waiting, UMha|t|)y and resth»s8, 
 Sou'dit in the Western wilds ul)li\ ion <»t" self and of sorrow. s:if. 
 Swiftl}' they glid<Ml along, close undei- the leo ot the island, 
 lint by the oi)posite bank, and behind a screen of |)alinettos ; 
 So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the 
 
 willows ; 
 All undisturbfHl by the dash of tlunr oars, and unseen, were 
 
 the sleepers ; 
 
 Aiiirel of Uod was there none to awake. i the slunilu^ring 
 
 maiden. sw 
 
 Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the 
 
 praii'ie. 
 After the sound of tlieir oars on the tholes had died in the 
 
 distance. 
 As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and fhc inai,len 
 Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felician ! 
 Sciiietliing says in my heart that neai- iih (JabricI wanders. 845 
 Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague sui>er tilion ? 
 Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truih to my spirit?" 
 Then, with a blush she Jidded, *• Alas for my credulous fancy I 
 Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaninir." 
 But nmde answer the reverend man, an 1 he smiU-d as he 
 answered, — siio 
 
 " Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor aie they to me with- 
 out meaning. 
 Feeling is deep and still; and the word th;i,t floats on the 
 
 surface 
 Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is 
 
 hidden. 
 Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illu- 
 sions, 
 
fp 
 
 < . 
 
 236 
 
 EVANGEUNK. 
 
 Gabriel truly ia nea^* thee ; for not far away to the south- 
 ward, 8.05 
 
 On the banks of the T^che, are the towns of St. INIaur and St. 
 Martin. 
 
 There tlni long -wandering bride shall be given agaiii to her 
 bridogi'Ooin, 
 
 There tlu; long-absent pastor rf^gain his flock and his sheepfold. 
 
 Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit- 
 trees ; 
 
 Under the feet a garden of flowers and the bluest of heavens soo 
 
 Bending above, and nwting its dome on the walls of the forest. 
 
 Tiiey who dwell tlieie have named it the Eden of Louisiana." 
 
 Witii these words of cheer they arose and continued their 
 journey. 
 Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon 
 Like a magician {'xtcMidcd his golden wand o'er the landscape; so,") 
 Twinkling vapours arose; and sky and water and forest 
 Seemed all oii tire at the touch, and melted and mingled to- 
 gether. 
 Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, 
 
 Floated tlie boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless 
 water. 
 
 Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetntiss. S7u 
 
 Touched by the magic spell, the saci'cd fountains of feeling 
 
 Glowed with the light of love, as the .skies and waters around 
 her. 
 
 Then from a neighbouring thicket the mocking bird, wildest of 
 
 singers, 
 
 Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, 
 Sliook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, 876 
 That the whole air and the woods and th(! waves .seciued silent 
 
 to listen. 
 Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soarln^r lo nnd- 
 
 ness 
 
 
KVAXGELTNB. 
 
 237 
 
 8ooinorl tlioy to follow or guiilo tlu; revel of frenzied T>aochaiites, 
 
 Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation; 
 
 Till, having gathered them all, he flung them al^road in 
 del ision, 880 
 
 As when, after a stdrin, a gust of wind through the tree-tops 
 
 Shakes down tlu; rattling rain in a crystal shower on the 
 branches. 
 
 With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throhbed with 
 emotion, 
 
 Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the 
 Opelousas, 
 
 And, through the amlxn- air, above the crest of the wood- 
 land, .s8:i 
 
 Saw tlu: cohnnn of smoke that arose from a neighhoui-ing 
 dwelling ; — 
 
 Sounds of a horn thoy heard, and the distant^ lowing of cattle 
 
 III. 
 
 Near to the banks of the 'iver, o'ershadowed by oaks fi-(tm 
 whose branches 
 (Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, 
 Such as the Druids cut (h)wn with golden hatchets at Yule- 
 tide, 890 
 Stood. s(K'lu(le(l and still, the house of tlu^ herdsman. A ffHfden 
 Girded it munfl about with a Ixilt of luxur-iant blossoms. 
 Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers 
 Hewn from the cy[)ress-tree, and carefully fitted togethei". 
 Large and low was the I'oof ; and on slendei' columns sup- 
 ported, 805 
 l{<»se wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious xcranda, 
 JIauui ot' the hunnning-bird and tin; bee, extended around it. 
 At each end of the house, nniid iIk^ tlowei's of the garden, 
 Stationed the ilo\e-cots were, as lo\c's pfM'petual syml)ol. 
 Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. 900 
 
238 
 
 EVAXGKLlNF!. 
 
 Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow am) sunshini? 
 
 ]lan near the tops of the trees ; but the house itself was in 
 shadow, 
 
 And frtun its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding 
 
 Into the evening air, a thin bhie column of smoke rose. 
 
 Tn the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a path- 
 way 90,5 
 
 Through the gi-eat grov(^s of oak to the skii-ts of (he limitless 
 prairie, 
 
 Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly d(\s('ending. 
 
 Full in his track of light, like ships with shad()\>y canvas 
 
 Hanging loose from their spars in. a motionlesis calm In the 
 tropics, 
 
 Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines. 9ia 
 
 Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, 
 
 JVlounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, 
 
 Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and (loul)let of deerskin. 
 
 Broad and brown was the face that froui under the Spanish 
 
 sombrero 
 
 Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its 
 master. 915 
 
 Round about him were numi)erless herds of kine that were 
 grazing 
 
 Quietly in the meadows, and In-eathing the vapoury freshness 
 That uprose from the river, and spread its(;lf over the lands- 
 scape. 
 Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding 
 Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded 91:0 
 Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the 
 
 evening. 
 
 Suddenly out of the grass th(i long white horns of the cattle 
 
 Rose like flakes of tnam on the advei'se currents of ocean. 
 
 Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the 
 prairie, 
 
EVAN GF LINK. 
 
 230 
 
 of its 
 
 015 
 
 led D'JO 
 of tlio 
 
 And tlie wh<ik' mass bocuine a cloud, a shade in the dis- 
 tance. »-26 
 
 Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate 
 of the garden 
 
 Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to 
 meet him. 
 
 Su<ldenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and 
 forward 
 
 JUished with extended arms and exclamations of wondei* ; 
 
 When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the black- 
 smith. !».iO 
 
 Hearty his welcome was, as he led his gut.'sts to the gaidcn. 
 
 There in an arbor of roses with endless question and auswci- 
 
 Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly 
 embraces. 
 
 Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful, 
 
 Thoughtful, for Gabriel came notj and now daik doubts and 
 misgivings 935 
 
 Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed, 
 
 Broke the silence and said, " Tf you came by the Atchafalaya, 
 
 How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's l)oat on the 
 bayous ? " 
 
 Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed. 
 
 Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous 
 accent, iMO 
 
 "Gone? is Gabr/'el gone?" and, conc(;aling her face on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 All her o'erljurdened heart gave waj*, and she wept and 
 lamented. 
 
 Then the good Basil said, — and his h?art grew blithe as he said 
 it,— 
 
 " Be of good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he departed. 
 
 Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with ray herds and my 
 
 liorses. 
 
 045 
 

 ii-^ti: 
 
 240 
 
 EVANOEJJNE. 
 
 Moody and restless <:»ro\vn. and tried and troubled, his spirit 
 
 Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. 
 
 Thinking ever o^ thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, 
 
 Ever silent, or speaking only of tliee and his troubles. 
 
 He at length had become so tedious to njeu and to maidens, 050 
 
 Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent 
 
 him 
 Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the .Spaniards. 
 Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark INEountaiJis, 
 Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. 
 Tiii^refore he of good ch(;er; we will follow the fugitive lover; 95.) 
 He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are 
 
 against }iim. 
 Up and away to-morrow, an«l through the red dew of the 
 
 morning, 
 We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison." 
 
 Then glad voices were heard, •md up from the banks of the 
 river, 
 Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler, mo 
 Jjimg und(!r Iiasil's roof had he lived, like a god on Olympus, 
 ILiving no other care than dispensing music to mortnjs. 
 Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fidtlle. 
 " Long live Michacd," the}^ crieci, "our brave Acadian minstrel I" 
 Aa they bore him aloft in triumphal procession: and straight- 
 way !)05 
 FatlHM' Felieian advanced with Evaiigeline, greeting the old 
 
 man 
 Kindly and of ukI recalling the past, while Basil enraptured, 
 Haih'd with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, 
 LauiihuiK loud a;id loiitr, and embracing mothers and dauuhters. 
 Much (hey marvelled to see the wealth of the ci devant black- 
 smith, 1(70 
 All his domains and his lierd.s, and his patriai-chal demeanour ; 
 
spirit 
 
 11(1 sent 
 
 anicards. 
 untaijis, 
 beaver, 
 over: 95.') 
 ains are 
 
 f tlie 
 
 V o 
 
 ISOIl. 
 
 :3 of the 
 
 (Her. 900 
 y 111 pas, 
 
 Is. 
 
 itistv!'!!" 
 Istraiglit- 
 
 <)()5 
 
 the old 
 
 raptured, 
 j^ips, 
 
 luigl iters, 
 lilt black- 
 
 !)70 
 
 heaiiour ; 
 
 EVANGKUNR. 
 
 241 
 
 Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the cli- 
 mate, 
 
 And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who 
 would take them ; 
 
 Each oiie thou,i.5ht ia his heart, that he, too, would go and do 
 likewise. 
 
 Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the brec^zy 
 
 veranda. 
 
 076 
 
 Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil 
 Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted together. 
 
 Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. 
 
 All was silent without, ami illuming the landscape with silver. 
 
 Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; but within 
 doors, OiM) 
 
 Brighter tlian these, .shone the faces of friends in the glimmer- 
 ing lamplight. 
 
 Then from his station aloft, at the hea<l of the table, the herds- 
 man 
 
 Poured forth liis heart and his wine togetlier in endless pi'o- 
 fusion. 
 
 Lighting his pipe ohat was filled with sweet Natchitoches 
 tobacco, 
 
 Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they 
 listened : - oss 
 
 "Welcome once more, n'.y friends, who long have been friend- 
 less and homeless, 
 
 Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than 
 tlie old one ! 
 
 Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers; 
 
 Here no stony gnamd provokes the wrath of the farmer : 
 
 Hmoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel 
 through the water. vmxj 
 
 All the y<'ar round the orange-groves are in blossom ; and 
 
 grass grows 
 

 f. 
 
 242 
 
 EVANGELINE. 
 
 ili 
 
 
 More in a single night than a whole Cana<lian summer. 
 Here, too. numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the 
 
 prairies ; 
 Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of 
 
 timber 
 With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into 
 
 houses. 995 
 
 After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with 
 
 harvests, 
 No King George of England shall drive you away from your 
 
 honesteads. 
 Burning j^our dwellings and barns and stealing your farms and 
 
 your cattle." 
 Spc^aking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his 
 
 nostrils, 
 While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the 
 
 ta])le, 1000 
 
 So that tlie guests all started ; and Father Felician, astounded, 
 Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuiT half-wiy to his nostrils. 
 But the brave J>asil resumed, and his wor Is were milder and 
 
 gayer :— 
 
 " Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever ! 
 For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, iocs 
 
 Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nut- 
 " shell!" 
 
 Then there were voices lieard at the door, and footsteps 
 
 approaching 
 Sounded upon the stairs and the floors of the breezy veranda. 
 It was the neighbouring Creoles and small Acadian planters, 
 Who had been sununoned all to the house of Basil the herds- 
 man. 1010 
 Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbours : 
 Friend chisped friend in his arms ; and they who before weie 
 as strangers, 
 
KVANOKLINK. 
 
 24.T 
 
 his 
 
 )tsteps 
 
 iraiula. 
 
 loiters, 
 
 l)>enls- 
 
 1010 
 
 lours : 
 le were 
 
 M(!etinjL^ in exile, became straightway as friends to eacli otlicr, 
 Prawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. 
 But in the neighl)ouring hall a strain of nuisic, pi'oceeding lois 
 From the accordant strings of Michael's imdodious fiddle, 
 l>roke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted, 
 
 All things forgotten beside, ihey ga\e themselves to the mad- 
 dening 
 Whii'l of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music. 
 Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of iluttciiug gar- 
 ments. 11120 
 
 Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and 
 
 the hei'dsman 
 Sat, conversing t<jgether of past and present and futui-e ; 
 While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her 
 Okhm memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music 
 Heai"d she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sad- 
 ness 1025 
 Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole fortli into the 
 
 garden. 
 Beautiful w; s the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, 
 Tipping its summit with silver, arose tlie moon. On the river 
 Fell here and therethrough the branches a tremulous gleam of 
 
 the moonlight. 
 Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious 
 
 spirit. 1030 
 
 Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the 
 
 garden 
 Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and 
 
 confession 
 Unto the night, as it went its w ly, 'ike a silent Carthusinn. 
 Fuller of fragrance than they, ana as heavy with shadows and 
 
 night-dews. 
 Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical 
 
 moonlight 1035 
 
 k \ 
 
r 
 
 244 
 
 ttVANGELINR. 
 
 n 
 
 is 
 
 
 Seoinod to iiuiiul;it(i iicr soul with iiidcfmable longings, 
 
 As, tlir(>uf,'li tlio garden gate, and beneath tae shade of the 
 
 oak-tr'ees, 
 Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. 
 Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, nnd fire-fli(;s 
 Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite num- 
 })ers. 1041) 
 
 Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, 
 Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and wor- 
 ship. 
 Save when a blazing comet was seen on tlu^ walls of that tem{)le. 
 As if a hand had appeared and written ui)()ii them, " Upharsin." 
 And tlui soul of the maiden, l)etween the stars and the tire- 
 Hies, 1045 
 Wandered alone, and sIkj cried, "O Gabriel ! O my belove 1 '. 
 Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee ■ 
 Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me' 
 Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie 1 
 Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands 
 around me ! lo.O 
 Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from labour, 
 Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy 
 
 slumbers ! 
 When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about 
 
 thee i " 
 Loud and sudden and near the note of a wliippoorwill soumleil 
 Lik ! a ihite in the woods ; and anon, through the neighbourinjj; 
 thickets, 1055 
 
 Farther and fa,rther away it lloated and dr(»pped into silence. 
 " Patience 1" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns ot 
 
 darkness ; 
 And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To- 
 morrow ! " 
 
le of tlio 
 !s prairie, 
 ite num- 
 
 1040 
 
 heavens, 
 and wor- 
 
 it temple, 
 
 pharsin. 
 
 d the tire- 
 
 1045 
 
 belove. 1 ! 
 bhee ? 
 reach nie '' 
 )rairie 1 
 wood hi lids 
 
 KCO 
 
 >our, 
 
 lie ill thy 
 
 led ahout 
 
 11 soandeil 
 hl)Ourinu 
 
 105;'' 
 
 o silence, 
 averus oi 
 
 ded, "To- 
 
 KVANGKI.INR. 
 
 24.5 
 
 Biii,'ht rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the 
 
 i^ardcn 
 l'>at}'.pd liis shining feet with their tears, and anointed his 
 
 tresses loeo 
 
 With the delicious balm that they bore in their vpses of 
 
 crystal. 
 "Farewt'll!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy 
 
 threshold , 
 "See that you bi-inif us the Prodigal Son tVdiii his fasting and 
 
 famine, 
 And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom 
 
 was coming." 
 '* Farewell I " answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil 
 
 descended kmis 
 
 Down to to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were 
 
 waiting. 
 Thus Ixjginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, 
 
 and gladness. 
 Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding be- 
 fore them, 
 Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. 
 Not that day, nor the next, nor yet t!ie day that succ«;eded, 1070 
 Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river, 
 Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but vague and 
 
 uncertain 
 lAumours alone were their guides through a wild and desolate 
 
 country ; 
 Till, ai the little inn, of the Spanish 'own of Adayes, 
 Weary and worn, they alighted, and icarned from the gari'ulous 
 
 landloiil, 107.0 
 
 That on the dav l)efore. with horses and guides ami eompanions, 
 (iabriel left the \'ill;vge, and took the road of the pi-aiiics. 
 
246 
 
 vi 
 
 I ;■ 
 
 
 KVANCELTNK, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Far in t\u'. Wejst there lies a desfut land, wh^jie the mountains 
 
 Lift, tlirouiijli ])erpetual snows, tlieii- lofty iind luminous sum- 
 mits. 
 
 ])o\vii fr(»m their ja^^gcd, deep ravines, where the goi'ge, like a 
 «^at»!way, loso 
 
 Opens a passa<^e lude to the wheels of the endgrant's waggon, 
 
 Westward the Oregon flows and tlu^ Walleway and Owyhee. 
 
 Kastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Moun- 
 tains, 
 
 Through the .Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Ne- 
 braska ; 
 
 And to the south, from Fontaine-(|ui-bout and the Spanish 
 sierras, 1085 
 
 Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind (^f the 
 desert. 
 
 Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend tt) the ocean. 
 
 Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibra- 
 tions. 
 
 Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful 
 prairies, 
 
 ]?illowy bays of gi-ass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, looo 
 
 IJright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. 
 
 Over them wandered the buffalo hei'ds, and the elk and th(; 
 roebuck ; 
 
 Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses; 
 
 Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with 
 travel ; 
 
 Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children, 1095 
 
 Staining the desert with blood ; and above their terrible war- 
 trails 
 
 Circles and sails aloft, cm pinions majestic, the vulture, 
 
 Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, 
 
uiitains 
 us sum- 
 
 ', like a 
 
 lOSO 
 
 /yhee. 
 1' Moim- 
 
 tlie Ne- 
 
 Spauish 
 
 I of the 
 
 le ocean, 
 n vibra- 
 
 )eautit'ul 
 
 line, 1090 
 ami the 
 
 horses ; 
 iiy witli 
 
 Iren, 1095 
 jle war- 
 
 battle, 
 
 EVANGELINE. 
 
 2i7 
 
 By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. 
 
 Here and there rise smokes from tiu! camps of these sava<;e 
 marauders; ikk) 
 
 Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift I'unning 
 rivers ; 
 
 And tlie grim, taciturn bear, the anchoritt; monk of the desert, 
 
 CIiml}s down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook- 
 side, 
 
 And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, 
 
 Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. 1105 
 
 Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Moun- 
 tains, 
 
 (Ta})riel far had entered, with iiunters and trapj)ers l)ehind him. 
 
 Day aft(T day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and liasil 
 
 Followed his Hying steps, and thought each day to o'ei-take him. 
 
 Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his 
 camp-fire 1110 
 
 Rise in the morning air from the distant plain ; but at night- 
 fall. 
 
 When they had reached the place, they found oidy embers and 
 ashes. 
 
 And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies 
 were weary, 
 
 Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana 
 
 Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished 
 before th(;m. 1115 
 
 Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently 
 entered 
 
 Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features 
 
 Wore deep traces of s<)rrow, and patience as great as her 
 sorrow. 
 
 She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, 
 
 From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Canianches, 1120 
 
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 (716) 872-4503 
 
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 248 
 
 EVANGELINE. 
 
 Where her Canadian Imsband, a coureur-des-bois, had been 
 murdered. 
 
 Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and 
 friendliest welcome 
 
 Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted 
 among thein 
 
 On the buffalo-raeat and the venison cooked on the eml;)ers. 
 
 But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his com- 
 panions, ' 1126 
 
 Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and 
 the bison, 
 
 Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the 
 quivering fire-light 
 
 Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up 
 in their blankets, * 
 
 Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated 
 
 Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian 
 accent, 1130 
 
 All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and 
 reverses. 
 
 Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another 
 
 Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compas- 
 sion, 
 
 Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near 
 her, 1135 
 
 She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 
 
 Mute with wonder tht; Shawnee sat, and when she had ended 
 
 Still was mute ; but at length, a;, if a mysterious horror 
 
 Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of 
 the Mowis ; 
 
 Mow is, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a 
 maiden, . _ • " luo 
 
BVANGKLINB. 249 
 
 But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wig- 
 
 wam, 
 
 Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, 
 Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the 
 
 forest. 
 Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird 
 
 incantation. 
 Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a 
 
 phantom, 1145 
 
 That, through the pines o'er her father*s lodge, in the hush of 
 
 the twilight. 
 Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the 
 
 maiden. 
 Till she followed his green and waving plume through the 
 
 forest, 
 And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people. 
 Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened iiso 
 To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around 
 
 her 
 Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the 
 
 enchantress. 
 Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose, 
 Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious sphuidour 
 Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling tlie 
 
 woodland. iim 
 
 With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches 
 Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible wliisj)ers. 
 Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a 
 
 secret, 
 Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, 
 As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the 
 swallow. 1100 
 
 It was no earthly fear. A breath from the ivgion of spirits 
 Seemed to float in tlie air of night ; and she felt for a moment 
 
 ti \ 
 
 m 
 
I 
 
 250 
 
 EVANOKLINK. 
 
 That, like tlie Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantonj. 
 With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had 
 vanished. 
 
 Early upon the morrow the march was resumed, and the 
 
 Shawnee ' '^ ' ii6r> 
 
 Said, as they journeyed along, — " On the western slope of these 
 
 mounk.ins 
 Dwells in his little village the Black Rol)e chief of the Mission. 
 Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus ; 
 Loud lau<<h their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they 
 
 hear him." 
 Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline an- 
 swered, 1170 
 " Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us ! " 
 Thither they turned their steeds ; and l)ehind a spur of the 
 
 mountains. 
 Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices. 
 And ill a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river. 
 Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit 
 Mission. ii76 
 
 Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, 
 Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix 
 
 fastened 
 High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines. 
 Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling be- 
 neath it. 
 This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate 
 arches 118O 
 
 Of its aevial roof, arose the chant of their vespers. 
 Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the 
 
 branches. ' ' . " . - 
 
 Silent, with heads uacovered, the travellers nearer approaching. 
 Knelt on the swarded floor, "and joined in the evening devotions. 
 
EVANORLINE. 
 
 251 
 
 But when the service was done, and the benediction had 
 £allen lisft 
 
 Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands 
 of the sower, 
 
 Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade 
 them 
 
 Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant 
 expression, 
 
 Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the 
 foiest, 
 
 And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wig- 
 wam, iiuo 
 
 There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the 
 maize-ear 
 
 Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the 
 teacher. 
 
 Soon was their story told ; and the priest with solemnity 
 answered . — - ° - • 
 
 " Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriol, seated 
 
 On this mat by my side, where now the maiden repose.s, ii»6 
 
 Told me this same .sad tale ; then arose and continued his 
 
 journey !" 
 Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent 
 
 of kindness ; -' 
 But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter tiie snow- 
 flakes 
 Fall into .some lone nest from which the birds hav(; departed. 
 *' Far to the north he has gone," oontinuod the prie.st : " but in 
 autumn, 1200 
 
 When the chase is done, will return agaiti to the Mission." 
 Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, 
 "Let me remain with thee, for my .soul is sad and afllicted." 
 So seemed it wise and well unto all ; and Ijctiraes on the morrow, 
 
252 
 
 EVANOEMNE. 
 
 Mounting his Moxicun steed, with his Indian guides and com 
 
 paiiions, 
 
 1205 
 
 Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the 
 Miasion. 
 
 Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — 
 Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were 
 
 sprin,i,'ing 
 Green from the gi-ound when a stranger she came, row waving 
 
 about her, 
 Lifted their slender ; hafts, with leaves interlacing, and 
 
 fonuing 1210 
 
 Cloisters for medicant ci-ows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. 
 Then m the golden weather the maize was husked, and the 
 
 maidens 
 Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, 
 But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn- 
 field. 
 Even the blood red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. i2ir. 
 "Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and the prayer 
 
 will be answered ! 
 Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow, 
 See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the 
 
 magnet ; 
 It is the compass-flower, that the linger of God has planted 
 Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey 1220 
 Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. 
 Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion. 
 Gay and luxuriant Ho'vcrs, are brighter and fuller of fragrance. 
 But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly. 
 Only this humble plant can g..ide us here, and hereafter 122.') 
 Crown us with asphodel Uowers, that are wet with the dews of 
 
 nepenthe," 
 
UyANORLlNB. 
 
 2C» 
 
 So camr» the autunui, and passed, and tho winter, — yet 
 
 Gabriel came not ; 
 Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and 
 
 blu(?bird 
 Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet (tabriel came not. 
 But on tho breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted 1230 
 Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or o<lor of V)l()ssom. 
 Far to the north find e;ist, it said, in th.f* Michigan forests, 
 Crabriel had his lodge by th(! banks of the Saginaw River. 
 And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. 
 
 Lawrence, 
 Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from th-? Mission. I2.i.'i 
 When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, 
 She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, 
 Found she the hunter's lodge deserte 1 and fallen to ruin ! 
 
 r • I 
 
 Hi 
 
 Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and 
 places 
 Divers and distant far was seen the v andering maiden ; — 1240 
 Now in the Tents of Grace of the n.cek Moravian Missions, 
 Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army. 
 Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. 
 Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. 
 Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long jour- 
 ney ; 1245 
 Faded wjus she and old, when in disappointment it ended. 
 Each succeeding year stole something away fi'om her beauty, 
 Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the 
 
 shadow. 
 Then there ai)peared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her 
 
 forehead, 
 Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon, 126O 
 As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. 
 
Iflff 
 
 I:! 
 
 
 IIMl 
 
 254 
 
 SVANGELINB. 
 
 T. 
 
 In that delightful land which \h washed by the Delaware's 
 
 waters, 
 (luurdiiig in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, 
 Stands on the banks of the beautiful stream the city he founded. 
 There all the air is bulni, and the peach is the emblem of 
 
 beauty, ' ' i26fi 
 
 And the streets still reecho the names of the trees of the forest, 
 As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they 
 
 molested. • 
 
 There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile. 
 Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. 
 There old Uene Leblanc had died; aiul when lie departed, I2t50 
 Haw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. 
 Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the 
 
 city. 
 Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longei a 
 
 stranger 
 
 And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the 
 
 Quakers, 
 For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, i2ef> 
 
 Where all men were equal, and all were bi'others and sisters. 
 So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavour. 
 Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining. 
 Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and 
 
 her footsteps. 
 As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning 1270 
 Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, 
 Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and handets, 
 So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far 
 
 below lier. 
 Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the pathway 
 Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the 
 
 distance. ,v 1275 
 
tar 
 
 ^ 
 
 EVANGKMKE. 
 
 255 
 
 (Jabriel wjis not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, 
 Clothed in the iK-auty of love and youth, as last she l)ehel(l 
 
 him, 
 Only nuu'e l)eautiful made l)y his deathlike silence and absence. 
 Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. 
 Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but 
 
 transfigured; ' ' ■ 1280 
 
 He had become to her heart as one who is d(34ul, and not 
 
 absent; * < ... . ; 
 
 Patience and abnegation of self, and dev(»tion to others, 
 This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 
 So was her love diffused, but, like to some (nlorous spices, 
 Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma, i-isfi 
 Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow 
 Meekly with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. 
 Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; fre(|uenting 
 Lonel}! and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, 
 Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sun- 
 
 light. 
 
 1290 
 
 Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished nejrlected. 
 Night after night when the world was asleep, as the watchman 
 
 repeated 
 Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, 
 High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. 
 Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the 
 
 suburbs 120.) 
 
 Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the 
 
 market, 
 Met he that meek, pale face, returning l^nie from its watcli- 
 
 ings. 
 
 Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city. 
 Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild 
 J.: pigeons, ^^ .. - -. . ' / • ^ 
 
■1 
 
 2r»r, 
 
 EVANOKLINB. 
 
 l)jiik»'iiin;,' tlio sun in their flight, with naught in their craws 
 
 but an acorn. isoo 
 
 And, as tlit^ tideH of the sea arise in the month of September, 
 
 Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the 
 
 ! leadow, 
 So (loath floodor] life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin, 
 Spread to a brackish lake the silver stream of existence. 
 Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the 
 
 oppresiior 
 
 1806 
 
 But all i)erished alike beneath the scourge of hia anger; — 
 Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither frionds nor attendants, 
 Crept away to <lie in the almshouse, home of the homeless. 
 Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and 
 
 woodlands ; — 
 Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gateway and 
 
 wicket - 1310 
 
 Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo 
 Softly the wordx of the Lord : — '^The poor ye always have with 
 
 you." 
 Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The 
 
 dying 
 Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there 
 Gleams of celestiai light encircle her forehead with splen- 
 
 <1<M', 1315 
 
 Such as the artist paints o'er the })rows of saints and apostles. 
 Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. 
 Unto their eyes it seemed the lar.ips of the city c(!lestial. 
 Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter. 
 
 Mi .III 
 
 u '■ 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 1 
 
 \ 
 
 j 
 
 ? 
 
 
 s 
 
 i 
 
 ; 
 
 i 
 
 Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and 
 silent, 1320 
 
 Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the alms- 
 house. 
 
 Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flower;; in the garden, 
 
EVANaSLINE. 
 
 257 
 
 ^d and 
 
 1320 
 
 alius- 
 
 And she paused ou her way to gathor the fairest among them, 
 That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and 
 
 beauty. 
 Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the 
 
 east-wind, 182g 
 
 Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of 
 
 Christ Church, 
 While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were 
 
 wafted 
 
 Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their 
 church at Wicaco. 
 
 Soft as (Icseending wing.; fell the culm of the hour on her 
 spirit; 
 
 Something within her said, "At length thy trials are 
 
 ended ; " 1330 
 
 And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sick- 
 ness. 
 
 Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants. 
 
 Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence 
 
 Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their 
 
 faces. 
 Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the 
 
 roadside, 1338 
 
 Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, 
 Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her 
 
 presence 
 Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a 
 
 prison. 
 And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, 
 Tjaying his hand upon many a heart, had iiealed it forever. 1340 
 Many familiar forms had disappeared in tlie night time; 
 Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. 
 
 Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, 
 Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder 
 
 M 
 
 ': 1! 
 
 !■ 'I 
 
 17 
 
TT 
 
 258 
 
 UVANOKUNK 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 Mi 
 
 1; 
 
 •,i' 
 
 1 
 
 m 
 
 V 
 
 + 
 
 Rail througli lior frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped 
 froHi her fingers, 1348 
 
 And from her eyes and clieeks the light and bloom of the 
 morning. 
 
 Then there escajrul from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish. 
 
 That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. 
 
 On the pallet Ix'foie h(^r was stretched the form of an old man. 
 
 Long, and thin, and gray were tlie locks that shaded hia 
 temples ; i860 
 
 But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment 
 
 Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood j 
 
 Ho are wont to ho changed the facfs of those who are dying. 
 
 Hot and red on his lij)s still burned the flush of the fever, 
 
 As if life, like tlie Hebrew, witli blood had besprinkled its 
 portals, 1866 
 
 That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. 
 
 Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted 
 
 Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the 
 darkness. 
 
 Darkness of 8lunil)er and death, forever sinking and sinking. 
 
 Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverbera- 
 tions, 1360 
 
 Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that suc- 
 ceeded 
 
 Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 
 
 " Gabriel ! O my beloved ! " and died away into silence. 
 
 Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his child- 
 hood ; . 
 
 Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, isee 
 
 Village, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, walking under 
 their shadow, 
 
 As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. 
 
 Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, 
 
 Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. 
 
KVANQBLINR. 
 
 259 
 
 Vainly lie Htrove tn whisj^or her name, for ihfi aci-otitH rni- 
 
 uttered i87o 
 
 Died on his lips, atid theit motion reveulod what his toiigue 
 
 would huvo spoken. 
 Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling l)Psidp him, 
 Kissed his dying lips, and laid his heivd on her Ixisimh. 
 Sweet was the ligl't of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into 
 
 darkness, 
 As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a caso- 
 
 ment. isrs 
 
 All was endetl now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, 
 All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied lofiging, 
 All the dull, deep pain, a^ (^ ' )nstant anguish of uatit'uce ! 
 And, as she pressed once more the lift;lesH head to her lx)soni, 
 Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank 
 thee 1 " isbo 
 
 1360 
 
 suc- 
 
 Jhild- 
 
 1366 
 
 inder 
 
 side. 
 
 Still stands the forest primeval; but far uway from its 
 
 shadow. 
 Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. 
 Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, 
 In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. 
 Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, isss 
 Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and 
 
 forever. 
 Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy. 
 Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from 
 
 their labours. 
 Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their 
 
 journev ! ' . 
 
260 
 
 EVANOELIKE. 
 
 'lii 
 
 ',1' 
 
 iv 
 
 i:; 
 
 4i, 
 
 Still stands (Ik; foiost primeval ; but under tlie shade of its 
 
 branches 1390 
 
 1 )well8 another race, with other customs and language. 
 Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic 
 Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers frt>m exile 
 Wandered back tx) their native land to die in its bosom. 
 Tn the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; 1395 
 Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of 
 
 homespun,. 
 And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, 
 While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighbouring 
 
 ocean 
 Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the 
 
 forest. 
 
 [. It 
 
SELECTIOJ^S FROM LONGFELLOW. 
 
 THE BUILDERS. 
 
 All are architects of Fate, 
 
 Working in these walls of Time ; 
 
 Some with massive deeds and great, 
 Some with ornaments of rhyme. 
 
 Nothing useless is, or low ; 
 
 Each thing in its place is best ; 
 And what seems but idle show 
 
 Strengthens and supports the rest 
 
 For the structure that we raise, 
 Time is with materials filled ; 
 
 Our to-days and yesterdays 
 
 Are the blocks with which we build. 
 
 Truly shape and fashion these ; 
 
 Leav* no yawning gaps between ; 
 Think not, because no man sees, 
 
 Such things will remain unseen. 
 
 In the elder days of Art, 
 
 Builders wrought with greatest care 
 Each minute and unseen part ; 
 
 For the Gods see everywhere. 
 
 Let us do our work as well, 
 Both the unseen and the seen ; 
 
 Make the house, where Gods may dwell, 
 Beautiful, entire, and clean. 
 
 [281] 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
; i 
 
 
 
 
 il 
 
 ^Kll 
 
 i 
 
 ajHHBr ^t 
 
 li 
 
 olHIL r ! 'AS 
 
 ^^K % 
 
 '■'t 
 
 202 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Else our lives are incomplete, 
 Standing in these w alls of Time, 
 
 Broken stairways, where the feet 
 Stumble as they seek to climb. 
 
 Build to-day, tlipn, strong and sure, 
 With a firm and ample base ; 
 
 And ascending and secure 
 
 Shall to-morrow find its place. 
 
 Thus alone can we attain 
 
 To those turrets, where the eye 
 
 Sees the world as one vast plain, 
 And one boundless reach of sky. 
 
 THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. 
 
 Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, 
 That of our vices we can frame 
 
 A ladder, if we will but tread 
 
 Beneath our feet each deed of shame ! 
 
 All common things, each day's events. 
 That with the hour begin and end, 
 
 Our pleasures and our discontents, 
 Are rounds b\ which we may ascend. 
 
 The low desire, the base design, 
 That makes another's virtues less ; 
 
 The revel of the ruddy wine. 
 And all occasions of excess ; 
 
 The longing for ignoble things ; 
 
 The strife for triumph more than truth ; 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 10 
 
THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 10 
 
 The hardening of the heart, that I 
 
 )riiigs 
 
 Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; 
 
 All thoughts of ill ; all evil <leetls, 
 
 That have their root in thoughts of ill ; 
 
 Whatever hinders or impedes 
 The action of the nobler will ; 
 
 All these must first be trampled down 
 Beneath our feet, if we would gain 
 
 In the bright fields of fair renown 
 The right of eminent domain. 
 
 We have not wings, we cannot soar ; 
 
 But we have feet to scale and climb 
 By slow degrees, by more and more, 
 
 The cloudy summits of our time. 
 
 The mighty pyramids of stone 
 
 That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, 
 
 When nearer seen, and better known, 
 Are but gigantic fiights of stairs. 
 
 The distant mountains, that uprear 
 Their solid bastions to the skies. 
 
 Are crossed by pathways, that appear 
 As we to higher levels rise. 
 
 The heights by great men reached and kept 
 Were not attained by sudden tlight, 
 
 But they, while their cornpanions slept, 
 Were toiling upward in the night. 
 
 Standing on what too l(jng we hore 
 
 With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, 
 
 We may discern — unseen before — 
 A path to higher destinies, 
 
 2G3 
 15 
 
 .'() 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
'■ t r ! I 
 
 264 SELECTIONS FROM LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Nor deem the irrevocable Past 
 As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 
 
 If, rising on its wrecks, at last 
 To something nobler we attain. 
 
 1 
 
 45 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 WHAT THB HEART OP TUB YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
 
 " Life is but an empty dream ! " 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers. 
 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 Life is real ! Life is eai nest ! 5 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 " Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, 
 
 In the bivouac of Life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife 1 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
45 
 
 THE DAY IS Done. 
 
 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
 Act — act in the livin«,' Present ! 
 
 Heart within, and (iod o'erhead ! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We oan make our lives sublime, 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time ;- 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another, 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doin 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 Learn to labour and to wait. 
 
 2(55 
 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 THE DAY IS DONE. 
 
 The day is done, and the darkness 
 Falls from the wings of Night, 
 
 As a feather is wafted downward 
 From an eagle in his flight. 
 
 I see the lights of the village 
 
 Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
 And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 
 
 That my soul cannot resist : 
 
 A feeling of sadness and longing, 
 That is not akin to pain, 
 
 10 
 
 n 
 
\ '. 
 
 ll I 
 
 m 
 
 f 1 
 
 
 
 
 f ^ 
 
 ^3 
 
 i 
 
 )r 
 
 
 4^^ 
 
 
 
 
 h 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 260 BELECJTIONS FROM LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And resembles sorrow only 
 
 As the mist resembles the rain. 
 
 Come, read to me some poem, 
 Some simple and heartfelt lay, 
 
 That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
 And banish the thoughts of day. 
 
 Not from the grand old masters, 
 Not from the bards sublime. 
 
 Whose distant footsteps echo 
 Through the corridors of time. 
 
 For, like strains of martial music, 
 Their mighty thoughts suggest 
 
 Life's endless toil and endeavour ; 
 And to-night I long for rest. 
 
 Read from some humbler poet, 
 
 "Whose songs gushed from his heart, 
 
 As showers from the clouds of summer. 
 Or tears from the eyelids start ; 
 
 Who, through long days of labour, 
 And nights devoid of ease, 
 
 Still heard in his soul the music 
 Of wonderful melodies. 
 
 Such songs have power to quiet 
 The restless pulse of care, 
 
 And come like the benediction 
 That follows after prayer. 
 
 Then read from the treasured volume 
 
 The poem of thy choice, 
 And end to the rhyme of the poet 
 
 The beauty of thy voice, 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
THE PIRE OP DRIFT-WOOD, 
 
 onr 
 
 07 
 
 15 
 
 And the night shall be filled with music, 
 And the cares that infest the day, 
 
 Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
 And as silently steal away. 
 
 20 
 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 
 
 Wo sat within the farm-house old, 
 Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 
 
 Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
 An easy entrance, night and day. 
 
 Not far away we saw the port, — 
 
 The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, — 
 
 The light-house, the dismantled fort, — 
 The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 
 
 We sat and talked until the nig'it. 
 Descending, filled the little room ; 
 
 Our faces faded from the sight. 
 Our voices only broke the gloom. 
 
 We spake of many a vanished scene. 
 Of what we once had thought and said, 
 
 Of what had been, and might have been, 
 And who was changed, and who was dead ; 
 
 And all that fills the hearts of friends, 
 When first they feel, with secret pain, 
 
 Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
 And never can be one again ; 
 
 5 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
268 
 
 SELECTIONS PROM LONGFELLOW. 
 
 * ! 
 
 'm 
 
 The first light, swerving of the heart, 
 
 Tliat words are powerless t«o express, 
 And leave it still unsaid in part, 
 
 Or sav it in too great excess. 
 
 The very tones in which we spake 25 
 
 Had something strange, I could but mark ; 
 
 The leaves of memory seem to make 
 A mournful rustling in the dark. 
 
 Oft died the words upon our lips, 
 
 As suddenly, from out the fire 30 
 
 Built of the wreck of stranded ships. 
 
 The flames would leap and then expire. 
 
 And, as their splendour flashed and failed. 
 We thought of wrecks upon the main, — 
 
 Of ships dismasted, thnt were hailed 35 
 
 And sent no answer back again. 
 
 The windows, rattling in their frames, — 
 
 The ocean, roaring up the beach, — 
 The gusty blast, — the bickering flames, — 
 
 All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 40 
 
 Until they made themselves a part 
 
 Of fancies floating through the brain, — 
 
 The long-lost ventures of the heart. 
 That send no answers back again. 
 
 O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned ! 45 
 
 They were indeed too mucji akin, 
 The drift-wood fire without that burned, 
 
 The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 
 
RlialGNATION. 
 
 269 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 
 But one dead larab is there ! 
 There is no fireside, liowsoe'er defended, 
 
 But has one vacant chair! 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dyinf?, 5 
 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 
 
 Will not be comforted ! 
 
 Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 
 
 Not from the ground arise, 10 
 
 But (jftentimes celestial benedictions 
 
 Assume this dark disguise. 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists and vapours ; 
 
 Amid these earthly damps, 
 What seem to us ])ut sad, funereal tapers 15 
 
 May be heaven's distant lamps. 
 
 There is no death ! What seems so is transition. 
 
 This life of mortal l)reath 
 Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
 
 Whose portal we call Death. 20 
 
 She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 
 
 But gone unto that school 
 Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
 
 And Christ himself d(tth rule. 
 
 In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 25 
 
 By guardian angels led. 
 Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 
 
 She lives, whom we call dead. 
 
I' 
 
 1 
 
 I'-iistm 
 
 270 SELECTIONS FKOM LONOFBLLOW. 
 
 Diiy after day we think what sIjo is doing 
 
 In those bri^^ht reahns of air; 30 
 
 Year after year lier tend«;r stojis ])ursuirig, 
 
 Behold her grown more fair. 
 
 Thus do wc walk with her, and keep unbroken 
 
 The bond which nature gives, 
 Thinking that our renuMubrance, though unspoken, 35 
 
 May reach her where .she lives. 
 
 Not as a child shall we again behold her j 
 
 For when with rajttures wild, 
 In our embraces we again enfold her. 
 
 She will not be a child ; 40 
 
 But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 
 
 Clothed with celestial grace ; 
 And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
 
 Shall we behold her face. 
 
 And though at times, impetuous with emotion 45 
 
 And anguish long suppressed, 
 The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 
 
 That cannot be at rest, — 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
 
 We may not wholly stay ; 60 
 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
 The grief that must have way. 
 
TUK OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 
 
 271 
 
 30 
 
 1, 35 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 
 
 Somewhat back from the villn<^e street 
 Stands thi; old-fashioned country-seat. 
 Across its antique portico 
 Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; 
 And from its station in the hall 
 An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever 1 " 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 Half-way up the stairs it stands, 
 And points and beckons with its hands 
 From its case of massive oak, 
 Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
 Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 
 With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 
 " Foiever — never ! 
 Never — forover ! " 
 
 By day its voice is low and light ; 
 But in the silent dead of night, 
 Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
 It echoes along the vacant hall, 
 Along the ceiling, along the lloor, 
 And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever ! " 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
 Through days of death and days of birth, 
 Through every swift vicissitude 
 Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 
 And as if, like God, it all things saw. 
 
 25 
 

 SELKCTIONS FROM LONGFELLOW. 
 
 It calmly ropcata those words of awe, — 
 *' Ko'over — never ! 
 Novor — forever I " 
 
 In that mansion used to be 
 Free-heart<Ml Hospitality ; 
 Itis j^reat fires up the chimney roared ; 
 The stran^'er fcsistcd at his hftard ; 
 But, like the skeleton at the feast, 
 That warnin*,' tinuipiece never ceased, — 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forev(!r ! " 
 
 There groups of merry children played, 
 There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; 
 O precious hours ! O golden prime, 
 And affluence of love and time ! 
 Even as a miser counts his gold, 
 Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever 1 " 
 
 From that chainher, clothed in white, 
 The bride came forth on her wedding night ; 
 There, in that silent room below, 
 The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 
 And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
 Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 
 " Forever — never I 
 Never — forever 1 " 
 
 All are scattered now and fled, 
 Some are married, some are dead ; 
 And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
 " Ah ! when, shall they all meet again 1 " 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 55 
 
 60 
 
 ' i! 
 
A OLHAM OP Sl'NHIIINB. 
 
 273 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 As in thn days long since gone by, 
 The ancient timopieco makes reply, — 
 " Forever — never I 
 Nrvci- — forever I " 
 
 Nev<;r here, forever there, 
 When* all parting, pain, and care, 
 Aiid death, and time shall disappear,— 
 Forever thei'o, hut never here! 
 The horologe c>f Eternity 
 Sayetli this incessantly, — 
 " Forever— neve; ' 
 Never — forevei . * 
 
 66 
 
 70 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 55 
 
 60 
 
 A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 
 
 This is the place. Stand still, my steed, 
 
 Let me review the scene. 
 And summori from the shadowy Past 
 
 The forms that once have been. 
 
 The Past and Present here unite 
 
 Beneath Time's flowing tide, 
 Lik(; footprints hidden by a brook, 
 
 But seen on either side. 
 
 Here runs tlif- hii'hwav to the town : 
 
 There the green lane descends. 
 Through which I walked to church with thee, 
 
 O gentlest of my friends ! 
 
 The shadow of the linden-trees 
 Lay moving on the grass ; 
 
 10 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 SKr-KCrrOXS from LONOPELt.OW. 
 
 
 Between them and the moving boughs, 
 A shadow, thou didst pass. 
 
 Thy dress was like the lilies, 
 And thy heart as pure as they : 
 
 One of God's holy messengers 
 Did walk with me that day. 
 
 I saw the branches of the trees 
 
 Bend down thv touch to meet, 
 The clover-blossoms in the grass 
 
 Bise up to kiss thy feet. 
 
 " Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 
 Of earth and folly born ! " 
 Solemnly sang the village choir 
 On that sweet Salibath morn. 
 
 Through the closed blinds the golden sun 
 
 Poured in a dusty beam. 
 Like the celestial ladder seen 
 
 By Jacob in his dream. 
 
 And ever and anon, the wind, 
 
 Sweet-scented with the hay. 
 Turned o'er the hyn- ii-book's fluttering leaves 
 
 That on the window lay. 
 
 Long was the good man's sermon. 
 
 Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
 For he spake of Ruth the beautiful. 
 
 And still I thought of thee. 
 
 Long was the prayer ho uttered, 
 
 Yet it seemed not ,so to rae ; 
 For in my heart I prayed with hiio, 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 ^■l: 
 
 ^^1'''^ i 
 
 •1 
 
 And still 1 thought of thee. 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 
 i) 
 
 -■ 
 
 V 
 
15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 
 
 But now, alas ! the place seems changed ; 
 
 Thou art no longer here : 
 Part of the sunshine of the scene 
 
 With thee did disappear. 
 
 Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, 
 Like pine-trees dark and high, 
 
 Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 
 A low and ceaseless sigh ; 
 
 This memory brightens o'er the past. 
 
 As when the sun, concealed 
 Behind some cloud that near us hangs, 
 
 Shines on a distant field. 
 
 273 
 
 45 
 
 no 
 
 55 
 
 30 
 
 es 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE POUTS. 
 
 A mist was driving down the British Channel, 
 
 The day was just begun. 
 And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, 
 
 Streamed the red autumn sun. 
 
 It glanced on flowing flag and ripph'ng pennon. 
 
 And the white sails of ships ; 
 And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon, 
 
 Hailed it with feverish lips. 
 
 Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe and Dover 
 
 Were all alert that day, 
 To see the French war-steamers speed in<:y over 
 
 When the fog cleared away. 
 
 10 
 
276 
 
 SELECTIONS PROM LONGFELLOW. 
 
 I 
 
 :5i 
 
 
 I' 
 ii 
 
 Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 
 
 Their cannon, through the night, 
 Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, 15 
 
 The sea- coast opposite. 
 
 A nd now they roared at drum-beat from their stations 
 
 On every citadel ; 
 Each answering each, with morning salutations, 
 
 That all was well. 20 
 
 And down the coast, all taking up the burdon. 
 
 Replied the distant forts, 
 As if to summon from his sleep the Warden 
 
 And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 
 
 Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 25 
 
 No d rum-beat from the wall, 
 No morning g in from the black fort's embrasure. 
 
 Awaken with its call ! 
 
 No more, surveying with an eye impartial 
 
 The long line of the coast, 30 
 
 Shall the gaunt figure of th(* old Field Marsiial 
 
 Be seen upon his post ! 
 
 For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, 
 
 In sombre harness mailed, 
 Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, 35 
 
 The rampart wall had scaled. 
 
 He passed into the chamber of the sleeper. 
 
 The dark and silent room. 
 And as he entere<l, darker grew, and deeper, 
 
 The silence and the gloom. iO 
 
15 
 
 20 
 
 THE WARDEN OP THE CINQUE PORTS. 
 
 He did not pause to parley or dissemble, 
 
 But smote the Warden hoar ; 
 Ah I what a blow I that made all England tremble 
 
 And groan from shore to shore. 
 
 Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, 
 
 The sun rose bright o'erhead ; 
 Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 
 
 That a great man was dead. 
 
 277 
 
 45 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 If 
 
 ■■•I- 
 
 40 
 
iH 
 
 rif 
 
 ipffl 
 
 Ik' 
 
 >> 
 
 Ij ! i' 
 
 If; 
 
 ■*Tf 
 
NOTES ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 EVANGELINE. 
 
 ORIGIN. 
 
 Hawthorne, the novelist, in liis American Note-Bcoks, writes: 
 " H. L. C. (Rev. Mr. Conolly) heard from a French-Canadian 
 a story of a young couple in Acadie. On their marriage day 
 all the men of the province were summoned to assemble in the 
 church to hear a proclamation. When assembled, they were 
 all seized and shipped off to be distributed through New 
 England — among them the new bridegroom. His bride set off 
 in search of him — wandered about New England all her life- 
 time, and at last, when she was old, she found her bridegroom 
 on his death bed. The shock was so great that it killed her 
 likewise.' 
 
 Hawthorne, despite Mr. Conolly's request, was disinclined 
 to make this story the basis of a romance, and gladly resigned 
 the tale to Longfellow, who at once saw in it spltMidid capal)il- 
 ities for a romantic idyll. Soon after the publication of The 
 Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems, Longfellow began the 
 poem, and in October, 1847, completed it. 
 
 In preparing for the work, the poet drew largely from 
 Haliburton's Historical Account oj Nova Scotia, with its fn;- 
 quent quotations from Abb^ liaynal's sketches (jf life among 
 the French settlers. He may have read also Winslow's narra- 
 tive of the expedition under his command, which, as yet 
 unprinted, was preserved among the archives of the Massa- 
 chusetts Historical Society. Grand-Pre and the Mississippi 
 
 [271)] 
 
? r'r 
 
 280 
 
 NOTES ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 II 
 
 
 
 It ■!•'■■*■ 
 
 m 
 
 he did not visit. Descriptions in books and early Maine 
 associations gave him his conceptions of Nova Scotia and 
 Louisiana scenery. 
 
 VERSIFICATION. 
 
 Longfellow's genius was strongly assimilative rather than 
 creative. From Goethe's Hermann and Dorothea came to him 
 suggestions for the developing of his Acadian storj-^, and from 
 the same idyll he now chose his verse form. The hexameter 
 had long been an English measure, but unpopular and in disuse. 
 Though naturally more rapid in movement than the German 
 hexameter, the rhythmic license of English verse forms, the 
 monotony generally inseparable from long metrical cadences, 
 the comparative insignificance of quantity as a factor in Eng- 
 lish metre together with the great dearth of natural spondees, 
 made it a measure distasteful to poets. And yet in the hands 
 of a great master of melody it has splendid capabilities. No 
 verse form can better embody the epic simplicity of early 
 races, none, with greater naturalness, directness and plainness 
 of manner, reproduce Homeric thought. For free and uncon- 
 strained pictures of lite and incidents in the great external 
 world calling for no power of dramatic interpretation, it 
 possesses a rapidity of movement and a natural dignity that 
 repels the jaunty air and jog-trot of the ordinary ballad 
 measure. 
 
 Longfellow was confirmed in his selection of this verse form 
 by the striking effect of some hexameter lines published in 
 Mackwoods as models for translators of Homer, by the success 
 of his own pre--ic';s experiment with the same metrical instru- 
 ment in • i.ij Cloud, and subsequently to the comple- 
 tion oi ' ' i^ f the success of Clough's Long- Vacation 
 Pastoral. ' classical regularity than Clough, with 
 less force and passion, his verse reaches the ear of the reader 
 with a milder, more tenderly elegant and certainly more 
 
( 
 
 NOTES ON LONGFKLLOW. 
 
 281 
 
 languid effect. At times, it is true, the poet errs ; the line 
 becomes non-rhythmical, prosaic, lunil)ors along unlightojietl 
 by shifting caesura or light spondee ; but on the whole no 
 measure could lend itself more readily to a faitliful interj)reta- 
 tion of that harmony between thought and form, and tliat lin- 
 gering melancholy which so strongly colours the whole poem. 
 The movement to the reader at first seems peculiar — a gradual 
 fall at the close of a verse precedes a sharp re(0\ ory at the 
 beginning of the next verse, whilst throughout the first half of 
 a line the thought seems to rise and swell in preparation for 
 the gradual subsidence in the second half. 
 
 As distinctive features of the hexameter verse, developed 
 and polished by Longfellow, note the epic simplicity, the 
 directness and plainness of manner in 11. 175-197; 555-560; 
 the lingering and, at times, rapid movement in 11. 160-170; 
 752-789 ; the sustained dignity of 11 .1-15 ; the rise and fall 
 of cadence in 790-805; the tender elegance of 11. 806-814; 
 864-882, 890-910. 
 
 The historical circumstances connected with and forming the basis of 
 the story of Evn»geline may be brioHy summarized. 
 
 In the year 1713 Acadia (now Nova Scotia) was ceded to Great 
 Britain by France. The inhabitants — a few French settlers along the 
 Annapolis Basin — were persuaded to take the oath of allegiance to the 
 British Crown only on the condition of l)eing regarded as "neutral.s" 
 in case of a war between the native land and their new mistress. 
 During the long dispute after the 'I'reaty of Aixda-Chapelle (174S) over 
 the northern boundary lines of Acadia the French settlers in Acadia 
 were suspected of conniving witli their fellow-Frenchmen and, in the 
 acute stages of the dispute, of aiding with provisions and aninniuition 
 at the siege of Beau-S^jour. Tlie English colonists determined to rid 
 themselves of such dangerous neighbours. Governor Lawrence, with 
 two English admirals, met in council (17o5) and decided to forcibly 
 remove the French settlers to various parts of the English colonial 
 possessions. By proclamation the French were assembled in church 
 at Grand -Pre, seized and deported — although without the ruthlesa 
 cruelty with which tradition forced Longfellow to dress bis Btory, 
 
 II 
 
 It 
 
 
282 
 
 NOTES ON LONGFKLLOW. 
 
 ii "-f '*' 
 
 p 
 
 
 h 'J 
 
 pi 
 
 1. forest primeval- A forest as yet never disturbed by the 
 axe. 
 
 3. Druids of eld. llecalk the simplicity of the distant past. 
 
 4. Compare with Scott's picture of the Bard in the introduction to 
 
 the Lay of the Last Minnlrel. 
 
 5. An accurate impression of the shores of the Bay of Fundy. 
 
 8. Does this comparison in the guise of a startled deer suggest 
 the tragedy of the story ? Or does it refer merely to the buoyant, 
 vigorous life of the settlers ? 
 
 Compare Tintern Abbey, where Wordsworth speaks of his youth as 
 the time 
 
 When like a roe 
 He bounded o'er the mountains, by the aidea 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
 Wherever nature led. 
 
 16. The refrain of the poem. Nature remains — man, with his joys, 
 his sorrows, " his enduring affections," passes away. 
 
 16-19. Characteristic iterations in Longfellow's verse — even in his 
 hexameters. 
 
 Part the First. 
 
 f 
 
 
 T. 
 
 21. Compare Goldsmith's Traveller: 
 
 Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
 Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po. 
 
 22. Vast meadows. Grand-Pr6. 
 
 29. Blomidon rose, etc. See a sonnet by the Canadian poet, 
 Roberts : 
 
 
 This is that black rock bastion, based in surge, 
 Pregnant with ajrate and with amethyst. 
 
 Whose top austere withdraws into the mist. 
 This is that ancient cape of tears and storm, 
 Whose towering front inviolable frowns 
 O'er vales Evangeline and love keep waru^ 
 
NOTES ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 283 
 
 34. Henry II., III., IV. reigned between 1547 anil IGIO. Acailia 
 was Hrot settled early in the 17th century. 
 
 35, etc. Norman scenes, not altf>gether Acadian. 
 39. kirtles = jacket and skirt. 
 
 43. Compare with the Preacher in Goldsmith's Dt-mrkd Villaijr. 
 
 49. AngeluS Domini is the name given to tlie hell, rung morn- 
 ing, noon, and niglit, to summon the people to prayer, in commemoration 
 of the visit of the angel to the Virgin. Introduced into France in the 
 16th century. 
 
 63. The similes met with in Evanijeline have about them a strained 
 air of simplicity and naturalness. They are subject to tiie liniitationti 
 of all Longfellow's figures of speech. Examine carefully 11. 2U9, 329, 
 352, 444, (JOI 671-2, 771, 781-2, U2.% 10.32-:i3, etc. 
 
 69-80. 'angeline is represented to us herein three distinct scenes, 
 each scene m lis order throwing more into relief her l)eauty of soul. 
 
 87 9. Borrowed from memories of travels in ICurope. 
 
 96. What purpose is served by these freciiient references to Biblical 
 personages or incidents? Discuss the appropriateness of such refer- 
 ences -11. 153, 381, 48(), 507, 597, 620, 821. 
 
 118. Longfellow certaiidy honoured the craft of the blacksmith l)y 
 frequent references to the forge and anvil : 
 
 In Nurimherg : 
 
 As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too tlie nij'stio rhyme, 
 And the smith his iron measures hanimercd to the anvil's chime ; 
 Thanking Ood, whose houndless wisdom makeg the flowers of poesy bloom 
 In the forjje's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 
 
 or in To a Child 
 
 As fjreat Pythafjoras of yore, 
 Standing beside the l)lacksmith's door. 
 And hearing the hanuners as they smote 
 The anvils with a different note, 
 Stole from the \arying tones that hung 
 Vibrant on every ifon tongue. 
 The secret of the sounding wire, 
 And fonned the seven-chorded lyre. 
 
 
 11 
 
 or in The Village Blacksmith. 
 
■ ^ 
 
 284 
 
 NOTES ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 .m 
 
 r 11 u 
 It If" ■ 
 
 pi 
 i a. 
 
 122. plain-SOngf = an old ecclesiastical chant or recitation of the 
 collectB. 
 
 130, 1. Compare The Village Blacksmith : 
 
 And children coming home from school 
 
 Look in at the open door ; 
 
 They love to see the flaming forge 
 
 And hear the bellows roar, 
 
 And catch the burnint^ sparks that fly 
 
 Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 
 
 133. Or, as the French saying expresses it, they were guests going 
 in to the wedding. 
 
 137. In Pluquet's Cont-es Populairea we are told that the mother- 
 swallow seeks on the shore of the ocean a certain small stone wherewith 
 to remove blindness in her offspring. 
 
 144. Pluquet's proverb reads : 
 
 Si le soleil rit le Joar Sainte-Eulalie 
 II y aura pommes et ddre ^ folie. 
 
 (If the sun smiles on Saint Eulalie's day, there will be plenty of apples 
 and cider enough.) — Saint Eulalio's day, February 12. 
 
 159. Our Indian Summer, All Saints Day being Nov. 1. 
 
 170. Herodotus states that Xexes was so enamoured of a beautifnl 
 plane-tree, met with in his Grecian expedition, that he dressed it as one 
 might a woman and placed it un<ler the care of a guardsman. /Eliau 
 adds that he adorned it with necklace and bracelets. 
 
 193, 4. Compare the cadence of the milkmaid's song in Tennyson's 
 Queen Mary, ra. , 5. 
 
 231. Meaning of " jest " here ? 
 
 240. Proclamation of Governor Lawrence, to be read by Col. 
 Winslow, the ofiBcer in command. 
 
 249. Louisl)urg in Cape Breton, a strongly fortified French naval 
 station, built early in the 18th century, was taken in 1745 by an 
 expedition from Massachusetts under General Pepperell. llestored to 
 France against the wishes of the New England colonists by the treaty 
 of Aix-la-Chapelle, it was recaptured in 1757. Beau-S^jour was a 
 French fort upon the neck of laud connecting Acadia with the main* 
 
NOTFS ON T-ONOPELLOW. 
 
 285 
 
 land, which had just been captured by Winslow's forces, despite tho 
 secret assistance given by the French settlers. Port Ivoyal (iifterwardB 
 Annapolis Itoyal) at the outlet of tho Annapolis River into the Bay of 
 Fundy, was attacked by an exi)edition from New England in 1710, cap- 
 tured and retained as a fortified place. 
 
 252. Arms were surrendered as a condition of their being treated av 
 " neutrals " in the wars with New France. 
 
 267. A "notary" is an oiEcer authorized to attest contracts or 
 writings of any kind. 
 
 275. King George's war, 1744-48, or Queen Anne's, 1702-1713. 
 
 280. The " Lonp-garou," or were-wolf, is, according to a well- 
 known French superstition, a man with power to turn himself into a 
 wolf, which he does that he may devour children. Compare "bug- 
 bear." 
 
 282. Possibly, says Pluquet, the appearance and motion of the 
 white fleet ermine gave rise to this superstition. 
 
 284. On the Continent and. among the English peasantry lingered 
 long the belief that on Christmas Eve the cattle in the stables fall down 
 on their knees in adoration of the infant Saviour, as was done — accord- 
 ing to an old legend — in the stable at Bethlehem. 
 
 302. An old Florentine story which has served as the basis of an 
 opera by Rossini (1817). 
 
 376. Premonitions of coming calamities. 
 
 rson 3 
 
 Col. 
 
 IV. 
 
 385 398. This somewhat highly-coloured picture of Acadian life is 
 drawn largely from Abb6 Raynal'a account of these early settlers. 
 
 413. Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres was a song written 
 
 in Henry IV.'s time by Ducauroi : 
 
 Vous connaissez Cybfele, 
 Qui 8ut fixer le Temps ; 
 On la disait fort belle, 
 Mcme dans ses vieux ans. 
 
 Chori'S— 
 
 Ct'tte divinite, quoique dijA j^randintre 
 Avait les yeux doux, le teint frais, 
 Avail ineme certains attruits 
 Fermes oomme la terre. 
 
286 
 
 NOTKS ON LONnKKLtOW. 
 
 
 r >n 
 
 
 i^j 
 
 Le Carillon de Dunkerque wjw a popular 8oii>; to a tune played 
 on the Dunkirk chimeii : 
 
 Impnidcnt, tdm^ralre 
 
 A riimtant, Je I'espfcre 
 
 DariH inon juste coiirroiix 
 
 Tu vftH toml)or sous iiioh coups I 
 
 — lie lirave ta iiieriacc. 
 
 — Ktrc moi I (^upIIc audace ! 
 
 Avance dotui, poltroti ! 
 
 Tu truinblcs? non, tion, non. 
 
 — J'ctonffe (le ooR-re ! 
 
 — Je ris de ta col6re. 
 
 432. This is substantially the atldruss made by Winalow. 
 
 442, etc. This remiiitls one, in thought and form, of Virgil. 
 
 466. tocsin's alarm = an alarm bell. More distinct is the 
 Cilouk's stroke after the uproar of the alarm. 
 
 ▼. 
 
 554. The key-note of Evaiigeline's character. 
 
 570. Poetical exaggeration. 
 
 579- leaguer. Gc ma.ii Lager. The camp of a besieged army, 
 
 605. Benedicite. Bless ye ! 
 
 615- The Titans were giant deities in Greek mythology, who, in an 
 efTort to deprive Saturn of the sovereignty of heaven, were thei'i:^t?lvea 
 subdued by the thunderbolts of Jupiter and driven into 'I'arl/ariis. 
 Briareus, the hundi'ed-handed giant, was of the same parentag- ar, the 
 Titans, though not classed with them. 
 
 619- Colonel Winslow was commanded to deprive those who might 
 escape of all shelter and support. 
 
 621. gleeds. Hot, burning coals. A Chaucerian word. 
 
 653> Many did subsequently return. 
 
 657- The tolling of the bell and the reading of the service book. 
 
I70TB8 ON LONOFRLLOW. 
 
 28: 
 
 e played 
 
 Part the Skcond. 
 
 I. 
 
 ; is the 
 
 rmy. 
 
 >, in ati 
 'i^elvea 
 
 af, the 
 
 might 
 
 6*76. The Missisaippi. 
 
 707- VOyagfeur = a river boatman. 
 
 713. St. Catherine, of Alexandria, wan celehrateil for her vows of 
 virginity. Hence the saying "tobraiil St. Catherine's tresses " of cue 
 devoted to a single life. 
 
 720. Compare Tennyson : 
 
 I hold it truth, whate'er befall, 
 Tis better to have loved and lost. 
 Than never to have lovud at all. 
 
 741. Beautiful River = Ohio, in the Iroquois dialect. 
 
 750. Louisiana though ceded by France in 1 762, did not actually 
 pass into the hands of Spain until 1709. Acadians attracted by the 
 presence of a French population, settled along the river Mississippi, from 
 the mouth about New Orleans, as far north as Baton Kouge and even 
 Point Couple, giving to one shore the name " Acadian coast." Many 
 were sent by the authorities to form settlements in Attakapas and 
 Opelousas. 
 
 765. chutes = rapid descents in a river. 
 768. wimplingr = rippling. 
 
 764. citron = a species of lemon-tree. 
 
 766. Bayou = a channel leading from a river. 
 
 782. mimosa = the sensitive plant. 
 
 873. Ijongfellow, in testing by various experiments the fitness of 
 the hexameter, was struck by the limitations of his pentameter verse iu 
 the description of the mocking-lnrd's song : 
 
 Upon a spray that overhung the stream, 
 The mocking-bird, awaking from his dream. 
 Poured such delicious muHJc from his throat, 
 That all the air seemed listening to his note. 
 Plaintive at first the song begun and slow ; 
 It breathed of sadness and of pain and woe ; 
 Then gathering all his notes, abroad he flung 
 The multitudinous music of his tongue ; - 
 As after showers, a sudden gust again. 
 Upon the leaves shakes dowt> the rattling rain. 
 

 288 
 
 NOTKS ON LONGFFLLOW. 
 
 878. Bacchantes = worshippers of the god Bacchus, who in 
 Greek mythology presided over the vine and its fruits. Such devotees 
 deUghted in all manner of excesses, in song, in dance and revelry. 
 
 M Hi 
 
 )1 i 
 
 iir. 
 
 889. mystic mistletoe. "Mystic," from Druldicassociauous. 
 
 970. ci devant = former. 
 
 1001. VV'hence came the astonishment of Father Felician? 
 
 1025, etc. Nature's moods act and react upon Evangeline, as with 
 sensitive, delicate, psychic power she felt the spirit in the universe 
 •bout lier. 
 
 1033. The Carthusians belong to an exceedingly strict monastic 
 order, founded in the 12th century. Almost perpetual silence is one of 
 the vows of the order. 
 
 1044. See Daniel, v„ 25 
 
 1049. See 1. 16. 
 
 IV. 
 
 1078. The exact situation of this "desert land " is very vaguely 
 defined — in Wyoming or Arliansas. 
 
 1091. amorphas. A leguminous plant. 
 
 1095. Ishmael's children. Who? 
 
 1114. Fata Morgana = a sort of mirage occasionally seen in the 
 Straits of Messina, and less frecpieiitly elsewhere. It consists in the 
 appearance in the air over the sea of the objects which are on the 
 neighbouring coasts. This mirage of terrestrial objects in the sky is 
 quite common in the south-west of the United States. 
 
 1139. These stories •. le poet drew from the same source as his 
 J/ittwdtha legends, viz.: Schoolcraft's A/yic Researches. 
 
 1182. 8U.SUrruS=whisper or murmur. 
 
 1199. Compaie Wordsworth's sonnet, To a Dit</a)it Friend. 
 
 1226. In early Oreek poetry, meadows of asphodel (lily) were 
 haunted by tiie shades of lieroes. Nepenthe was a magic potion of the 
 Homeric days, bringing forgetfuhiess of sorrow. 
 
 1241. A rendering of the Moravian Gnadcnhiitten. 
 
 1244. Compare 1. 1163. 
 
 I 
 
NOTES ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 289 
 
 ociauous. 
 
 1252. Hence the name of the state. 
 
 1253. Philadelphia, with its btreets, Chestnut, Walnut, Locust, 
 Spruce, Pine, etc. 
 
 1257. Dryads = Nymphs of the woods. 
 
 1298. The year 179.3 brought a terrible plague of yellow fever to 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 1308. almshouse. Longfellow said to a journalist in explaining 
 the position of Philadelphia in his tale: " I was passing down Spruce 
 street (in Philadelphia) one day towards my hotel after a walk, when my 
 attention was attracted to a large building with beautiful trees about it 
 inside of a high enclosure. I walked along until I came to the great 
 gate and then stepped inside and looke<l carefully over the place. The 
 charming picture of lawn, flower-beds and shade which it presented mode 
 an impression which has never left me, and when I came to write Evan- 
 geline I placed the final scene, the meeting between Evangeline and 
 Gabriel, and the death at the poor-house, and the burial in an old 
 Catholic graveyard not far away, which I found by chance in another 
 of my walks." 
 
 1328. This church still stands on the banks of the Delaware River, 
 within the city limits. 
 
 1381. Opening refrain repeated. Nature is persistent, man, the 
 individual, has gone. 
 
 1385. Mild pensiveness, so natural to Longfellow, runs throughout 
 this rinal requiem. 
 
 1399. How completely has nature become oblivious of the sad 
 memories of Evangeline. 
 
 THE BUILDERS— 1846. 
 
 This poem in form and tli ught is but a sermon in verse. 
 A simple text is given ; in various ways this text is presented 
 to the reader's mind, and the whole is concluded with an 
 exhortation. Such lifeless material could arouse no spiritual 
 
290 
 
 NOTES ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ft ■ 
 
 #1-1! 
 
 
 r> 
 
 ^ I 
 
 entluisiaam, could represent no poetic inspiration, and must 
 find expression in non-descript metrical form, in prosaic dic- 
 tion, and in trite, if not confused, figurative language. 
 
 3, 4. Have we a contrast presented in 11. 3 and 4 ? 
 
 5, 6. Compare with the Ladder of St. Augustine. 
 
 17, 18. This probably refers to the completeness and faithfulness 
 of Grecian art. 
 
 23, 4. Compare Tintern Abbey: 
 
 Thy mind 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely fonns ; 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies. 
 
 27, 8, Compare with the Ladder of St. Augustine, 
 
 n 
 
 [,m 
 
 1 ( 
 
 j'ljy 
 
 
 kM 
 
 •^1 
 
 liW 
 
 ;*^ 
 
 i 
 
 LI 
 
 II '>■ 
 
 THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE— 1850. 
 
 The tliought of this poem, as with all Longfellow's sermons 
 in verse, is within the common experience of men. In the 
 great economy of natui'e's moral forces, nothing is lost, nothing 
 may return "(Mii])t3' to the void." Mighty influences may 
 shape the soul of Coleridge's Mariner ; but Wordsworth's 
 Milton draws his heroic greatness from the common duties of 
 common life. Evolution, that works amid the agents of the 
 external world, shapes as well the growth of the spirit, and 
 with Longfellow the soul's evolution means at first a blind, 
 almost unconscious, survival from the petty cares of life. 
 Growth brings clearer insight, the clouds roll away from the 
 goal and evolution finally becomes conscious efiort. 
 
 |f — 
 
 1. St. Augustine. One of the greatest of the early Christian 
 fathers (354 4:W A.b.). He has had a vast influence in shaping the 
 
 ruligious tliought of past ages. 
 
 
KOtES ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 291 
 
 2. of our vices, etc. In his sermon, De Asreusione, Augustine 
 says : "De vitiis nostris scalam nobis facimus, si vitia ipsa calcamus. " 
 
 3. Compare Tennyson's In Memoriam, L : 
 
 I held it truth with him who sings 
 To one clear harp in divers tones. 
 That men may rise on stepping-stones 
 Of their dead selves to higher things. 
 
 5, etc. Compare 11. 12, 13, 14, Wordsworth's sonnet, To London, 
 1802. 
 
 16. Such irreverence, says Coleridge, is the basest egotism. 
 
 24. A legal phrase signifying sovereign ownership. 
 
 37. Is this the true conception of great men and their achievements ? 
 
 41. Christian in the Pilgrim's Progress has his burdens rolled from 
 his shoulders. Longfellow would have us share in the struggle to 
 overthrow the world of sense. 
 
 the 
 
 ling 
 
 may 
 
 n'th's 
 
 les of 
 
 the 
 
 and 
 
 |lind, 
 
 life. 
 
 the 
 
 atian 
 the 
 
 THE PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 It is not difficult to account for the extraordinary popularity 
 of this poem. Vv ritten by an American for Americans in this 
 modern industrial age, it echoes in a detached aphoristic way 
 the underlying motifs of the average American life. The text 
 of the psalm is effort, work, growth- good living and good 
 working, and with a simple faith in the homely worth of his 
 sermon the poet abandons all hope of poetic inspiration, 
 descends among men into the prosaic world and in discon- 
 nected figures and lines encourages his fellow- workers. 
 
 The poem waf) written in Cambridge on a bright summer morning in 
 July, 1838. "I kept it some time in manuscript," says Longfellow, 
 •'unwilling to show it to anyone, it being a voice from my inmost 
 heart, at a time when I was rallying from depression." Before publish- 
 ing it in the Knickerbocker Magazine, October, 18;i8, the poet read it 
 to his college class after a lecture on Goethe. The title, though used 
 

 292 
 
 NOTES ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 
 
 s'"-! 
 
 
 ,1 
 
 now exclusively for this poem, was orignally, in the poet's mind, a 
 generic one. He notes from time to time in his diary that he has 
 written a psalm, a psalm of death, or another psalm of life. The 
 psalmist was himself. 
 
 3. Spiritual lethargy is after all the greatest moral wrong. Com- 
 pare Browning's The Statue and the Bztst: 
 
 And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost 
 Is the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin. 
 Though the end in sight is a vice, I say. 
 
 4. Our conception of the world and its problems is a measure of 
 our own enlightenment. ** We receive but what we give." 
 
 5. The moral of life is a never-ceasing struggle — with Longfellow, 
 we cannot say, a cheerful struggle. 
 
 7. Compare Genesis, in., 19. 
 
 13. Point out the intended application of the first half of this 
 aphorism from Hippocrates. 
 
 22, Compare St. Luke, ix., 60. A. similar thought appears in the 
 
 poet's Hyperion : 
 
 Look not mournfully into the Past ! Wisely improve the Present. It is thine. Go 
 forth to meet the shadowy Future without fear and with a manly heart. 
 
 23-24. Discuss the value of this matter-of-fact philosophy of life. 
 
 27-28. Is this the noblest of purposes ? Compare The Builders, 
 11. 15, 16. 
 
 33-4. Compare with the spirit of Browning's Prospice or Crashawe's 
 
 Life that shall send 
 
 A challenge to its end 
 
 And when it oomes, say, Welcome, friend. 
 
 THE DAY IS DONE. 
 
 Longfellow's songs, coloured as they often are by the spirit 
 of Heine and Uhland, possess a more spontaneous, more 
 
NOTES ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 293 
 
 imaginative tone than such didactic lyrics as The Builders, 
 Resignation, Psalm of Life, etc. 
 
 The Day is Done was written in 1844 as a proem to The. Waif, a small 
 volume published by Longfellow at Christmas of that year. 
 
 1-6. Longfellow frequently, too frequently perhaps, refers to the 
 soothing influences of night, its calm, its voices of sorrow and joy, its 
 stars, but these references lack the delicate, aerial touch of Shelley in : 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave, 
 
 Spirit of night ! 
 Out of the misty eastern cave. 
 Where all the long and lone daylight, 
 Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 
 Which make thee terrible and dear. 
 
 Swift be thy flight 1 
 
 7. A shade of sadness, dv.e perhaps to German influences, tinges 
 Longfellow's relations with nature and human life. Compare with 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 25-44. Wordsworth's purpose as a poet was "to console the 
 afflicted ; 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," 
 And of Wordsworth it is said : "The more thoughtful of each genera- 
 tion will draw nearer and observe him more closely, will ascend his 
 imaginative heights and sit under the shadow of his profound medita- 
 tions, and in proportion as they do so, will become more noble and pure 
 in heart." Discuss Longfellow's views of the restorative influences of 
 the ' ' humbler poet " in. the light of these quotations. 
 
 THE FIRE OF DRIFTWOOD. 
 
 Longfellow's diary says t 
 
 "September 29th, 1846. A delicious drive with F. (his wife) through 
 Maiden and Lynn to Marblehead, to visit E. W. at the Devereux Farm 
 by the sea-side. Drove across the beautiful sand ; what a delicious 
 scene ! The ocean in the sunshine changing from the silvery hue of the 
 

 294 
 
 NOTES ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 mi' 
 
 1 ■•■' 
 
 thin waves upon the beach, through the lighter and deeper green, to a 
 rich purple in the horizon. We recalled the times past, and the days 
 when we were at Nahant. The Devereux Farm is l)y the sea, some 
 miles from Lynn. An old fashioned farm-house, with low rooms and 
 narrow windows rattling in the sea breeze." From the drive sprang 
 this poem. 
 
 13, etc. Compare with the manner and pervading tone of More's 
 
 J risk Melodies. 
 
 17-24. Compare, in intensity of feeling, Clough's As Ships Be- 
 calmed at Eve. 
 
 RESIGN ATIOiSr. 
 
 This poem, the first in the group, eu, ''led /j.v tJie Fireside, was 
 written in 1848 after the death of his little daughter, Fanny. In the 
 poet's diary, Nov. 12, he writes : "1 feel very sad to-day. I miss very 
 much my dear little Fanny. An inappeasable longing to see her comes 
 over me at times which I can hardly control. " 
 
 7. Rciohel. See Jeremiah XXXI., 15; Matthew, ii., 18. 
 
 17. Compare Paalm of Life, 11. 7, 8. 
 
 19. elysian. Bllysium was the Paradise of the Greek poets. 
 
 33, 4. Compare The Education of Nature. With Wordsworth, 
 memory also " kept unbroken the bond which nature gives." Tenny- 
 son, In Memoriam, cxx.x., sings of his dead friend : 
 
 Far off thou art, but ever niyrh ; 
 I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 
 I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
 I shall not lose thee tho' I die . 
 
 43. Compare Tennyson, In Menioriam, cxviii.: 
 
 Trust that those we call the dead 
 Are breathers of an ampler day 
 For ever nobler ends. " 
 
 61, 2. Compare Tennyson's In Menioriam, v.: 
 
 I Bomctinies hold it half a sin 
 To put in words the giiet I feel. 
 
 it < 
 
NOTES ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 295 
 
 , to a 
 days 
 some 
 I and 
 )rang 
 
 lore's 
 Be- 
 
 was 
 I the 
 
 very 
 iomes 
 
 arth, 
 nny. 
 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 
 
 The house commemorated in this poem ia the Gold House, now 
 known as the Plunkett mansion in Pittsfield, Mass. , the homestead of 
 Mrs. Longfellow's maternal grandfather, whither the poet went after 
 his marriage in the summer of 1843. The poem was not written, how- 
 ever, till November, 1845, when, under date of the I'Jth of the month, 
 he wrote in his diary: "Began a poem on a clock with the words 
 ' Forever, never,' as the burden, suggested by the words of Bridaine, 
 the old French missionary, who said of eternity : (fent une pendale. dont 
 le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seiilement dans le silence des 
 tomheamx, — Toujours, jamais! Jamais, toujours ! Et pendant ces 
 effrayahlea revolutions, un reprouv4 s^dcrle, ' Quelle heure est-il ?' et la voix 
 d' un autre miserable lui rdpond ' L' Eternitd.' " 
 
 1-5. Longfellow's scenic backgrounds are in harmony with the 
 popular reflections arising from them. He cannot often see into the 
 very life of his environment, nor can he portray the spiritual signifi- 
 cance of any " setting." As a study in " backgrounds " compare with 
 Ozyviandias, quoted elsewhere. 
 
 7, 8. A string from Poe's harp. 
 
 17-22. Recalls More's melodies. 
 
 2t*l. Origin of this figure ? 
 
 41, ©tc. The shifting scenes here remind one of The Hanging of 
 tfie Crane. 
 
 65, etc. Longfellow finds compensation for the sadness of this life 
 in the life to come ; Coleridge draws consolation from the permanence 
 of thought and mind in this life and its continuance hereafter, while 
 Wordswoi-th, rejoicing in the rounding of his manhood hereafter, seeks 
 comfort in natural and earthly joys. 
 
 60. horologe = a time-piece. 
 
 A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 
 
 In the poet's diary, Aug. 31, 1846, we find the following entry : "In 
 the afternoon a delicious drive with F. and 0. through Brookline, by the 
 church and * the green lane ' and homeward through a lovelier line,, 
 with barberries and wild vines clustering over the old stone walla." In 
 this drive lay the suggestion of the. poem.. 
 
296 
 
 NOTES ON LONOFELLOW. 
 
 im 
 
 
 Wf' 
 
 
 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 
 
 This poem was written in Oct. 1852, and published in Put- 
 nairHs Magazine, January, 1853. The warden was the Duke 
 of Wellington, who died in September, 1852. 
 
 A clear conception of the characteristic limitations of Long- 
 fellow's poetic genius might be derived from a comparison of 
 this poem with Tennyson's ode upon the same subject. The 
 most cursory reading impresses one with the fact that in plan 
 Tennyson's poem is moro spontaneously developed and more 
 natural. In it there is no elaborated framework or setting, 
 but a background of forms almost hidden from view by a 
 weight and richness of reflection. In lieu of the finished 
 climaxes and, in some way, picturesque climaxes of Long- 
 fellow, we have a constant ebb and flow of strong emotion. 
 The English poet is hopeful in his solution of the mystery of 
 death. Life in Wellington meant a noble fidelity to truth 
 and duty, and death meant, not utter loss, but growth : 
 
 Nothing can bereave him 
 Of the force he made his own 
 Being here, and we believe him 
 Something far advanced in State, 
 And that he wears a truer crown 
 Than any wreath that man can weave him. 
 
 \ 
 
 V 
 
 ti- - 
 It S 
 
 The world of man and the world of nature sympathize deeply 
 in his loss, and yet find solace and comfort in his departure. 
 Longfellow on the other hand draws but one lesson from his 
 death, and that a stern one. In her decrees, Nature is inexor- 
 able. She continues her course untouched by man's joys or 
 sorrows : 
 
 Nothing in nature's aspect intimated 
 That a great man was dead. 
 
 Again Tennyson — perhaps for particular reasons in this case — 
 is more sincere and consequently more vigorous. Longfellow 
 
NOTES ON LONOFEI-LOW. 
 
 297 
 
 
 I; 
 
 looks in a mild, pensive and general way upon the death of a 
 great man. Tennysion, an Englishman and a patriot, is stirred 
 to the heart by the death of the mightiest of Englishmen. 
 
 Compare the sweep of : 
 
 O fall'n at length that tower of strength 
 
 Which stood foursquare to all tie winds of heaven, 
 
 with 11. 31-32 of Longfellow's poem, or both in conception and 
 cadence, compare 
 
 Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest, 
 
 With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest. 
 
 With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest t 
 
 Mighty seaman, this is he 
 
 Was great by land as thou by sea. 
 
 with the best lines in Longfellow's poem, say 11. 37-40, 45-8. 
 
 Cinque Ports are the five maritime ports of England lying oppo- 
 site the coast of France (1. 9). William the Oonfiueror placed these 
 seaports under the special jurisdiction of a warden with civil, military 
 and naval authority. The appointment, purely honorary since the 
 Stuart days, was abolished upon the death of the ]>uke of Wellington. 
 
 5. Enthusiastic commentatoiti have noted the precision and pic- 
 turesqueness of Longfellow's diction. Criticize such an estimate of his 
 manner by references to epithets like "rippling" (5), "feverish" (8), 
 "impartial" (29). 
 
 12. An invention of the poet. Why appropriate? 
 
 13. COUChant lions. Heraldic term— lying down with head 
 upraised. 
 
 
HI 
 
 riii^~* 
 
 x**^ 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 [Only such works or editions are mentioned here as the 
 editors with tlieir limited purpose found suggestive or helpful.] 
 
 Wordsworth,— 
 
 Globe Edition. 
 
 Arnold's Selections from Wordsworth. 
 
 George's Editions of Prelude and of Prefaces. 
 
 Biography of Wordsworth by Myers, in "English Men of 
 
 Letters" Series. 
 
 Critiques or fugitive essays by De Quiucey, Shairp, Arnold, 
 Button, DeVere, Dowden, Stopford Brooke. 
 
 UOLERIDOK, — 
 
 Glol)e Edition (a scholarly volume). 
 
 Bohn's Library Edition of Biographia Literaria. 
 
 Biography of Coleridge by Traill, in *' English Men of Letters " 
 Series, by Caine and by Brandl. 
 
 Critiques and fugitive essays by Shairp, Dowden, Arnold, 
 Stopford Brooke, Campbell. 
 
 Campbell, — 
 
 Aldine Edition, with Memoir. 
 
 Dr. Beattie's Life of Campbell. 
 
 All editions of the works and biographical notices of Campbell are 
 unsatisfactory. 
 
 Longfellow, — 
 
 Cambridge Edition. 
 
 Biographies by Underwood and Robertson. 
 
 [299] ^ ..