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SELECT POEMS.

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^1

SELECT POEMS

BEING THE

* <

LITERATURE PRESCRIBED FOR THE JUNIOR MATRICULA-
TION AND JUNIOR LEAVING EXAMINATIONS,

1900.

EDITED WITH

INTRODUCTION, NOTES, AND AN APPENDIX

J. MARSHALL, M.A.

English Master Kingston Collegiate Institute,

AND

O. J. STEVENSON, M.A.

English Master St. Thomas Collegiate Institute.

TORONTO :
THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED.

1899.

•»l|Jl.'"^WM

LP,

f'/^ 6/0/

M 35

/ J oo

^"**eifhtZ?""f '%^°' "' '*■' '*""■'""'"' °' ^'^"'«*'*' '" *»^« y«" °ne thousand
eight hunclre,! an.l «,nety-„i„e. by T.,k Co,.,., Cmrk Comi-anv. L.m.tkd, ToroiUo
Ontario, „i the Office of the Minister of Agriculture. '

NOTE.

A few words may be needed to explain the appearance in
this volume of biographical and other notes on ColeriT^ge.
When the present edition was undertaken, Coleridge's Ancient
Mariner and Youth and Age were part of the work prescribed
for Junior Matriculation and Jimior Leaving for 1900. In
May came the decision of the Senate of Toronto University
to drop Coleridge. As the book was intended for use in
other Provinces, as well as in Ontario, the publishers de*
cided to include in the volume the Coleridge selections,
together with the annotations which the editors had com-
pleted when the Senate's order was issued. The notes on
Coleridge follow those on Longfellow and Wordsworth, but
to prevent misunderstanding on the part of the Ontario
student, the text of The Ancient Mariner and Youth and
Age appears in the Appendix.

lo^i^'SH-

CONTENTS.

Introduction : The Study of Poetry

Selections : ■

Evangeline

A Psalm of Life

The Wreck of the Hesperus

The Day is Done -

The Old Clock on the Stairs

The Fire of Driftwood -

Resignation -

The Warden of the Cinque Ports

Excelsior

The Bridge -

A Gleam of Sunshine -

The Education of Nature

She was a Phantom of Deligl

A Lesson

To the Skylark

The Green Linnet -

To the Cuckoo

To the Daisy

To a Distant Friend

England and Switzerland

London, 1802

Upon Westminster Bridge

The Inner Vision -

London, September, 1802

To Sleep

Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge
Notes on Longfellow :

Literature in America -
Biography ....
Chronological List of Chief Works
Characteristics of the Man -
Characteristics of his Poetry -

PAOB

Lonfjfellow I
68

71
73
75
77
79
80
82
84
Wordnworth 87
88
89
90
91
92
93
-• 95

95
96
97
97
98
98
99

'01
104
108
108
113

CONTENTS.

Evangeline

A Psalm of Life -

The Wreck of the Hesperus

The Day is Done

The 01(1 Clock on the Staiis

The Fire ni Driftwood -

Resignation

The Warden of the Cinque Ports

Excelsior

The Bridge -

A Gleam of Sunshine

Notes on Wordsworth :

The Romantic Movement in English Literatun

Biography ....

Characteristics of the Man

Characteristics of His Poetry

The Education of Nature

She was a Phantom of Delight

A Lesson ....

To the Skylark

The Green Linnet -

To the Cuckoo

To the Daisy ....

To a Distant Friend

England and Switzerland

London, 1802

Upon Westminster Bridge

The Inner Vision -

London, September, 1802

To Sleep ....

Within King's College Chapel, ( Cambridge

Notes on Colertuue :

Biography

Ancient Mariner

Youth and Age

Poetic Form :

Versilication

English Metres

PAOB

114

141

144

146

147

152

154 ,

156

158

160

162

167

'75

''*»

17«;

181

184
186

■1

188

190

191

195

197

198

200

202

204

206

205

207

211

226

230
234

CONTENTS.

Vll

Classification according to Thought
Relation of Form to Thought -

Appendix : Selections for Sight Reading—

1. The Ancient Mariner

2. Youth and Age

3. Michael -

4. The Solitary Reaper

5. Village Preacher

6. Matilda and Redmond (Rokeby)

7. Ellen Douglas (Lady of the Lake)

8. To a Mountain Daisy

9. Ode to a Nightingale

10. Sonnet xcviii

11. To a Skylark -

12. Selection from Castle of Indolence

13. To the Muses -

14. Days

15. Night

16. Ultima Thule -

17. To the Cuckoo -

18. Death the Leveller -

19. Strange Fits of Passion

20. She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways

21. A Slumber did n.y Spirit Seal

22. I Travelled Among Unknown Men

PAOB

238 '
240

■ Coleridge

II
Wordsworth
II
Goldsmith
Scott

Burns
Keats
Shakespeare
Wordsworth
Thompson
W. Blake
Emers(m
Whitman
Lowjfellow
Logan
Shirley
Wordsworth
ii
(I
II

^l'

INTRODUCTION.

I.— WHAT IS rOETKY?

The Scientific temper of our time. — The temper of our time is
essentially scientific. The iliscoveries of a host of investigators have
not only passed into the popular mind, but changed its whole attitude.
Where our fathers believed, we ask for cause or reason ; for what they
took on trust, we demand the why and the wherefore. There is nothing,
we feel, which dotis not admit of explanation if investigation could only
come at it. Exceptions may be pointed out which contradict accepted
theories. Such oases necessitate the cori'ectiou bu'' not the abandon-
ment of our idea of law. As Professor Caird has said: "'Under the
acknowledged reign of law the world is a connected drama, in which
there is no place for episodes. " To the men oi science we owe a debt
of gratitude for their contributions to greater clearness and sanity, for
the suppression of many superstitions which impeded the progress of
our predecessors, and for re-calling men from the pursuit o' meta-
physical Will-o'-the-wisps and theological Jack-o'-lanterns to the firm
and certain path of experience.

The appai ent opposition of Science and Poetry. — A lingering super-
stition which science, it would seem, is destined to extirpate, is the love
of poetry. In his Essay on Milton, Macaulay says : '* We think that as
civilization advances, poetry almost necessarily declines. ... In
proportion as men know more and think more, they look less at indi-
viduals and more at classes. They therefore make better theories and
worse poems. They may be better able to analj'ze human nature than
their predecessors. But analysis is not the business of the poet. His
office is to portray, not to dissect. In an enlightened age there will
be much intelligence, much science, much philosophy, abundance of
wit and eloquence, abundance of verses, and even of good ones — but
little poetry."

A more recent writer — Max Nordau — in his book entitled Degenera-
tion, speaks thus contemptuously of the prospect of art: "As to the
future of art and literature, with which these inquiries are chiefly
concerned, that can be predicted with tolerable clearness. I resist the
temptation of looking into too remote a future. Otherwise I should

INTRODUCTION.

• [

perhaps prove, or at least show as very probable, that in the mental life
of centuries far ahead of ns, art and pot-try will occupy but a very
insignificant place. Psychology teaches us that the course of develop-
niont is from instinct t) knowledge, from emotion t;) judgment, from
rambling to regulate*! association of ideas. Attention replaces fugitive
ideation ; will, guided by reason, replaces caprice. Observation then
triumphs ever more and more over imagination, and artistic symbolism,
i.e., the introduction of erroneous personal interpretations of the
universe, is more and more driven back by an understanding of the laws
of nature. On the other hand, the march hitherto followed by civili-
zation gives us an idea of the fate which may be reserved for art and
poetry in a very distant future. That which originally was the most
important occupation of men of full mental development, of the
maturest, best and wisest members of society, becomes little by little a
subordinate pastime, and finally a child's amusement. Dancing was
formerly an extremely important aflair. It was performed on certain
grand occasions as a state function of the first order, with solemn cere-
monies, after sacrifices and invocations to the gods by the leading
warriors of the tribe. To-day it is no more than a fleeting pastime for
women and youths, and later on its last at ivistic survival will be the
dancing of children. The fable and the fairy tale were once the highest
productions of the human mind. In them the most hidden wisdom of
the tribe, and its most precious traditions, were expressed. To-day they
represent a species of literature only cultivated for the nursery. The
verse which by rhythm, figurative expression and rhyme trebly betrays
its origin in the stimulations of rhythmically functioning subordinate
organs, in association of ideas working according to external similitudes,
and in that working according to consonance, was originally the only
form of literature. To-day it is only employed for purely emotional
portrayal ; for all other purposes it has been conquered by prose, and
indeed has almost passed into the condition of an atavistic language.
Under our very eyes the novel is being increasingly degraded, serious
and highly cultivated men scarcely deeming it worthy vi attention, and
it appeals more and more exclusively to the young and to women. From
all these examples it is fair to conclude that after some centuries, art and
poetry will have become pure atavisms, and will no longer be cultivated
except by the more emotional portion of humanity — by women, by the
young, perhaps even by children."

It is true that at the present moment poetry seems extinct, but is this
more than a temporary eclipse ? Does it belong to the infancy of the

WHAT IS POETRY?

race ? Is it an atavistic survival, an anachronism in our modern world ?
Must it be relegated to the nursery like the fable and the fairy tale and
finally disappear like many another thing once beautiful, now antiquated
and obsolescent? Has the king«lom of science come and the kingdom
()f imagination passed away? Will all color be merged in "the drab of
the earnest, prosaic, practical, austerely literal future ? "

Illustration of the difference between Science and Poetry.— In

Literature ami Doyma, Matthew Arnold defines religion as ' morality
touched by emotion " and illustrates the distinction as follows : • * ' By
the dispensation of Providence to mankind,' says Quintilian, 'goodness
gives men most satisfaction.' That is morality. 'The path of the
just is as the shining light which shineth more and more unto the per-
fect day.' That is morality touched with emotion, or religion. ' Hold
off from sensuality,' says Cicero, 'for if you have given yourself up to
it, you will find yourself unable to think of anything else.' That is
morality, 'Blessed are the pure in heart,' says Jesus Christ, 'for
they shall see God.' That is religion. ' We all want to live honestly,
but cannot,' says the Greek maxim-maker. That is morality. 'O
wretched man, who shall deliver me from the body of this death,' says
St. Paul. That is religion. ' W^ould thou wert of as good conversation
in deed as in word ' is morality. ' Not every one that sayeth unto me,
Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth
the will of my father which is in heaven ' is religion. ' Live as you
were meant to live ' is morality. ' Lay hold of eternal life ' is religion.

"Or we may take the contrast within the bounds of the Bible itself.
'Love not sleep, lest thou come to poverty,' is morality; but 'My
meat is to do the will of him that sent me and to finish his M'ork ' is
religion. Or we may even observe a third stage between these two
stages, which shows to us the transition from the one to the other.
' If thou givtst thy suUi the desires that please her, she will make thee
a laughingstock to thine enemies.' That is morality. 'He that
resisteth pleasure crowneth his life.' That is morality with the tone
heightened, passing or trying to pass into religion. ' Flesh and blood
cannot inherit the kingdom of God.' There the passage is made and
we have religion."

Adopting Arnold's simple and effective method, we may define poetry
as thought, science, touched by emotion, and illustrate the difference as
follows : —

The geographer calls the earth an oblate spheroid. That is science.
Wordsworth calls it "the mighty mother of mankind." That is poetry.

tmmm

Xll

INTRODUCTION.

"The sum total of matter in the universe is a constant quantity,"
is science.

The one remains, the many change and pass ; ^

Heaven's li|(ht for ever shines, earth's shadows fly,
is poetry.

"The slightest displacement of matter on the surface of the earth
involves, on tlie theory of gravitation, a readjustment of forces through-
out tlie solar system, " is science.

There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest,
But in his motion like an augel siuga,
Still quiring to the young-eyed chcrubins,
is poetry.

"The energy of the univeise is a constant quantity," is science.

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong,
And the most ancient heavens
Through thee are fresh and strong,
is poetry.

"Change of season, and, consequently, vegetation, are owing to the
earth's annual movement about tlie sun, combined with her inclination
to the plane of lier orbit," is science.

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragance in thy footing treads,
is poetry.

" The earth was originally cast forth from the sun, a glowing mass
nnfit for human or other liabitation. Cooling down, it at length reached
a condition when human beings could api^ear, developed from lower
organisms. The cooling process is still going on and must ultimately
make the planet again unlit for human beings. The race will then
disappear, the earth itself will drop into the sun or be otherwise broken
up, to be again cast forth and re-embodied in new forms." That is

prose.

And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towera and gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples and the great globe itself,
Yea all which it inherit shall dissolve.
And like this insubstantial pager.nt faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stufif
As dreams are made of ; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep
That is poetry.

"With what tenderly reminiscent feelings two i>ld school-fellows
meet after years of separation," is prose.

WHAT 18 poetry]

XIU

We twa hae paidl't in the burn,
From morning sun till dine, ,

But oceans braid between us raired,
Sin' Auld Lan^ Syne,
is poetry.

" Had they never met they wouUl have escaped much sorrow and
anguish, but their latent possibihties of deepest affection would have
remained dormant," is prose.

Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

The thought has been partially suffused and illuminated with emotion.

Had we never loved so blindly.
Had we never loved so kindly,
Never met and never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Here the piercing plaintiveness of the tone will not let us forget either
the lovers' raptures, or the sadness of their separation. That is poetry.

"Honesty is the best policy," is prose almost repellant in its bald
Philistinism. "There is a stream of tendency by which all things
fulfil the law of their being ; " in this we have a perceptible heighten-
ing of the tone. " There is a moral order of the universe which it is a
man's happiness to go along with, and his misery to go counter to."
There is here a further access of emotion, an additional heightening of
the tone, but the passage still falls short of genuine poetry. " Clouds
and darkness are round about him ; righteousness and judgment are
the habitations of his seat." The divine afflatus has breathed upon it,
the passage has been made and we have poetry.

" It is a matter of common observation that mental energy is not a

fixed quantity but varies from day to day, even from hour to hour," is

a plain statement of fact. "Facilities and felicities whence do they

come ; suggestions and stimulations whither do they tend ? " The tone

is heightened, passing or trying to pass into poetry :

The awful shadow of some unseen power

Floats though unseen among us ; visiting

This various world with as inconstant wing

A9 summer winds that creep from flower to flower.

Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower.

It visits with inconstant glance

Each human heart and countenance ;

Like hues and harmonies of evening,

Like clouds in starlight widely spread,

Like memory of music fled.

Like aught that for its grace may be

Dear, and yet dearer for its mjstery.

There the passage has been made an 1 we have poetry.

XIV

INTRODUCTION.

Definil'on of Poetry. — Poetry is thus the enlistment of the emo-
tions in tlie service of truth. It is not elegant trifling, nor is its object
the production of pleasure. When a thought has caught the poet's
fancy, and has been dwelt upon in liis mind — and oidy a Morthy thought
can thus compel attention — until its full signiiicance is revealed, and
there has clustered about it a wealth of happy fancy and apt illustra-
tion, and when the thought thus touched, beautiBed and made effective
by emotion, has been uttered with power to excite like emotion in
reader or hearer, we have poetry. Tliis power of staying the mind
upon a thought till what at first appeared trivial or commonplace is
revealed in a novel and interesting light, belongs in greater or less
degree to all men. If it were otherwise, the enjoyment of poetry
would be limited to its producers. So rare a gift, however, is a high
degree of the power, that in the whole histoiy of world literature,
scarcely a dozen persons have displayed it pre-eminently and with
these few, so incalculable were the moments of inspirp.oion that the
imagination of all peoples has ascribed them to the influence of a power, a
muse, or a god, outside of the poet himself. Tlie enthusiasm of the poet
dififers from fanaticism as radically as does the graceful and luminous
flow of his thought from the movements of the ordinary understanding.
The fanatic, the man of one idea, the crank, admits the value of nothing
but his own pet notion. The ideas of the average "intelligent man"
are a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends, gathered without pur-
pose, arranged in no order, and full of latent and undetected incon-
sistencies and contradictions. From long pondering his thoughts, the
poet sees their many-sidedness, their various applications, their con-
nections with one another, their relative importance and the modifica-
tions necessitated by changing circumstances of person, place, or
time. Poetry is thus, in Shelley's fine phrase, "the record of the best
and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds ; " and its beauty
— the subject of so much learned mystification is neither more nor less
than its consummate justness, its perfect balance, its uneriing felicity,
its " sweet reasonableness." It does not merely convince the intellect,
but touches the heari. It procures acceptance for the otherwise bald
and repellant truth, and wins a joyous obedience to the rule of life
hitherto held arbitrary or irksome. What at any time we have our-
selves feebly and intermittently felt of noble aspiration is here set in
shining lines with perennial power of recalling those feelings so delight-
ful, so elevating, but with us so evanescent. In the animation of mind,
and the bracing of the will which it is thus the function of poetry to

WHAT IS POETRY?

produce, there is, of course, joy, and this is the modicum of truth in
the pleasure tlicory of poetry ; but the former and not the incidental
pleasure is the true end of all art.

Imagination is just this power of vivid realization. It cannot, as
often detined, be the picture-making faculty. That is rather an affair
of memory or fancy. J Jo we not feel that Scott has sacriticed to the
picturesque many of the higher and more essential qualities of poetry,
and that Wordsworth, with much less conmiand of the resources which
Scott employs «o abundantly, in a far truer poet? Imagination shows
itself in two principal ways. Like Wordsworth, the poet may point
out beauties in actual scenes and characters, which the careless eye
would have never seen ; like Shakespeare, he may delight us with a
world whose incidents, characters, and places even, may be wholly
imaginary.

Style is the individual element in poetry. All true poets possess
imagination, and therefore power and charm, but these vary infinitely
with the training, experience and circumstances of the poet himself.
Thf^ style is thus the man — with the same sort of charm for us that an
interesting personality possesses. We all know people in ordinary life
of magnetic personality, as we say. In the tones of their voices, their
smile, their very gestures and actions, there is something unique and
exquisitely attractive. Similarly with the poets ; so finely individual-
istic are their modes of iitterance that it is quite possible for the trained
literary student, by certain well-marked peculiarities of expression, to
tell whether a passage previously unseen is Carlyle's or Browning's or
Tennyson's. It is true that this may be done quite mechanically and
without any feeling for the more elusive but more valuable qualities
of a poet's style. Just as many peoitle are able to ** spot " an Alma-
Tadema by his marble, without any real appreciation of his power, so
they are able to spot a passage from Browning or Tennyson. The
ease with which the superficial manner may be parodied, while what is
essential in the poet's work is entirely missed, shoM's the worthlessness
of all external study of style. Time spent on niceties of diction, rhythm
and imagery is time wasted if it does not bring us in contact with genius
itself, and enable us to obtain the incentive and stimulus which it is the
power of a great and dominant personality to impart.

Poetry the complement of Science.— Poetry is not, therefore,
antagonistic to science, but complementary. In Wordsworth's fine
phrase it is "the impassioned expression which is in the countenance
of all science, the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge." Science

XVI

INTRODUCTION.

appeals to the intellect ; i)oetry, to the reason vitalized by emotion.
Science forniiilutes, poetry suggestH. Science is ahstract ; poetry,
concrete. Science analyzes, poitry combi.ies. Science presents
fractions ; poetry, wholes. Science deals with facts, as facts, while
for poetry tiio ideal is the fact. Science bids us see, in particular
things, not ideals, but merely examples of general classes. Poetry is
constantly striving to give

To one brief moment cftii(,'ht from fleeting time,
The appropriate calm of bleut eternity ;

and to get us to see and to reverence beauty and goodness, as facts of
life, as truly as baseness and vulgarity. Poetry, in short, gives us
more of life than prose ; gives it with less distortion, and gives it more
attractively. Though the present dearth of even tenth-rate poets
would seem to make for their theories, the truth, we feel, is not with
Macaulay or Nordau. Scientitic advance is constant and regular.
Literary revivals cannot be predicted, but return, in its own good time,
poetry certainly will— changed, perhaps, in form, but with all its
pristine power of bringing joy to man and calming ' ' the weary strife of
frail humanity. "

II. — POKTRY IN THE ScHOOLS.

Our lack of culture.— The object of putting poetry on the school
curriculum is that the civilization of the future may be higher than
that of the present. Matthew Arnold has deplored the Englishman's
inability, as compared with the German, to find enjoyment in anything
but business. In an address delivered to the New England Association
of Colleges and Preparatory Schools, last October, and published in the
School Review for December, Professor George Harris, of the Andover
Theological Seminary, made a similar comparison between the German
and the American. "Think now," he said, "of the men you meet,
professional and business men. . . . Few of them have acquaint-
ance with literature, music or art ; their principal reading is the
newspapers. . . . They nearly all talk shop— the dullest kind of
talk, . . . How many men know or care anything about music.
. . . In comparison with the Germans we suflfer in this respect.
They have their defects and limitations, but they have aesthetic appre-
ciation and enjoyment. They love good music. They are constant
attendants on concerts and operas. Small towns have good orchestras
that render classical compositions, which, not only to university men,
but to the people generally, are a delightful and indispensable part

:*i

POETKY ly THE SCHOOLS.

XVll

y emotion.

presents

tcts, while

particular

Poetry is

xs facts of
gives us
ts it more
ivte poets
uot with
regular,
ood time,
h all ito.
' strife of

e school

ler than

shman's

nything

ociation

in the

ndover

jierman

meet,

quaint-

is the

ind of

music.

spect.

appre-

tistant

estras

men,

part

of life. ... A similar contrast'exista in respect to art and literature.
The Germans have something wc have not. They are more aisthetic,
more ideal than we. An American is a practical man ; a shrewd man ;
an enterprising man. Many a German is a man of culture. . . .
They have more intereats which are above tiie utilitarian." What
is true of England and the United States, is far more deplorably
true of Canada. As a people, our one conception of blessedness is
that of making money. Impervious to ideas, in spite of our boasted
modernity, — mainly imitative, by the way, of the United States, —
medisevalism, economic and social, is rampant among us. With all the
hard unintelligence with which even friendly foreigners have charged
our race, we seem to be losing its moral earnestness, if our public life be
any criterion. With little or no appreciation of literature, art or music,
our spare time is given to the newspapers and the trashy magazines,
dinners and suppers, whist parties and balls, the lodge and the farce
or salacious play. Nor is the life of the feminine half of our people
much more attractive. Practically divorced from her husband's society,
through his engagements at the lodge or the club, and thrown back upon
the companionship of women as badly trained as herself, the average
woman occupies her leisure in gossip about her neighbors, more or less
ungenerous ; in receiving and retuining the calls of a list of acquaint-
ances, carefully selected with reference to their social position ; in
reading the society columns of the newspapers and noting the doings of
the social big ones ; in shojiping and conferences with the dressmaker ;
and in fussy and unprofitable church work. It is to save the future
generations from the hard unintelligence, the crude materialism, the
false estimates, the conventional standards and the immense ennui of
the present, that poetry is prescribed.

Poetry as a Mental Discipline. — As a mere intellectual training
the study of literature will compare favorably with any other subject
on the school curriculum. Mathematics tends to make the mind exact.
The classics, in addition, give a knowledge of human nature. Science
cultivates and strengthens the powers of balancing probabilities and of
observation. Literature combines with the exactness of mathematics,
the observation of science and the knowledge of human nature fostered
by the classics, a flexibility of intelligence not otherwise so raadily
obtainable/ A pupil for example last term gave "sovereign nun" as
an equivalent for " imperial votaress " in Shakespeare's "the imperial
votaress passed on in maiden meditation fancy free." Is the tact that
tells one that " sovereign nun " for "imperial votaress " is absurd, not

■IP

XVlll

INTRODUCTION.

worth acquiring? Might one not he a fair mathematician and not
have it? WiMild not a very slight acquaintance with the way men
have expressed themselves i:; literature prevent such a hhuulor ? Indeed
for practical life, more than anything else are required the animation
of mind, the multiplying of ideas, the promptness to connect in the
thoughts one thing with another and to illustrate one thing by another,
to know when an author is at his best and when he is not to be trusted,
what to keep and what to reject, which it is the function of literature
to give and which the man of one book or no book never obtains.

Poetry as Formative of Character. — Far more import>ant however
is the influence of poetry on the spirit and character of man. Familiarity
witli poetry tends to make us feel that anything harsh, false, distorted
or violent must be contrary to man's true life and thus makes possible a
self-correction and readjustment of the highest possible value. Shelley,
speaking of the influence of poetry, says : " These and corresponding
conditions of being are experienced principally by those of the most
delicate sensibility and the most enlarged imagination ; and the state of
mind produced by them is at war with every base desire. The enthu-
siasm of virtue, love, patriotism, and friendship, is essentially linked
with such emotions, and whilst they last self appears as what it is,
an atom to a universe." " Good poetry," says Matthew Arnold, "does
undoubtedly tend to form the soul and character ; it tends to beget a
love of beauty and truth in alliance together ; it suggests, however
indirectly, high and noble principles of action, and it inspires the
emotion so helpful in making principles operative." "To be incapable,"
says Wordsworth, " of a feeling of poetry, in my sense of the word, is
to be without love of human nature and reverence for God."

III. — The Teaching of Poktrv.

The constant aim of the teacher of literature should be to communi-
cate to his class not the bare thought, but as much as possible of the
author's spirit. Any method that interferes with this is a false method.
In Ontario, indeed, we have had an exaltation of method over matter,
and a little siniplitication would not be out of place. Don't employ too
learned a jargon. Don't talk about the "intellectual analysis," the
'spiritual interpretation,' "the intensive study of literature," and
what not. Don't lose yourself and your pupils' interest at once, by too
minute an examination of words and phrases ; it is the author's spirit,
not his words, that you are to rest your mind upon. Teach the sub-
stantial meaning of the poem, but do not give your pupils the impression.

THE TKACHINO OF POETRY.

XIX

in and not

Q way men
3r ? Indeed
i animation
nect in the
by another,
be trusted,
f literature
tins.

nt however
Familiarity
e, distorted
s possible a
3. Shelley,
-responding
f the most
the state of
The enthu>
ally linked
what it is,
^Id, "does

;o beget a
however

spires the
iicapable,"

e word, is

communi-
ble of the
e method.
;r matter,
nploy too
'sis," the
ire," and
e, by too
r's spirit,
the sub-
pression,

by laying too much stress on the central idea, that the concrete fulnesfl
of the poct'd thought may be boiled down to a formula, dried, labelled
and pigeon-holed. Study the order and connection of ideas, but do
not set up a logical guillotine, and imagine that when you have sliced
a poem up you have communicated its spirit to your pupils. The
most important part of method is the teacher's own preparation.
Scudder, Longfellow's biographer, tells a pretty story about the poet's
Maidenhood, which well illustrates the point : "Once when it (Maiden-
hood) was printed in an illustrated paper, it fell into the hands of a poor
woman living in a sterile portion of the North-West. She had papered
the walls of her cabin with the journals which a friend had sent her,
and the poem with its picture was upon the wall by her table. Here, as
she stood at her bread-making or ironing, day after day, she gazed at
the picture and read the poem, until by long brooding over it she under-
stood it and absorbed it as people rarely possess the words they read.
The friend who sent her the paper was himself a man of letters, ard
coming afterwards to see her in her loneliness, stood amazed and
humbled as she talked artlessly to him about the poem, and disclosed
the depths of her intellig* .ice of its beauty and thought." There is the
true method suggested. Ponder what you are about to teach until you
have absorbed it, and then artlessly disclose its beauty to your class.
Saturated with the feeling and thought of the poem, and keeping clear
the communication of that thought and feeling to your class as your
main object, your intelligence and experience will readily suggest a
method. It is not, of course, to be expected that what you have your-
self won by long meditation reinforced by the accumulated reading of
years, can be communicated in one or in many lessons, but an impetus
can certainly be given to the better pupils that they will never after-
wards lose. It is a common experience that the pieces of literature
learned in youth are those to which we return with greatest pleasure
in after-life, and the teacher who does not allow his own enthusiasm to
die out need not despair of opening for his pupils a fountain to which in
after-life they may again and again return for fresh draughts of joy and
strength.

'I II'

,;^ iF '

"7.::

■iir

LONGFELLOW.

EVANGELINE.

A TALE OF ACADIB.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and th«

hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the

twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand Hke harpers hoar, ^rith beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring

ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the waU of the
forest.

This is the forest primeval ; but virhere are the hearts that
beneath it

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice
of the huntsman ?

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian
farmers, —

Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the wood-
lands.

Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an imaire ^
heaven? *

Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever
departed !

Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of
October

Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er
the uceoiCL

Naughty but^^ition remains of the beautiful village of

I* '

■ u

*4 1

a . UMTOFSLLOW.

Te who believe in affection that hopes, and endnres, and if

patient,
Te who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's

devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the

forest ;
Liist to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

PART THE FIRST.

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, »

Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pr^

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-

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
Spreading afar and unf «inced 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

Atlantic m

Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their ctation

deeoend e d.

I',

>( i

■TAHOBLnn.

, and ii

roman's

of the

inas, M

I to the

'.vvS

without

labour

eflood-

»'er the

ds and

to the

■ 5

ontains

mighty

ctatiqn

-m

There, in the midBt of its f amu, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly built 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 36

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 spinning the

golden 40

Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within

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.
Reverend walked he among them ; and up rose matrons and

maidens, 45

Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.
Then came the labourers home from the field, and serenely the

sun sank
Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the

belfry
Softly the Angelas sounded, and over the roofs of the village
Colunms of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, so
Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and

oontentment

11 ^

.X:-^

^^^'^Z"^

* LONOFBLLOW.

Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, —
Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free

from
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of

republics.
Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their

windows ; 66

But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the

owners ;
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of

Minas,
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Fr^,
Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing his house-
hold, eo
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow

flakes;
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as

the oak-leaves.
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers ; 66
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 her 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-brewed a]e, ah ! fair in sooth was the

maiden. 70

Fairer was she when, on Sunday mom, while the bell from iti

turret

armers, —
they free

) vice of

3 to their

rts of the

aundance.
Basin of

Dd-Pr^,
his house-

16 village.
J winters;
ith snow

brown as

imers ; «6
[thorn by

'n shade

in the

Inoontide
Iwas the

from iti

Evangeline.

TO FACE PAGE 4

fpT

I Mi

§\

|! «

'»■

^^ ^

i !

' 'I

■TANOKLINB.

Sprinkled with holy sooncU the air, as the priest with his
hyssop

Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,

Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads
and her missal, %^.</^"i 1r*n'-

Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of bine, and the ear-
rings, 78

Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-
loom.

Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.

But a celestial brightness — a more ethoreal beauty —

Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after con-
fession.

Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon
her. 80

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite
music.

Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; and a shady / .^^
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around ^^^ .^\^

it
Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a foot-
path 86
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the 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 go
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the

horses.
Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the bam«
and the farm-yard-;

LoiravBUiOw.

yV-^i-

\ i

!! 1

There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique plougha
and the harrows ;

There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered
seraglio,

Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cook, with the self-
same 96

Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.

Bursting with hay were the bams, themselves a village. In
each one

Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and a staircase.

Under the shelt«ring>'eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.

There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent
inmates loo

Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes

Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of
Grand-Pr^

Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed hig house-
hold.

Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his
missal, 105

Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion ;

Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her
garment !

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.

Bttt) among all who oame^ young Gabriel only was weioome ;

10 A

mwAMQJtujsm,

Gabriel Lajeonesae, the son of Basil f^he blacksmith, ill

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. Their children from earliest

childhood
Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father

Felician, itt

Priest 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 the daily lesson completed,
Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.
There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold

him 126

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

darkness
Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny

and crevice, i8o

Warm by the forge within they watched the labouring bellows,
And as its panting ceased, and the sparks: expired ia tk j ashes.
Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.
Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of tlu eagle,
Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the

meadow. ]3g

Oft in- the bams they climbed to the populous nests on the

rafters,
Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the

swallow

:! i

8 LOKGFBLLOW.

Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its

fledglings; ^

Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow !
Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were

children. 140

He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the

morning.
Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into

action.
She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.
" Sunshine of Saint Eulalie " was she called ; for that was the

sunshine
Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with

apples ; us

She too would bring to her husband's house delight and

abundance.
Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.

1 1

i •»

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 leaden air, from the ice-
bound, IM

Desolate 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 the angel.

All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.

Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their
honey lu

Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters assertod

Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. ^

li^ aI

KTAVOKLINB.

colder

Snoh was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful
season,

Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-
Saints !

Filled was the air with a drcuiny and magical light ; and the
landHcape iso

Lay aa if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.

Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the
ocean

Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony
blended.

Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-
yards,

Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the oooing of
pigeons, IM

All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the

great sun
Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapours

around him ;
While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,
Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the

forest
Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles

and jewels. 170

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and still-
ness.

Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight
descending

Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the
homestead.

Pawing the ground they came, and resting thei^ necks on each
other,

, '; IS'

' .1:1'

LONOFBLLOW.

-il

111

And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness ol
evening. W

Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,
Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from

her collar.
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.
Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the

seaside,
Where was their favourite pasture. Behind them followed the
watch-dog, 180

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 j
Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their

proticotor.
When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the
wolves howled. iss

Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the

marshes.
Laden with briny hay, that flllod 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 poa 'erous

saddles,
Painted with brillant dyes, and adorned with tassels of
crimson, 190

Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.
Patiently stood the cows mtianwhile, and 3rielded their udders
Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud and in regular cadence
Into the sounding pailifi the foaming streamlets descended.
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard m the farm-
yard, IM
Echoed back by the bams. Anon they Mttk int(» stillneBa ;

mWAMQWUMM.

ihnefw of
in
ifer,
^ed from

3tioii.
from the

>wed the

180

e of his

uuperbly
lers ;
t; their

tnoe, the

186

om the

id their
a'eroua
ssela of

190

ossoms.
udders
sadence
ed.
farm-
los
Hness;

HeftTily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the bam>

doors,
Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent

In-doora, yr&rm by the wide-monthed fireplace, idly the
farmer
Sat in his elbow-ohair, and watched how the flames and the
smoke-wreaths 200

Struggled together like foes in a burning oity. Behind him,
Nodding and mocking along the wall with gesturea fantastic,
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into dark-
ness.
Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his aim-chair
Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the
dresser aos

Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sun-
shine.
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,
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

ceases, tu

Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the

altar,
9o, in each pause of the song, with measored motion the
clock dicked.

ill '

1 '

LONOrBLLOW.

Thus as thej Rat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly

lifted,
Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung hack on its

binges.
Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the black-
smith, 220
And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.
" Welcome ! " the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused

on the threshold,
« Welcome, Basil, my friend 1 Come, take thy place on the

settle .
Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of

tobacco ; 225

Never so much thyself art thou as when, through the curling
Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and jovial face

gleams
Bound and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the

marshes."
Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the black-
smith,
Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fire-side : — 2S0
"Bonedict Bellefontaine, thou hast over thy jest and thy ballad!
Ever in the cheerfuUest mood art thou, when others are filled

with
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horse-

shje."
Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought

him, 286

And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he Si^wly

continued : —
''Four days now are passed since the English ships at thei»

anohon

■VANOBUNB.

8iidd&nl;y

;k on its

he black-

nth him.
s paused

) on the

)ut thee;
box of

220

B curling
Tial face

t of the

le black-

): — 280
^ballad!
ure filled

Bm.

a horse-

bronghl

SSft

8i»wly
it thei»

Ride in the Gaspereau's month, with their cannon pointed

against us.
What their design maybe is unknown; but all are commanded
On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's

mandate S40
Will be proclaimed as law in the land.^ Alas ! in the mean-
time „

Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people/'

Then made answer the farmer : — " Perhaps some friendlier

purpose
Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in

England
By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, 245
And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and

children."
** Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the

blacksmith.
Shaking his head as in doubt; then, her.ving a sigh, ho

continued : —

•• Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau S^jour, nor Port Royal

Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its out-
skirts, 260

Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow.

Arms have been taken from us, and v. arlike weapons of all
kinds ;

Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge 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 flocks and our
cornfields, 266

Safer within these peaceful dikes besieged by the ocean.

Than our fathers in iovta, besieged by the enemy's cannon.

Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow

Ill

tli

:5 I

B w

■

lifl

Ji i

LONOPILLOW.

\y^'

\?.

A.'

Fall on this house and hearth ; for thip ia the night of the

contract.
Built are the house and the bam. The merry lads of the

village MO

Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe

round about them,
Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelve*

month.
Ren^ Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhom.
Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our

chUdrenI"
As aparf-. by the window she stood, with her hand in her

lover's, MS

Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had

spoken, ,

And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.

IIL

Bent like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean.
Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary

public ;
Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken doss of the maize,

hung 870

Over his "^ .oulders ; his forehead was high ; and glasses with

horn bows

Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supemaL
Father of twentv children was he, and more than a hundred
Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watoh
Vfj.,^^ ' tick.
Four long years in the times of war had he languished a
captive, 276

Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the
y.tigliiyti,

i
i

BTANOILINl.

Now, though warier grown, without all gvile or siupioiaii,
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-garo^ in the forest, ' sso
And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,
And of the white L^tiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened
Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of

children ;
And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable.
And ho^' the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nut-

And . iil.xj marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and

horseshoes.
With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.
Then up rose from hia seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,
Knocked ''rom his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his

right hand,
" Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, " thou hast heard the talk

in the village, 280

And, perchance, caust tell us some news of these ships and

their errand."
Then with modest -e-iia*--- .nor made answer the notary public, —
''Gossip enough ' a. • V iic-ard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;
And what ^heir t •" 'K' niay be I know no better than others.
Yet am I not of those v' i* imagii:«e some evil intention 205

Brings them here, for ve are at peace ; and why then molest

usi"
"Qod's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible

blacksmith ;
"Must we in alJ ^.hings look for the how, and the why, and the

wherefore i
Daily injustice is -i: ?'.«, aii/l might is the right of the strongest!"
But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notair

public.— m

LONOFKLLOW.

I I'll !

¥..i f

'li

*' Man is unjuat, but God is juat ; and finally jostioe
Triumphs; and well I reinomber 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. ao6

" Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,
Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice
Stood in the public square, uphoklir , vhe scales in its left hand,
And in its right a sword, as an emh.f at justice presided
Over the laws of the land, and the he; js and homes of the

people. 'sio

Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the

balance,
1 1 aving no fear of the aword that flashed in the sunshine above

them.
But in the course of time the laws of the land 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 noblemanV

palace 8is

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 fi)iin 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, SW
Ix) ! 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 belo'v the clattering scales of the

balance,
And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie^
Into whose clay-built wails the necklace of pearls was

inwoven.

BTANOIURB.

loled me^

Royal."

repeat it

iras done

806

member,

ft hand,
resided
s of the

'810

I of the

le above

rrupted;
pressed,

lemanV

816

oion
lold.
d,

istioe.

bunder
its left

of Ui«

Is was

Silenoed, but not convinced, when the storj wm ended, tlu)

blacksmith
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but ILidoth no

language ;
All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the

vapours
Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.

Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, sso
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in tlie village

of Grand-Pr^;
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhom,
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties.
Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in
cattle. 885

Orderly all things proceeded, and duly ana well were completed,
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.
Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table
Three times the old man's fe j in solid pieces of silver ;
And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bride-
groom, 840
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.
Wiping 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 comer.
Soon was tlie game begun. In friendly contention the old
men 845
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre.
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

rT^T y

'ii

: mr

m
1 1

r !

f' f

l!i<l

liOHGFBLLOW.

Over the pallid Ma and the silvery mist of the meadows, ato
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belf r)> \i

Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway y

Rose the guests and departed ; and silence reigned in the '
household. m

iiiny a farewell word and sweet sood-night on the door-
step

Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with glad-
ness.

Carefully bhen were covered the embers that glowed on the
hearth-stone,

And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.

SooD with a soundleiJs step the foot of Evangeline fol-
lowed, 860

Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,

Lighted less by the lamp than th« shiniiig fact*, of the maiden.

Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the dour of her
chamber.

Sim|. b ihat chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its
clothes-press

Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully
folded 166

Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.

This was the prncious dower she would bring to her husband
in marriage.

Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her akill as a
house- wife.

Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the melUiw and radiant
mooij light

Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the
heart ««£ the maiden no

IfAHOBUVB.

Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremnloos tides of the

ocean.
Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with
Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming fl(joi of her chamber 1
Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard.
Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and

her shadow. 876

Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness

Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moon-
Ught

Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.

And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon
pass

Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her foot-
steps, MD

As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with
Hagar.

nr.
Pleasantly rose next mom the sun on the village of Grand-
Prrf.
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 clamorous

labour sso

Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the

morning.
Now from the country around, from the farms and neighbouring

hamlets.
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.
Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young

folk
Made thn bright air brighter, as up from the numerous

meadows, nt

LONOFELLOW.

Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the
greensward,

Group a£ter group appeared, and joined, or passed on the high-
way.

Loug 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. 896

Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;

For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together.

All things were held in common, 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 ; 400

Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and
gladness

Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.

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 priest and the notary

seated ; 604

There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.
Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the

beehives,
Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and

of waistcoats.
Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his

snow-white
Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly faoe of the

fiddler tto

Qlowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown finom the

embers.
Gkyly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle^

STANOBLUfB.

Tous lea Bourgeois de C/iortres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque^
And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the musia
Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 4i6
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 blacksmith !

So passed the morning away. And lo 1 with a summons

sonorous 4to

Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum

beat.
Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in

the churchyard,
Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on

the headstones
Garlands of autumn-leayes and evergreens fresh from the

forest.
Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly

among them 426

Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor
Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and (case-

(ment, A^r-v^'^''^ ^ Vv^^-v^ , -.k, tA.A>^^t.:i

Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the

soldiers.
Then uprose theircommander, and spake from the steps of the

altar, " ' l^ ^^--^ *•*-' -^'^ H' '^''^ m

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,

LOlfOPBLLOW.

Let yonr own hearts reply! To my natural make and lAj
temper

Painful the task is I do, which to you I know mast be
grievous. IM

Tet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of oar monarch:

Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all
kinds

Forfeit(M] be to the crown ; and that you yourselvet from thia
province

Be transported to other lands. Gk>d grant you may dwell
there

Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people! mo

Prisoners now I declare you, for such is his Majesty's pleasure I"

As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,

Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hail-
stones

Beats down the farmer's com 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 enclosorea ;

So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the
speaker.

Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then
rose

Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,

And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-
way. 4M

Vain was the hope of escape; and ones and fierce imprecations

Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o'er the heads of
tlie others

Rose, with his arms uplift<ed, the figure of Basil the black-
smith,

.jt, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.

ITANaiLINI.

Flashed was his face and distorted with passion ; and wildly

he shouted, — 4M

" Down with the tyrants of England ! we never have sworn

them allegiance !
Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and

our harvests ! "
More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a

soldier
Smote him upon the month, and dragged him down to the

pavement

In the niidst of the strife and tumult of aagrjr oonten-
;|^;^ tion, ^iiAjo •'- ^^'^^^ '^ l*^^**^^. ««

' "• Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician
Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence
All that clamourous throng; au. thus he spake to his people ;
Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and

mournfal Mb

Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum^ distinctly^ the clock

striKes.
" What is this that ye do, my children ? what madness has

seized you t
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 my vigils and prayers and

privations 1 470

Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness )
This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you pro*

fane it
Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred 1
Lo ! where the crucified Christ from His cross is gazing upon

you!

LONGFELLOW.

Beef in those sorrowful eyes what meeknera and holy
oompassion ! 471

Hark I how those lips still repeat the prayer, *0 Father,
forgive them ! '

Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,

Let us repeat it now, and say, ' O Father, forgive them ! ' "

Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his
people

Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate out-
break, 480

While they repeated his prayer, and said, " Father, forgive
them 1 »

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 4^9

Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with

devotion translated, 4M

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
children.

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 iti
windows.

(

.#'

Long within hnd been spread the snow-white oloth on the table ;
There stood the ^^heaten Ioa|t and the honey fragrant with

wild flowers ;
There stood tlie t ankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought' ,{

from the dairy ; ^wvthti r<-vv^,v^vio/^^*V. vvvtla 495

And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of the

farmer.
Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset
Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial

meadows. c-^^

Ah I on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,
And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial

ascended, — 6ou

Oharit meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and

'ienoe I

Then, aii-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village.

Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the
women,

As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed.

Urged by their household cares and the weary feet of their

children. 6O6

Down sank the great red son, and in golden, glimmering

vapours
Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet 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; and in vain at the door and the

windows 610

Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion
"Oabriell" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no

answer

A A.

tONOFBLLOW.

Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of

the living.
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantleF 4 house of her

father.
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board ly&s the supper

untasted. 615

Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms

of terror.
Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.
In the deed of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fall
Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the

window.
Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing

thunder ' 620

Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world He

created !
Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of

heaven ;
Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered

tUl morning.

Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now on the fifth
day
Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-
house. 628
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession.
Came from the neighbouring hamlets and farms the Acadian

women,
Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea>

shore,
Pausing and looking back to gaze onoe mure on their dwellings,
Bre they were shut from sight by the winding road and the
' woodland. sao

farm-

626

580

Close At 5Heir sid^s their children ran, and urged on the

oxen,
While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of

playthings.

Thus to the Gaspereau's month they harried ; and there on

the sea-beach
Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.
All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats

ply; 6SS

All day long the wains came labouring down from the village.
Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,
Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the

churchyard.
Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the

church-doors
Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy

procession 640

Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.
Even as pilgrims, who Journey afar from their homes and their

country.
Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and way-
worn,
So with rtongs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended
Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and

their daug^iters. 54l

Foremost the yoimg men came ; and, raising together tlioir

voices,

Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions :

" Sacred heart of the Saviour ! O inexhaustible fountain !
Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and

patience ! "
Then the old men, as they marcher'., and the women that stood

by the wayside m

LONGFELLOW.

Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine

above them
Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.
Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction, —
Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached

her, 656

And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head- on his shoulder, and

whispered, —
" Gabriel 1 be of good cheer I for if we love one another
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may

happen 1 " . MO

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 fire from his eye,

and his footstep
Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his

bosom.
But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced

him, 666

Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed

not.
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful pro-
cession.

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of em*
barking.
C* Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion

Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late^

saw their children

1 1

Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.

■YANOBLINB.

em«

nro
fttie&

So anto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,

While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her i

father.
Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the

twilight '\t''

Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refluent "^ i)

ocean 676

Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach
Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp ^nd the slippery sea- „ i

Farther 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, 680
Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.
Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean.
Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.
Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from ir

pastures ;
Sweet was the moist e* ^1 air with the odor of milk from their

udders ;
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the

farm-yard, —
Waited and looked in vain for the voice ard the hand of the

milkmaid.
Silence reigned in the streets ; from tb: church no Angelus

sounded,
Hose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the

windows.

680

Bat on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been

kindled,

Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in
the tempest.

MHQFBLLOW.

"fc

\i» -l

Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,
Voices of women ware heai-d, and of men, and the crying of

children.
Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his

parish, tm

Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and

cheering, ^^JjW

Like unto shipwreck(Mi Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.
Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her

father.
And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man.
Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or

emotion, 600

E'en as 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, he

spake not,
But, with a vacant stare, ever giued at the flickering fire-light.
" Jicr MJiciM / " murmured the priest in tones of comptission. eo6
More he fain would have said, hut his heart was full, and his

accents
Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a

tlireshold.
Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence ot

8onx)w.
Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden.
Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above

them 810

Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of

mortals.
Than sat he down at her side, and they wept together in

•ilenoe.

.L .J

BTANOBLINI.

Saddenly rote from the south a light, as in autumn the

Wood-red /

Moon olimbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon
Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and

meadow, «i8

Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows

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
r ^^r r hands of a martyr. <no

^y^ Then as the wind seized the gleed s and the burning thatch,

and, uplifting.
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred

house-tops
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flames intermingled.

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and
on shipboard.
Speechlciss at first they stood, then cried aloud in their an-
guish, «25
" We shall behold no more our homei; in the village of Gri id-

Pr<!"
Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,
Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the lowing of cattle
Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.
Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping^^-
campments y .' ^^-^ 'i^\ oso

Par in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,
When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of
the whirlwind,

'!*^-'

.v-^A^

r (

LONaFGLLOW.

Or the loud bellowing herds of buflfaloes 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. 68B

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless the priest and

the maiden
Gazed 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 priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden
Ejielt 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. Otf

Faces of friends she beheld, that were moumfidly gazing upon

her,
Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looKs of saddest compassion.
Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscapei
Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around

her.
And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. «0
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 pciest. And there in haste by the

sea-side,

r '

BTANOEUNB.

Having the glare of the huming village for funeral torches,
But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Prtf.
And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,
Lo ! with a mournful sound like the voice of a vast 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 harbour.

Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in

ruins. mi

PART THE SECOND.

Mant a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand*

Pr^,
When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed.
Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile,
Exile without an end, and without an example in story.
Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed ; ero

Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from

the northeast
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of

Newfoundland.
Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to

From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas, x^^^-^

'ExQiOi the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father '
of Waters fe.ii^^^^^^'^'iV^ " »

LONQFBLLOW.

Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to thfl

ocean, i

Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of tlie

mammoth.
Friends they sought and homes ; and many, despairing, heart-

broken,
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a

fireside.
Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the church-
yards. 680
Long among them was seen a maiden wlio 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 suflfered
before her, 686
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.
Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, un-
finished ;
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, 690
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 within

her.
Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,
She would commence again her endless search and endeavour; 696
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.

lYANOBLIKB.

Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,
Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward, too
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and

known him.
But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten.
"Gabriel Lajeunesse!" the" said; "Oh, yea! we have seen

him.
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the

prairies ;
Coureurs-des-bois are they, and famous hunters and trap-
pers." 706
" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said others j " Oh, yes ! we have seen

him.
He is a voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana."
Then would they say, " Dear child 1 why dream and wait for

him longer 1
Are there not other ^ uths as fair as Gabriel ? others
Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal 1 710
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee
Many a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and be happy I
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. TIB

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 with a smile, "O daughter ! thy God thus speaketh within

thee!
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; 7«o
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of re-
freshment ;

LONOriLLOW.

That which the fountain sends forth returns again to th«

fountain.
Patience; accomplish thy labour; accomplish thy work of

affection !
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is god-
like, m
Therefore accomplish thy labour of love, till the heart is made

godlike,
Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of

heaven ! "
Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline laboured and

waited.
Still in her heart she heard the funeral dir'ge of the ocean.
But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered,

" Despair not ! " 780

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 changeful year of exist-

ence;

But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the
valley : 736

Par 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 sylvan glooms that
conceal it.

Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ;

Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an out-
let. 740

«• ^!^ 'i"^

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,

iSVAMOKLINB.

Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian ^o/i ooxen.

It was a band of exiles: a raft, an it were, from the ship-
wrecked 748

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

A-

.xL.

cyv^.-gay,
J tjf*^^ Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred

farmers
On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. 760
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 turbulent river ;
Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its

l)orders. ;^// •- "" "

Now through rushing cl^utes, among green islands, where

.-.^^

plumelike

766

•V-

'^^^.J^'' Cotton-trees, nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the
current, . \

► Then -^merged into broad iagoons, where silvery sand-bars ,>\'i
Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their

**-•••«*- i„p. r

margin.
Shining with gnow-white plumes, 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 Gk)lden Coast, and groves of orange and

citron, ^>^''^'V^-^"^ '''^^-
Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward, m

r '

LONOFBLLOW.

.<^,

•Vv

They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering the Bayou

of Phuiuornine,
Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters,
Which, like a netwi»rk of steel, extended in every direction.
Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the

cypress
Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air 770

Waved like banneis thjit hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.
Deathlike the silence seemed, and un})roken, save by the herons
Home to t.heir roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset,
Or by the owl, as lie greeted the moon with demoniac laughter.
Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the
water, 776

Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the

arches, ,

Down through whose broken vaults it fell 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, —

forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot bejsoijir
passed. 780 ^

As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof f\i\ the turf of the prairies, ^
Far in advance are closed the leaves o^ the shrinking mimosa,
So, at the hoof -beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil.
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has at-
tained it.
But EvaoLreline's heart was sustained by a vision, that
faintly 788

Floatecl before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the

miKinlight.
It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a
phantom.

r "

Bayou

h
bion.

of the

770

sdrala.
berons
set,
ghter.
n the

776

g the
ihinks
roand
d sad-

780 ^

:ries, ^
mosa,

1,
u at-

that

785

1 the
of a

V.*:

BTAHOIUiri.

Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before

her, r^M' 1

And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and
nearer.

Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one qf the

oarsmen, 790

And, as a signal sound, if others like them perad venture ,

Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on

his bugle.

Wild through the 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 stirred to the

music. 796

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance.
Over the w< >.ery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches ;
But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the darkness ;
And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the

silence.
Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed through the

midnight, 8oo

Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boatsongs.
Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers.
While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of

the desert.
Far off, — indistinct, — as of wave or wind in the forest.
Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim

alligator. 80fi

Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades ; and

before them .. v^i | i^" /

Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. H''^-"*^ ' "^^vf
Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations
Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus

"^'j,

LONOFEIiLOW.

Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen, sic
Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blos-
soms.
And with the heat of noon ; and numbe^l?ss sylvan islands,
Fragrant and thickly embowered witli blossoming hedges of

roses,
Near to whose shore they glided along, invited to slumber. ^
Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were sus-
pended. 816
Under the boughs of Wachita willows, tha,t grew by the margin,
Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the

greensward.
Tired with theii uiidnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered.
Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar.
Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the
grapevine 820

Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob,
On whose pendaJous stairs tlje angels ascending, descentliug.
Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to

blossom.
Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered be-
neath it.
Pilled was her heart with love, and the dawu of an opening
heaven 825

Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celesriai.

Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless ^Islands,
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water,
Urged 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. sao

At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and

careworn.

BVANGEMIfB.

Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sad

ness

Somewhat beyond his years on liis face was legibly wnttcn.
Gabriel was it, who, weavy with waiting, unha^jpy and t*estless,
Sought in the Western r/ilds oblivion of s^^lf and of sorrow, sii.-i
Swiftl}' they glided along, close under the lee of the island,
But by the opposite bank, and behind a scieen of palmettos ;
So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the

willows ;
All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were

the sleepers j
Angel ot God was there none to awake^i the slumbering

maiden. 840

Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the

prairie.
After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the

distance,
As from a magic trance the dxoapers awoke, and the maiden
Said with a sigh to the friendly piiest, " Father Felician !
Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders, ou
Is it a fooli'^h dream, an idle and vague supei tition 'i
Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?"
Then, with :; blush she added, "Alas for my credulous fancy I
Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning."
But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he

answered, — g50

" Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor are they to me with-
out n^eaning.
Feeling is deep and still ; and the word that floats on the

surface
Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is

hidden.
The-ef<ir«^' trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illit.

tdODJL

LONGFELLOW.

Qabriel truly is near thee ; for not far away to the south

ward, 868

On the banks- of the, TSche, are the liiowns of St. Maur and St.

Martin.

There tlie long- wandering bride shall be given again to her
bridegroom,

There the long-absent pastor regain 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 860

Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.

They who dwell theie have named it the Eden of Louisiana."

With these words of cheer they arose and continued their
journey.
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon
Like a magician extended liis golden wand o'er the landscape; 8C5
Twinkling vapours arose ; and sky and water and forest
Seemed all on fire 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 STreetness. 870

Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling

Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around
her.

Then from a ncighhouring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of
singers,

Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,

Shook from his little throat such iloods of delirious music, 878

That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent

to listen.
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring lo mad-

neu

BVANORLIHC

Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.

Single notes were thon heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation ;

Till, having gathered them all, he flung them al>road in
derision, 880

As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops

Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the
branches.

With such a pi-elude as this, and hearts that throbbed with
emotion,

Slowly they entered the T^che, v.here it flows through the
green Opelousas,

And, through the amber air, above the crest of the wood-
land, 886

Saw the column of smoke that arose from i neighbouring
dwelling ; —

Sounds of a horn iuey heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.

mad-

III.

Near to the banks of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks from
whose branches
Garlands of Spanisli moss and of mj'stic mistletoe flaunted, D
Such as the Druids cut down with goMon hatchets at Yule-
tide, 890
Stood, secluded and still, the house of tlie herdsman. A garden
Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms,
Filling the air with fragrance. Tlie house itself was of timbers
Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carofull}' fitted together.
Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns sup-
ported, 896
Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a l:)ro;\d and spacious veranda,
Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it.
At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden,
Stationed the dove-cots were, as lover's per[)etu;il symbol,
Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals, too

y-f

V-

LONGFELLOW.

Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow an«) sunshine

Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the house itself was in
shadow,

And fi'om its cliimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding

Into tlie evening aii-, a thin blue column of smoke rose.

In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a path-
way go6

Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless
prairie,

Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending.

Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas

Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the
tropics,

Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines. »io

Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,

Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,

Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.

Broad and biown was the face that from under the Spanish

sombrero

Gassed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its
master. 9i6

Round about him were numberless herds of kine that were
grazing

Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapoury freshness

That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landch

scape.
Slowly lifting the hmn that hung at his side, and expanding
Fully his bn ad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded 920
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the

evening.

Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle

Rose like flakes of toam on the adverse currents of ocean.

Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er tho
prairie,

BTANGEUNB.

the

And the whole majss became a cloud, j. shade in the dis-
tance. 021
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.
Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and

forward
Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder ;
When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the black

smith. 980

Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.
There in an arbor of rosea with endless question and answer
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 not ; and now dark doubts and

misgivings 935

Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,
Broke the silence and said, ** If you came by the Atchafalaya,
How have you nowhere encountereil my Gabriel's boat on the

bayous 1 "
Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed.
Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous

accent, 940

"Gonet is Gabriel gonet" and, concealing her face on hia

shoulder,
All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and

lamented.
Then the good Basil said, — and his bsart 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 my herds and my

horses. Mi

LONQFBLLOW.

Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit

Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.

Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,

Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,

He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, 954

Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent

him
Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mul s with the Spaniards.
Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,
Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.
Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover; 966
He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are

against him.
Up and away to-morrpw, and through the red dew of the

morning.
We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison."

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the
river,

Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler. 9(Jo
Long under Basil's roof had he lived, like a god on Olympus,
Having no otliei- care than dispensing music to mortals.
Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.
" Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Acadian minstrel!"
As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; and straight-
way 966
Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old

man
Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil enraptured,
Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,

Laughing loud a: id long, and embracing mothers and daughters.

Much they marvelled to see the Avealth of the ci devant black-
smith, 970

Ail his domaina and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanour ;

i '

PfANOBLlNB.

liters.
)lack-

970

nour ;

and the oU-

Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the £

mate,
And of the prairiea, whose numberless herds were his who

would take them ;
Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do

likewise.
Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy

veranda, 976

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, and illuming the landscape with silver.

Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; but within
doors, 980

Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmer*

iiig lamplight.
Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herds^

man

Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless pro-
fusion.

Lighting his pipe that was filled with sweet Natchitoches
tobacco,

Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they
listened: - 985

*' Welcome once more, ray friends, who long have been friend-
less and homeless,

Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than
the old one 1

Here no hungry winter congeals our })k)od like the rivers ;

Here no stony ground provokes the; ^\ rath of the farmer ;

Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel

through the water.

00(1

All the yeiir round the orange-groves are in blossom ; and
grass grows

LONQFBLLOW.

More in a aingle night than a whole Canadian summei.
Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the

prairies ;
Here, too, lauds may be had for the asking, and forests of

timber
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed int-o

houses. 9M

After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with

harvests.
No King George of England shall drive you away from your

homesteads.
Burning your dwellings and barns and stealing your farms and

your cattle."
Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his

nostrils,
While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the

table, 1000

So that the guests all started ; and Father Felician, astounded,
Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuil' half-wiy to his nostrils.
But the brave Basil 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 I"

Then there were voices heard 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 summoned all to the house of Basil the herds-
man. 1010
Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbours :
Friend clasped friend in his arms ; and they who before were
as strangers.

w_^

BTANOBLINB.

rer !

1005

nut-
steps

mda.

ters,
lerds-

1010
ira:
I were

Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other,

Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.

But in the neighbouring hall a strain of music, proceeding ioi6

From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle,

Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted,

All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the mad-
dening

Wliirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music,
Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering gar-
ments. 1029

Meanwhile, apart^ at the head of the hall, the priest and

the herdsman
Sat, conversing together of past and present and future ;
While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her
Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music
Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sad-
ness lOU
Game o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the

garden.
Beautiful Wi.s the night. Behind the black wall of the forest.
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of

the moonlight,
Lake the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious

spirit. 1080

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 way, like a silent Carthusian.
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and

night-dews,
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical

moonlight lOM

LON(JPKLLOW.

Seemed to inundate her soul witL indefinable longings,

Aa, through the garden gate, and beneath tae shade of the

oak-trees,
Passed slie along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies
Gleam and float away in mingled and infinite numbers. 1040
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 the walls of that temple,
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin."
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-
flies, 1046
Wandered alone, and she cried, " O Gabriel ! O my beloved I
Art thou so near unto lue, and yet I ciiniiot behold thee 1
Art thou so near unto mo, and yet thy voice docs not reach mel
Ah ! how (jften thy feet have trod this path to the prairie !
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

theeT'
Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded
Liko ;i flute iti the woods ; and anon, through the neighbouring
thickets, 1056

Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.
" Patience ! " whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of

darkness ;
And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To*
morrow 1 "

KTANOKLINI.

To<

Bright roM ihe aim next day ; and all the flowers of the

garden
Batlied his shining feet wich their tears, and anointed his

tresses loeo

With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of

crystal.
"Farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy

threshold ;
•• See that you bring ua the Prodigal Son from his fasting and

famine,
And, too, the Foolish Virgin who slept when the bridegroom

was coming."
" Farewell ! " answered the maiden, md, smiling, with Basil

descended loea

Down to to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were

waiting.
Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine,

and gladness.
Swiftly tliey 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 the day that succeeded, 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
Rumours alone were their guides through a wild and desolate

country ;
Till, at the little inn, of the Spanish town of Adayes,
Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous

landlord, io76

That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions,
Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies.

LONOPBLLOW.

IV.

Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains

Lift, through perpetual snowa, their lofty and luminous sum-
mits.

Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a
gateway, 1O8O

Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's waggon,

Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee.

Eastward, 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-qui-bout and the Spanish
sierras, ' lose

Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the
desert.

Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend.to the ocean,

Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibra-
tions.

Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful
prairies,

Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, lODo

Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.

Over them waiidei'ed the buffalo herds, and the elk and the
roebuck ;

Over tliem 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, i09e

Staining the desert with blood ; and above their terrible war-
trails

Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,

Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,

'• 1

BTANOBLIMB.

By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.

Here and there ris(^ smokes from the camps of these savage
marauders ; iioo

Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift running
rivers ;

And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,

Climbs 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 Qod inverted above them. iioe

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Moun-
tains,

Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.

Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil

Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him.

Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his
camp-fire mo

Rise in the mocning air from the distant plain ; but at night-
fall,

When they had read led the place, they found only 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 them. ins

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently
entered

Into their little camp an Indian woman, whose features

Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience aa great as her
sorrow.

She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people.

From the far-ofP hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, 112c

LONGFELLOW.

fii'i

Where her Canadian husband, a ooureur-des-bois, had been

murdered.

Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and
friendliest welcome

Gave they, with words of ciieer, and she sat and feasted
among them

On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.

r>ut 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 wher« the
quivering fire-light

Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, aid their forms wrapped vp
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, iiso

All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and
reverses.

Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to knovr that another

Hapless heart lik^ her own had loved and had been dis-
appointed.

Moved to the depths of hor soul by pity and woman's compas-
sion,

Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near
her, 1186

She in turn related her love and all its disasters.

Mute with wonder ^hi' Sh.'iwnee 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 ;

Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a
maiden, iiM

■TA5GELIN1.

ii^

Bub, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wig«
wam,

Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,
Til' she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the

forest.
Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a v^eird

incantation.
Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wtoed by a

phantom, 1146

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,
iVnd nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people.
Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened 1150
To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around

her
Rberaed 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 mystei'ious splendour
Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing anc filling the

woodland. ii56

With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, an<l the branches
Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.
Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a

secret,
Subtle sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,
As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the

swallow. ugo

It was no earthly fear. A breath from tlio region of spirits
Sft«}med to float in the air of night ; and she felt for a moment

r)6

LONOFBLLOW.

That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom
With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had
vanished.

Early upon the morrow the march was resumed, and the

Shawnee ii65

Said, as they journeyed along, — ** On the western slope of these

mouutrins

Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission.O^^^ ^^T^
Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus ; V^' t
I^oud laugh 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 behind a spur of the

mountains,
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,
And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river.
Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit
Mission. 1175

Under a towering oak, that stood ii the midst of the village,
Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A cru.cifix

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 liso

Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,
Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the

branches. ' Ar\^fi^^:^

Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers nearer approaching.
Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotiona.

f (

■VANOBLINB.

.165

tn-

170

lit

175

>
IX

')^

Gut when the aervice was done, and the beiiedictien had

fallen iiss

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 tlio

forest,
And, with woi-da of kindi^oss, conducted them into his wig-
wam. 1190
There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the

maiz i-- .
Feasted, and siaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the

teacher.
Soon was their story told ; and the priest with solemnity

answered : —

.;i;'/," Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated

On this n:.at by my side, where now the maiden reposes, ii96
Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and continued his

joui-ney ! "
Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent

of kindntiss ;
But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-
flakes
Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.
" Far to the north he has gone," continued the priesi; ** but in
autumn, 1200

When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission."
Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,
" Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted."
So seemed it wise and well unto all; and be times on the morrow,

■^r

LONOPKLLOW.

Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and com-
panions, 120i
Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the

Mission.

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each otiier, —
Days and weeks and months ; and the fields of maize that were

springing
Green from the ground whei\ a stranger she came, now waving

above her,

Lifted their slender rh.ifts, with leaves interlacing, and

forming 1210

Cloisters for medicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.

Then in 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. 121.5
"Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and thy 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

magncb ;
This 18 the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted
Here in tiie iio useless 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 flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,
But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.
Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter 1226
Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of
nepenthe."

ITANQBUmL

r.9

So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter, — yet

Gabriel came not ;
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and

bluebird
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not.
But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted 1230
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom.
Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests,
Gabriel had his lodge by the bp.nks of the Saginaw River.
And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of

Lawrence,
Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from th'i Mission.
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 deserted and fallen to ruin !

St.

123S

Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and
places
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden ; — 1240
Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek 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 ; 1246
Faded was she and old, when in d-sappointment it ended.
Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty,
Leaving behind it, broader ard deeper, the gloom and the

shadow.
Then there appeared ajad spread faint streaks of gray o'er her

forehead,
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon, i2n
As in the eastern &ky the first faint streaks of the morning.

LONOFBLLOW,

In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's

waters,
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apos£le,
Stands on the banks of the beautiful stream the city he founded.
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of
beauty, 1255

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 Peiui a home and a country.
There old Ren<5 Leblanc had died; rv.d when he departed, 1200
Saw at his side only one of all his hundi-ed descendants.
Something at least there was in thf: friendly streets of the

city,
Something that spake to hci heart, and made her no longer a

tranger ^
Ajnd her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the

Quakers,
For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 1265

Where all men were equal, and all were brothers 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 her.
Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the pathway
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the
distance. igu

G
C

EVANOELINB.

Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image,
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld

him,
Only more beautiful made by 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 ; 128O

He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not

absent ;
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices.
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. i28fi
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 ; frequenting
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city.
Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sun-
light, isit
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
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 1295

Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the

market,
Mot he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watch-

ings.

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city,
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of
pigeons,

wild

LONGFELLOW.

Darkening the sun in their flight, wfih naught in theii orawg

but an acorn. isoo

And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the

rieadow,
So death flooded 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

oppressor ; 180B

But all perished alike beneath tlie scourge of his anger ; —
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
Crept away to die 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 words 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 celestial light encircle her forehead with splen-

dor, 1316

Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial,
Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter. ^

Thus, on a Sabbath mom, through the streets, deserted and
silent, 14SI

Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the alms-
house.

Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowery in the garden,

EYANORLINE.

And she paused on her way to gather 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, is28

Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from tho 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 descending wingo fell the calm of the hour on her
spirit ;

Something within her said, "At length thy trials are
ended ; " isso

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, i336

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,
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. 1340
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the 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 ahuddei

LONOFKLLOW.

Ran througli her frame, and, forgotton, the flowereUi dropped
from her fiiigdrs, iSM

And from her eyos and cheeks the light and bloom of the
morning.

Then thn*; Gscai> 'd from her lipa a cry of siicli terrible anguish,

That the dying lioanl it, and stai-tcd up from their pillows.

On the pallet bet\)io her was stretched tlio form of an old man.

Long, and thin, and gray wcie the locks that .shaded his
temples ; 1360

But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment

Seemed to assume once more the fonua of its earlier manhood ;

So are W(mt to bo changed the faces of those who are dying.

Hot and red on his lips still burned Uic flush of the fever,

Ab if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its
portals, ' 1866

That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over.

Motionless, senseless, dj'ing, he lay, tuxd his spirit exhausted

Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the
darkness.

Darkness of slumber 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, i86s

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 bedsida

ITAMOBLINB.

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents an-
uttered is7t

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue
would have spoken.

Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him.

Kissed his dying lipH, and laid his head on her bosor.i.

Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly sank into
darkness.

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a case-
ment mi

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing.
All the dull, deep pain, and constatit anguish of patience !
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank
theei" UM

Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its

shadow.
Side by side, in their nameieus 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, issft
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

journey 1

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

:/.

«?

1.0

I.I

11.25

lA. ill 1.6

Sdences
Corporation

33 ViiEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

LOirorBLLOW.

Still stands the forest primeyal ; bat under the shade oi itt

branches 18M

Dwells another race, with other onstoms and hmgoage.
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile
Wandered back, to their native land to die in its bosooL
In the fisherman's cot the wheol and the loom are still busy; ism
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles ci

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.

r >'

f it!

18N

; 18B6

• of

ring
the

A PSALM OP LIFE.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

/■■^

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

/ ^

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

" Life is but an empty dream !"
For the soul is dead tl ,i,t slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 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 !

Trust no Future, hov/e'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act — act in the living Present ! . .

Heart within, and God o'erhead I

r '

LONGFELLOW.

Lives of great men all remiml us
We can 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 doing,
With a heart for any fate ;

Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

THE WRECK OF THE HEFPERUS.

It was the schooner Hesperus,

That sailed the wintry sea ;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,

To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,

Her cheeks like the dawn of day.
And lier bosom white as the hawthorn buds

That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he st:)od beside the helm.

His pipe was in his mouth.
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow

The smoke row West, now South.

Then up and spake an old sailor,

Had sailed the Spanish Main,
"I pray thee put into yonder port,

For I fear a hurricane.

r I

The wreck op the hesperus. 69

" Last night, the moon had a golden ring, / '"

And to-night no moon we see !"
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 20

Colder and louder blew the wind,

A gale from the North-east ;
The snow fell hissing in the brine,

And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain 25

The vessel in its strength ;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,

Then leaped her cable's I'ingth.

" Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so ; 30

For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat

Against the stinging blast ;
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 85

And bound her to the mast.

" O father ! I hear the church-bells ring,

O say what may it be?"
" 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast !"

And he steered for the open sea. 40

" O father ! I hear the sound of <runs.

O say what may it be 1"
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live

In such an angry sea ! "

r I

LONGFELLOW.

" O father ! I see a gleaming light, <|5

O say what may it be ?"
But the father answered never a word,

A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark.

With his face turned to the skies, 50

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow

On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might be ;
. And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave 55
On the Lake 6f Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow.

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between

A sound came from the land ;
It was the sound of the trampling surf.

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows.

She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew

Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves

Looked soft as carded wool.
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side

Like the horns of an angry bull.

THE DAY IS DONE.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board ;

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared !

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,

A fisherman stood aghast.
To see the form of a maiden fair,

Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,

The salt tears in her eyes ;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,

On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,

In the midnight and the snow !
Ohrist save us all from a death like this,

On the reef of Norman's Woe !

■ J

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.
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

[

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, LONGFELLOW.

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,

^Vhose songs gtiahcd frciii 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 lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

r I

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

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.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

Somewhat back from the village street

Stands the 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 ! "

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 !

Witii sorrowful voice to all who pass,

" Forever — never 1

Never — forever ! "

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 floor,

And seems to say, at each chamber-door, —

" Forever — never !

Never — forever ! "

LONGFELLOW.

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.
It calmly repeats those words of awe, —

" Forever — never !

Never — forever ! "

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality ;
His great fires up the chimney roared ;
The stranger feasted at his board ;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased, —

" Forever — never !

Never — forever ! "

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 ! "

From that chamber, 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 !

Never — forever !"

THE FIRE OP DRIFT-WOOD.

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 "
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply, —

" Forever — never !

Never — forever ! "

Never here, forever there.
Where all parting, pain, and care.
And death, and time shall disappear, —
Forever there, but never here !
The horologe of eternity
Sayeth this incessantly, —

" Forever — never !

Never — forever ! "

THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD.

DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHBAD.

We 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 night,
Descending, filled the little room ;

Our faces faded from the sight,
Our voices only broke the gloom.

LONOFKLLOW.

We spake of many a vanished scene,
Of what we once ha<J Ihouglit and said,

Of wliat had Iwen, and might liave 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;

The first light swerving of the heart,
That words are pow^iless to express,

And leave it still unsaid in part.
Or say it in ^oo great excess.

The very tones in which we spake

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
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, that were hailed
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 ;

^ I

llESIONATION. 77

Until they uwiflo tliomsolvoa a part ' '" ,

Of fancies floating tlirough tiio })rain, —

The long-lost vonturos of the heart,
That send no answers back ajrain.

O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned ! 45

Tlu!y were indeiul too much akin,
The drift-wood fire without that burned,

The thoughts that burn ( • and glowed within.

; .

RESIGNATION.

There is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there !
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair !

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 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, IQ

But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

"We see but dimly through the mists and vapours ;

Amid these earthly damps.
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 15

May be heaveii's distant lamps.

There is no death ! What seems so is transition ;

This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death. 20

LONGFELLOW.

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 doth 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.

Day after day we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air ; 30

Year after year her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken

The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 35

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her ;

For when with raptures 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

And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean.

That cannot be at rest, —

r 1

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay ;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

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 c-n flowing flag and rippling pennon.

And the white sails of ships ;'
And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon,

Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe and Dover

Were all alert that day,
To see the French war-steamers speeding over,

When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions.

Their cannon, through the night,
Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance.

The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations

On every citadel ;
Each answering each, with morning salutations.

That all was well.

And down the coast, all taking up the burden.

Replied the distant forts,
As if to summon from his sleep the Warden

And Lord of the Cinque Ports.

LONGFELLOW.

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 25

No drum-beat from the wall,
No morning gun 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 the old Field Marshal

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 entered, darker grew, and deeper,

The silence and the gloom. 40

He did not pause to parley or dissemble.

But smote the Warden hoar ;
Ah ! what a blow ! that made all England tremble

And groan from shore to shore.

Meanwhile, without, the surly canm)n waited, 45

The sun rose bright o'erhead ;
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated

That a great man was dead.

EXCELSIOR.

The shades of night were falling fast.
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior I

r (

2i3

EXCELSIOR.

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, /

Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ;
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior !

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior !

" Try not the Pass ! " the old man said ;
**"Dark lowers the tempest overhead.
The roaring torrent is deep and wide !"
And loud that clarion voice replied.
Excelsior !

** O stay," the maiden said, " and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast !"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye.
But still he answered, with a sisrh.
Excelsior !

" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch !
Beware the awful avalanche ! "
This was the peasant's last Good-night.
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior !

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior '

82 LONGFELLOW.

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device
Excelsior !

There in the twilight cold and gray.
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior !

THE BRIDGE.

I stood oil the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour.

And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflection

In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling

And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance

Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace

Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters

The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean

Seemed to lift and bear them away ;

r^ \

THE BRIDGE.

As, sweeping and eddying through them,

Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,

The sea-weed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing

Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me

That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh, how often.

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight
And gazed on that wave and sky !

How often, oh, how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide

Would bear me away on its bosom
O'er the ocean wild and wide !

For my heart was hot and restless.

And my life was full of care,.
And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea ;
And only the sorrow of others

Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,

Like the odour of brine from the ocean
Comes the thought of other years.

LONGFELLOW.

And I think how many thousands

Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing liis burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless.

And the old subdued and slow !

And for ever and for ever,
As long as the river flows.

As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes ;

The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear.

As the symbol of love in heaven.
And its wavering image here.

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed, .

Let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy Past

The forms that once have been.

The Past and Present here unite

Beneath Time's flowing tide,
Like footprints hidden by a brook,
• But seen on either side.

Here runs the highway to the town ;

There t'le green lane descends,
Through which I walked to church with thee,

O gentlest of my friends !

A GLKAM OF SUNSHINS.

The shadow of the linden-trees ;

Lay moving on the grass ;
Between them and the moving boughs, 15

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. 20

I saw the branches of the trees

Bend down thy touch to meet,
The clover-blossoms in the grass

Rise up to kiss thy feet.

" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 25

Of earth and folly born !"
Solemnly sang the village choir

On that sweet Sabbath morn.

Through the closed blinds the golden sun

Poured in a dusty beam, 30

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 hymn-book's fluttering leaves 35

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. 40

LONQPELLOW.

Long was the prayer he uttered,

Yet it seemed not so to me ;
For in my heart I prayed with liira,

And still I thought of thee.

But now, alas ! the place seems chaneed :

nil O ^

Thou art no longer here :
Part of the sunshine of the scene
With thee did disappear.

Though thoughts, deep-rooted ii. aiy 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.

""^ 'Tics^'W": •

<
a.

♦

WOEDSWORTH.

THE EDUCATION OF NATURE.

Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, ' A^lovelier_iio^er
On earth was never sown :
This Child I to myself will take ;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own.

' Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse : and with me

The Girl, in rock and plain.

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,

Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.

* She shall be sportive as the Fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs ;
And hers shall be the breathing balm.
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

' The floating Clouds their state shall lend

To her ; for her the willow bend ;

Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the Storm

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

88 WORDSWORTH.

' The Stars of nn(liii<^ht shall be dear

To lier ; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where Rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into lier face.

' And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell ;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this happy Dell.'

Thus Nature spake — The work was done —

How soon my Lucy's race was run !

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene ;

The memory of what has been.

And never more will be.

« SHE W^AS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT."

She was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleam'd upon my sight ;

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament ;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ;

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ;

But all things else about her drawn

Frorri May-time and the cheerful Dawn ;

A dancing Shape, an Image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

A LESSON.

I saw her upon noaror view, / "

A Spirit, yet a Woman too !

Her liousehokl motions light and free,

And steps of virgin-lilxu-ty ;

A countenance in \vliich did meet 15

Sweet records, promises as sweet ;

A Creature not too bright or good

For liuman nature's daily food,

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 20

And now I see with eye i^erene

The very pulse of the machine ;

A Being breathing thoughtful breath,

A Traveller between life and death :

The reason firm, the temperate will, 25

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ;

A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd

To warn, to comfort, and command ;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of an angel light. 30

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.
Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again !

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
Oft have 1 seen it muffled up from harm
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.

WORDSWORTH.

'.^

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past,
And recognized it, though an alter'd form,
Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

1 stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,
' It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold ;
This neither is its courage nor its choice,
But its necessity in being old.

' The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew ;
It cannot nelp itself in its decay ;
Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue.*
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.

t^^ To be a prodigal's favourite- —then, worse truth,
I _^ A miser's pensioner — behold our lot !
^>l!w^'^^ O Man ! that from thy fair and shining youth

Age might but take the things Youth needed not !

j^^'

TO THE SKYLARK.

Ethereal Minstrel ! Pilgrim of the sky !

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ]

Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye

Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground 1

Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 5

Those quivering wings composed, that music still !

To the last point of vision, and beyond

Mount, daring Warbler ! that love-prompted strain

('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 10

Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing

All independent of the leafy Spring.

V.^'

fu-:-'

i^^

v^v^ 20

11!

■ain

r'\

a ~
o -

O -

•55 a

THE 6REEN LINJIET.

Leave to the Nightingale her shady wood ;

A privacy of glorious light is thine,

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood

Of harmony, with instinct more divine ;

Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam ;

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.

THE GREEN LINNET.

\ . Beneatl^these fruit-tree boughs that shed
/ Their snow-white blossoms on my head.
With brightest sunshine round me spread

Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequester'd nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard- seat !
And flowers and birds once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.

One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest :
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion !
Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array
Presiding spirit here to-day
Dost lead the revels of the May ;
• And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,

Art sole in thy employment ;
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair ;

Thyself thy own enjoyment.

r i

WORDSWORTH.

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,

Yet seeming still to hover j
There ! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerinf^s

That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives—
A brother of the dancing leaves ; '
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves

Pours forth his song in gushes ;
As if by tha^t exulting strain
He mock'd and treated with disdain
The voiceless form he chose to feiirn

While fluttering in the bushes.

\ I

TO THE CUCKOO.

blithe New-comer ! I have heard,

1 hear thee and rejoice :

O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice 1

AVhile I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear ;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the Yale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

TO THE DAISY.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring !

Even yet thou art to me

No Bird,, but an invisible Thinjr.

A voice, a mystery ;

The same whom in my School-boy days
I listen'd to ; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green ;
And thou wert still a hope, a love ;
Still long'd for, never seen !

And I can listen to thee yet ;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blesse'd Bird ! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place.
That is fit home for Thee !

TO THE DAISY.

With little here to do or see

Of things that in the great world be.

Sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee

For thou art worthy,
Thou unassuming common-place
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace

Which Love makes for thee !

Tfr

94 WORDSWORTH.

Oft on the dappled turf at ease

I sit and play with similes,

Loose types of things through all degrees,

Thoughts of thy raising j
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.

A nun demure, of lowly port ;

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,

In thy simplicity the sport

Of all temptations ;
A queen in crown of rubies drest ;
A starveling in a scanty vest ;
Are all, as seems to suit thee best.

Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops, with one eye

Staring to threaten and defy,

That thought comes next — and instantly

The freak is over.
The shape will vanish, and behold !
A silver shield with boss of gold
That spreads itself, some fairy bold

In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar —
And then thou art a pretty star,
Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee !
Yet like a star, with glittering crest.
Self -poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; —
May peace come never to his nest

W ho shall reprove thee 1

ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802.

Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last

When all my reveries are past

I call thee, and to that cleave fast,

Sweet silent Creature !
That breath'st with me in sun and air
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share

Of thy meek nature !

TO A DISTANT FRIEND.
Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant '
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair ?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ?

Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, 5

Bound to thy service with unceasing care—
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For nought but what thy happiness could spare.

Speak .'—though this soft warm heart, once free to hold

A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, 10

Be left more desolate, more dreary cold

Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow Vi"^''" "
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine— v-"^
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know 1

ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802.
Two Voices are there ; one is of the Sea, ^
One of the Mountains ; each a mighty voice : J
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, \j
They were thy chosen music, Liberty I ^

96 WORDSWORTH.

There came a tyrant, and with lioly glee '^"'
Thou fought'sfc against hira,— but hast vainly striven :
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, '.
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. .

— Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft ;
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left —
For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be

That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore^
And neither awful Yoice be heard bv Thee I

LONDON, 1802.

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour ;
England hath need of thee : she is a fen
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, '
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men : •>
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; ^
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : ..
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea.
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free ;

So didst thou travel on life's common way *-
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart '^ -
The lowlies+^. duties on herself did lay. .,

iven :
>

^^""^

^, ' 10

i- I

TIIK INNER VISION.

UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1803.

Efiith has not anything to show more fair :
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty :
This City now doLli like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning : silent, bare, 5

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temj)les lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ; 10

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep !

The river glideth at his own sweet will :
Dear (lod ! the very houses seem asleej) ;
And all that mighty hetirt is lying still !

tv,.

THE INNER VISION.

Most sweet it is with un-uplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon ;

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone - '
Of meditation, slipping in between v^v^

The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

•^

-'■^x^

i'M

—If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
^jvLet us break off all CQ^imnerce with the Muse :
With Thought and Love companions of our way

'• I

WOUDSWOKTII.

AN'lhito'cr tiro senses take or may refuse,—

The iMiiuJ's internal heaven sliall shed her dews

Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1802.

O Fritjnd ! I know not ^hieh \vay I must look

For comfort, being, as I am, opprest

To think that now our life is only drest '^

For show j mean handiwork of craftsman, cook, *

Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a brook
In the open suiyihine, or we are unblest;
The wealthiest man among us is the best : ^
No grandeur now in Nature or in book

Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry ; and these we adore :
Plain living and high thinking are no more :

The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religici^ breathing household laws.

TO SLEEP.

a..

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 'A
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ; i^

I've ihought of all by turns, and still I lie
Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, v
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

WITULV KlNtj'H COLI.K(JK (MIAI'EL, CAMHHIDOK. 99

Even thus last night, and two nights more T lay,(^, *
^^"■'And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any steidth'^ 10

Sp do not let me wear to-night away : r

Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth » a
Come, blessed bariier between day and day,^
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous healtl

i!<X

WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, 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 Scholars only) this immense

And glorious work of fine intelligence ! ' 5

— Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore ,.

Of nicely-calculated less or more : — i h ''i*'^

So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense '^ j ,^ liCjki*-*!^ *

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells 10

Where light and shade repose, where music dwells

Lingering and wandering on as loth to die ;

liike thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof

That they were born for immortality.

./'

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

LITERATURE IX AMERICA.

One turns from English to Amcrioan Hter.atnre vitli i. iiainful scnso
of loss. Cultivated literary men America has no clouht i)ro(lut:e<l,
elegant essayists and smooth versifiers, but scarcely one profound
thinker or inspired poet. Her men of letters have chosen their pro-
fession from the same motives of profit or ambition as actuate their
countrymen in general. As Longfellow, for example, frankly stated,
they have seen in literature an opportunity of rising in the world. They
more frequently possess talent and industry than imagination or genius,
and their work accordingly, though often voluminous, scarcely ever rises
above mediocrity, hardly even to the level of what wouhl ))c considered
mediocre work in more happily insjjired men or times. Faithful tran-H-
lations. descriptive work like Irving's or B'lrroughs' oveiloaded with
commonplace ruminatioiis rather than reflections, literary criticism like
Stedman's wasting itself in unprofitable discussions of form, or figura-
tive and pretentious without real illumination, like Hudson's, second
hand philosophies, moralizings in prose and verse and some middling
novels are, if we except Emerson's truly inspired work, America's con-
tribution to 19th century thought and art.

Fiankly admitted by intelligent Americitiis, the comparative inferi-
ority of American literature is accounted for and balanced by the
greatness of their acliievements along other lines. "The Literature of
America," says Whipple, "is but an insufficient measure of the
realized capacities of the American mind. Imagination in the popular
mind is obstinately connected with poetry and romance, and when the
attempt is made to extend the application of the creative enei-gy of
imagination to business and politics, the sentimental outcry becomes
almost deafening. In fact it is the direction given to the creative
faculty that discriminates between Fidton 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, subtlety
and breadth of understanding and energy of will have been displayed
by our business men than by our authors. The nation out-values all its

101

102

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

authors even in respect to those powers which authors are supposed
especially to repreaetit. No one can write intelligently of the progress
of Aiucrican literature during the past hundred years without looking
at American literature as generally subsidiary to the grand movement
of the American mind."

Whipple's explanation has all the insinuating plausibility of a half-
truth. It is true that ability and energy of the highest kind are re-
cpiired to organize and manage a great business or to carry on a
government successfully. And yet we should 1)e shy of laying the
flattering unction to our souls that material success is a sufficient com-
pensation for mediocrity in art and letters.' It is not a qu. 3tion of
ability but of spirit. Business is sellish. Politics at best ""■" ti ' •■ed
with charlatanism. Art and letters are disinterested, and 'ojI; Ix -.ise
disinterested, the liighest measure of a people's civilization. Matthew
Arnold lays down live conditions of civilization — expansion, conduct,
science, beauty, manners. By expansion he means mainly material
prosperity and political liberty. These are the basis on which civiliza-
tion rests. A high civilization is of course impossible vvhile t' people
are either living in squalid poverty or ovtrtutored, overgoverned, Siit
upon. Material prosperity and poliHoal liberty are good, nay imlispens-
able, but in themselves do not make civilization. A people can be truly
called civilized only when its business and politics are regarded not
as ends in themselves but as providing the conditions favorable to
intellectual, moral and a'sthetic development. It is in poetry especially
that the sentiment of man's ideal life is o be found. In it are en-
shrined our noblest intimations. It keeps alive our sense of beaut
and begets a divine dissatisfaction with the actual, which is the onls
true incentive to progress, aiul the nation, however splendid its material
growth, tint has not blossomed into first rate poetry has not attained
to the highest plane of culture.

American life has been from the first almost entirely practical,
material and utilitarian. In the severe struggle for existence aga. "-t
the sterner forces of nature, the noble puritanism of the early settlero
degenerated into bigotry and grotc;queness. Preoccupation with
material things became more and more marked, and the range of thoupLt
and spiritual experience narrowed, while a superstitious and mechaui'V 1
routine misnamed religion prevailed. The revolutionary struggle and
the war of 1812 should have quickened the spiritual life of the nation,
but, unfortunately, an imported fatalism and moral a)i(iflference inciden-
tal to the disappointed revolutionary hopes ia France .• .; ^^^ging the Atlan-

LITERATURE IX AMERICA,

103

tic and reinforcing a native growth of like origin, threatened to swamp
all nohler feeling. The opportunities for wealth afforded by the open-
ing lip of a continent and the development of machinery enabled the
people to throw off this morbid influence, but their whole energies seemed
absorbed in the race for fortune. Against this, many philanthropic,
social and literary influences contended, and with some ai)i)arent success.
The democratic constitution of the state was firmly established. Slavery
was abolished. The treatment of criminals became more ratioiial and
humane, and the questions of temperance, public health, education and
woman's rights were forced upon the attention of legislators. Old cus-
toms and prejudices lost their hold. The American temper became more
cheerful, more good-natured, saner, less conventional, more emancipated
from the trammels of tradition than that of any other ptiople. But so
completely had the ideal of the average sensual man — the ideal of com-
fort and amusement — become the ideal of the whole, tliat Emerson's
phrase for his own dearly loved country is " great, intelligent, sensual,
avaricious America."

It is to "the hardness and materialism of America, her want of soul
and delicacy, her exaggeration an. boastfulness and the absence of the
discipline of respect," that her literary mediocrity is due. Matthew
Arnold has told us that the flowering time for literature and art is when
there is a national glow of thought and feeling. Without this only two
or three courses are open to the man of letters. He may be a voice
crying in the wilderness, entering his scornful protest against the prac-
tical tendencies of the time. Like Whitman he may look into the
future and see the nobler civilization, for which the great material-
istic movement of the present prepares the way. He may develop
his technique and, like Eugene Field and a score of others, become the
conventionalized vehicle of platitudes. He may seek refuge from the
unspiritual present in the past or the remote. Longfellow chose the
latter. In the actual movements of his time he had little interest. The
spiritual problems which were l)eginning to perplex men he never faced,
falling back upon a sort of fading and attenuated purit^nism. Tired of
the broad glare of American business and industrial activity, he sought
relief in mediitval legend and old-world sentiment, or, as in Evangeline^
in the contemplation of a fancy picture of idyllic happiness under simple
primitive conditions, rudely broken in upon by our .aggressive Anglo-
Saxon civilization, yet exhibiting in its eclipse the power of the simple,
primary instincts and affections, as Wordsworth says, " to make a thing
endurable which else would overset the brain or break the heart."

f t

104

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

BIOGRAPHY,

Henry Wadsworth Lovofellow (1807-1882) was born in Portland,
Maine, on Feb. 27th, 1807. He" came on both sides of good New
England stock. His mother, Zilpha Wadsworth, was descended from
a John Alden and a Priscilla Mullens (the original of the Priscilla of
Miles Standish) who came over together in the " Mayflower," and
his father from a William Longfellow who, about sixty years later
immigrating fntm Hampshire, England, settled also in Massachusetts.
Neith '•Vie Wads worths nor the Longfellows "-are distinguished in
early cc history, but at the revolution both families had begun

to be prorai it. The poet's maternal grandfather, Peleg Wadsworth,
of Portland, Maine, was a general in the continental army, while the
other, Stephen Longfellow, was a judge of the common pleas in the
same town. The poet's father, also named Stephen, was a lawyer, a
graduate of Harvard ami, though not possessed of much originality, a
refined, scholarly and religious man who made the education of his
children his chief care. His mother — a typical product of transatlantic
puritanism — knew little but her Bible and psahn-book, but was esteemed
by all as a woman of sweet and fervent piety. To her the poet owed
his handsome features and gentle disposition, and to the culture and
strongly moral atmosphere of his home, his delicacy of taste, sensitive-
ness, moralizing temper, and indifference to the glow and passion of life.

His boyhood was spent mostly in his native town, where he grew up
a slender, studiou=i youth with an aversion to sport and rude forms of
exercise. His favorite books were Cowper's poems, Lalla Rookh,
Ossian, the Arabian Nights, Don Quixote, and Irving's Sketch Book.
Nature was not, however, wholly unvital or nonsuggestive. It was
impossible that some of t))e most beautiful bay and island scenery in the
world should not leave a deposit of impression for future years, and
some of the best of his subsequent poetic work — ^fy Lost Youth, The
Hope Walk, and A'eramos— record the treasured memories of his native
town and its surroundings.

In 1822, at the age of fifteen, he entered Bowdoin College, at Bruns-
wick, Maine, a town situated near the romantic falls of the Androscog-
gin, about twenty-live miles from Portland, and in a region full of
beautiful scenery and rich in Indian legend. Among his classmates
were several men of subsequent note, including Abbott the historian and
Hawthorne the novelist. Some twenty poems written during these
years and contributed to the United States^ Literary Oazette, while show-

ks-
of

[63

Mr. Longfellow's Birthplace, Portland,

TO FACE PAQE 104

kse

BIOGRAPHY.

105

ing little originality of thought or fancy are graceful and not unmusical.
They are interesting, however, chiefly as making clear the influence of
his visit to Kurope upon Jjongfellow'a mind. Though not tlie work of
the genuine lover of nature, but of one who views the world through
the eyes of his favorite .authors, these college poems are at least free
from the mystical and supernatural view of nature which hia residence
in Europe imparted to much of his subsequent work. He graduiited
with high honors in 1825, and remained for some time at college as a
tutor, subsequently entering his father's law ofHce.

His capacity and tastes unfitting him for law, there came the ojipor-
tune offer of the chair of modern languages in his Alma Mater, due, it
is said, to one of the trustees having been very much taken with his
translaticm on his final examination of an ode of Horace.

To qualify for this a^jpointment he travelled and studied for three
years and a half in England, France, Germany, Holland, Spain and Italy,
making the acquaintance at Madrid of Washington Irving, then engaged
on liis life of Columbus. Though no doubt of great benefit to the pro-
fessor of modern langua'^es, to the poet tins visit to Europe was of very
doul)tful advantage. Longfellow was at the plastic age of twenty. His
knowledge of the languagt.s and literature he had been called upon to
teacii was no doubt perfected, his sympathies widened, his poetic themes
multiplied, and his confidence in himself increased ; but his mind was
" traditionalizeil" and "mysticized." A pietist and mediajval reaction
against the so-called atheism of Byron and Shelley, and the classic
paganism of (xoethe, was sweeping over Europe. Steeped in the rising
tide of traditional beliefs and sentimentality, it was not until the very
close of his life that Longfellow began to free himself from the fetters
of tradition and mysticism, and to see the life of man and nature as it
really is.

Assuming his duties at Bowdoin in 1829, he taught there for six years
with eminent success. In 1831 he married one of his "early loves*,''
Mary S. Potter. Two years later he published first, a translation from
the Spanish of Cojdas de Mmiriqiie with an introductory essay on the
poetry of Spain ; and Outre Mer, a youthfully enthusiatic book of travels
containing some translations from the French. Obviou&ly imitative cf
both Irving and Goldsmith, and full of commonplace moralizings, the
book is now devoid of interest, though very popular at the time of
publication.

Chosen in 1835 to succeed Ticknor as professor of modern languages
at Harvard, Longfellow paid a second visit of some fifteen months to

106

NOTES OK LONGFELLOW.

Europe, devoting his time principally to Scandinavia and Switzerland.
At Rotterdam his wife died, the "being beauteous" commemorated in
the Footsteps of AngeU. At Heidelberg ho made the acquaintanoe of
Bryant and at Interlaken the lady who subsequently became his wife,
Miss Frances Appleton.

At Cambridge, after his return from Europe in 1836, and amid
surroundings entirely congenial, Longfellow began to lecture and write.
Several essays appeared in the North American Review during the two
succeeding years, and in 1839 appeared his first volume of original
poems entitled Voices of the Night, and containing among others, A
Psalm of Life, Footsteps of Angels, The Reaper and the Flowers,
Midnight Mass, and The Beleaguered Cilij ; and Ili/perion, a prose
romance in which under the names of Paul I'Ueniming and Mary Ash-
burton he portrayed with questionable delicacy his meeting with Miss
Appleton at Interlaken. A second volume of poems appeared in 1841,
under the title of Ballads and other Poems, and including The Skeleton
in Armoiir, The Wreck of the Hesperus, The Village Blacksmith, To a
Child, T'he Bridge, and Excelsior.

The. following summer was spent in England and on the Rhine. The
return voyage saw the composition of the poems on slavery, of which
The Slave's Dream and The Quadroon made a decided impression on
publication. In 1843 he married Miss Appleton, the Mary Ashburtoii
of Hyperion, taking up his abode in the Craigie House, an old revolu-
tionary mansion once occupied by George Washington, which had been
bought and presented to the young couple by Miss Appleton's father,
and which continued to be the poet's residence till his death. Lectures
on Dante, illustrated by admirable translations, seem to have been the
literary sensation of the time, and were long remembered, says James
Russell Lowell, with gratitude by those who were thus led to ' ' the
deeper signilicance of the great Christian poet." The Spanish Student,
a kind of sentimental morality followed, "without any special merit
except good intention." In 1845 The Poets of Europe, a collection of
translations edited by Longfellow was published, and about the same
time Bome original songs and sonnets under the title of The Belfry of
Bruges. Two j'onrs later was written the poem upon which his poetic
reputation rests, Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie. Kavanagh, a novel, and
a volume of poems entitled Seaside and Fireside, including Resigna-
tion, and The Song of the Ship, appeared in 1849 ; in 1851 the Golden
Legend, based upon a German story of self-sacrifice,- apd bringing his
imagination back to America he applied himself, having resigned his

«1
.■5

3
O

a:
5

BIOGRAPHY.

107

professorship, to the elaboration of an Indian legend ; and in 185.5 Im
gave ti) the public The Soiuj of Jliawathn, an attempt imitative, both in
subject ami in metre, of the Finnish epic tiie Kalevala, to leHtoro tlie
fading colors of the Indian tradition. The CourtHhip of Miles Sfnnil'mh,
based upon a diarming episode in colonial history in which the poet's
ancestrcHS Prisciila fijjured, appeared in 1858 along with a number of
minor poema, one of which ia My Lost Youth, included under the
title Birds of PasHaije.

The tragic fate of his wife, who having accidentally sot her dress on

fire was burned to death in her own home in )8G1, was a shock from

which the poet never quite recovered. In one only of his subsequent

poems does he venture to allude to it, ir uhe sonnet namely beginning

with the line :

In the long sleepless watches of the night.

In 18(^3 appeared Tales of a Wayside Inn, obviously suggested by the
Canterbury Tales and a second flight of his Birds of Passage, Flower
de Luce, in 186G, contained among other things of considerable merit a
poem on the burial of Hawthorne and The Bells of Lynn. Seeking
refuge once more in mediaeval life, he completed and issued in 1867
his translation begun thirty years before of Dante's Dimna Commedia, a
masterpiece of literal translation. A triumphal visit tn Europe in 1868,
when Universities and great ones conspired to honor him, was followed,
on his return by the publication of New England Tragedies, and in 1871
of The Divine Tragedy. From time to time he continued to give fresh
work to the world. Three Books of Song in 1872, Aftermath in 1874,
The Hanging of the Crane and The Masque of Pandora and other poems
in 1875, Keramos and other poems in 1878, Poems of Places in the same
year and Ultima Thule, meant to be his last work, in 1880, followed
however in 1887 by a touching sonnet on the death of General Garfield,
and Hermes Trismegistns, which he left un^.i-is led. Perhaps the most
significant feature of these later poems is tucir growing conviction that
the riddle of existence is not solved by any of the traditional formulae,
their perceptibly diminishing romanticism and mystical feeling, and
their increasing appreciation of pagan naturalism and classic calm. His
health during the winter of 1881-82 had been infirm, but no serious
alarm was felt by his family till March 20th. On March 24th he died,
passing gently away. Two days later, Sunday March 26th, 1882, he
was laid in Mt. Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge.

108

NOTES ON LONQFELIOW.

Chronological List of Longfellow's Chief Works as Published.

Coplas de Manriqne (translatinn) 1833

Outre-Nfcr (travela) 1835

Hyj)(!ri(»ii ([troso romance) 1839

VoicL-H of tho Night 1831)

Bullaila and other rooms 1841

INtuma on Shivery 1 842

Spanish Student (drama) 1843 '

Poets and Poetry of Europe 1845

Belfry of Bruges 1846

Evangeline 1847

Kavauagh (prose romance 1849

Seaside and Fireside 1850

Golden Legend (dramatic poem) 1851

Hiawatha 1855

Miles Standish 1858

Tales of a Wayside Inn . 1863

Flower- De- Luce 1866

Divine Cv)medy of Dante (translation) 1867-70

New England Tragedies 1868

Divino Tragedy 1871

Christus 1872

Aftermath 1874

Hanging of the Crane 1S75

Masque of Pandora 1875

K^ramos 1878

Ultima Thule 1880

In the Harbour (Ultima Thule, Pt. II. ) • 1882

Michael Angelo (dramatic fragment) 1884

CHARACTERISTICS OF THE MAN.

The poet's personal appearance and character are thus described by
one of his enthusiastic biographers : "In person Longfellow was rather
below middle height, broad shouldered, and well built. His head and
face were extremely handsome, his forehead broad and high, his eyes
full of clear, wanning fiie, his nose straight and graceful, his chin and
lips rich and full of feeling, as those of the Praxitelian Hermes, and his

CIIAHACTEUISTICS OF THE MAN.

109

voice low, melodioua and full of tender cadences. HIh hair, originally
dark, became, in his later years, silvery white, and its wavy locks
uoud)ined with those of his flowing beard to give him that leonine
appearance so familiar through his later portraits. Charles Kingsley
said of Longfellow's face that it was thf most beautiful human face he
had ever seen.

"As a man, Longfellow^ was almost perfect, as much so as it is ever
given to human nature to be. A man in intellect and courage, yet
without conceit or bravado ; a woman in sensibility and tenderness,
yet without shrinking or weakness ; a saint in purity of life and
devotion of heart, yet without asceticism or religiosity ; a knight-
errant in hatred of wrong and contempt of baseness, yet without self-
righteousness or cynicism ; a prince in dignity and courtesy, yet without
formality or condescension ; a poet in thought and feeling, yet without
jealousy or affectation ; a scholar in tastes and habits, yet without
aloofness or bookishness ; a dutiful son, a loving husband, a judicious
father, a trusty friend, a useful citizen, and an enthusiastic patriot — he
united in his strong, transparent humanity almost every virtue under
heaven. A thoroughly healthy, well-balanced, harmonious nature,
accepting life as it came, with all its joys and sorrows, living it beauti-
fully and hopefully, without canker and without uncharity. No man
ever lived more completely in the light than Henry Wadsworth
Lopgfellow.

" Perhaps the most remarkable traits in Longfellow's character were
his accessibility and his charity. Though a great worker, he seemed
always to have time for anything he was asked to do. He was never
too busy to see a caller, to answer a letter, or to assist by word or deed
any one that needed assistance. His courtesy to all visitors, even to
strangers and children who called to look at him, or who, not venturing
to call, hung upon his garden gate to catch a glimpse of him, was almost
a marvel. He always took it for granted that they had come to see
Washington's study, and accordingly took the greatest interest in
showing them that. He never, as long as he could write, was known to
refuse his autograph, and so far was he from trying; to protect himself
from intruders that he rarely drew the blinds of his study windows at
night, though that study was on the ground-floor, and faced the street.
His acts of charity, though performed in secret, were neither few nor
small. Of him it may be said with perfect truth, ' he went about doing
good ' ; and not with his money merely, but also with his presence and
encouragement. To how many sad hearts did he come like an angel.

110

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

with the rich tones of his voice waking harmonies of hope where before
had been '«'^pair and silence? How many young literary i^^'v^e,
disappointed ab the unsuccess of their first attempts, did he comfort and
spur on to ren-^wed and higher efforts. How careful he was to quench
no smoking flax ! How utterly free he was from jealousy and revenge-
fulness t While poor, morbid Edgar Allen Poe was writing violent and
scurrilous articles upon him, accusing him of plagiarism and other
liteiary misdemeanours, he was delivering enthusiastic lectures to his
classes on Poe's poetry."

His daughter, Alice M. Longfellow, gives the following account of her
father's home life :

"Many people are full of poetry without, perhaps, recognizing it,
because they have no power of expression. Some have, unfortunately,
full power of expression, with no depth or richness of thought or char-,
acter behind it. With Mr. Longfellow, there was complete unity and
harmony between his life and character and the outward manifestation
of this in his poetry. It was not worked out from his brain, but was
the blossoming of his inward life.

"His nature was thoroughly poetic and rhythmical, full of delicate
fancies and thoughts. Even the ordinary details of existence were
invested with charm and thoughtfulneas. There was really no line of
demarcation between his life and his poetry. One blended into the
other, and his daily life was poetry in its truest sense. The rhythmical
quality showed itself in an exact order and method, running through
every detail. This was not the precision of a martinet ; but anything
out of place distressed him, as did a faulty rhyme or defective metre.

"His library was carefully arranged by subjects, and, although no
catalogue was ever made, he was never at a loss where to look for any
needed volume. His books were deeply beloved and tenderly handled.
Bi autiful bindings were a great delight, and the leaves were cut with
the utmost care and neatness. Letters and bills were kept in the i.ame
orderly manner. The latter were paid as soon as rendered, and he
always personally attended to those in the neighbourhood. An unpaid
bill weiglied on liim like a nightmare. Letters vere answered day by
day, as they accumulated, although it became often a weary task. He
never failed, I think, to keep his account books accurately, and he also
used to keep the bank books of the servants in his employment, and to
help them with their accounts.

"Consideration and thoughtfulness for others were strong characteris-
tics with Mr. Longfoiiow. He, indeed, carried it too far, and became

CHARACTERISTICS CJT THE MAN.

Ill

le,

md he
inpaid
lay by
He
hie also
laud to

icteris-
jecame

almost a prey to those he used to call the ' total strangers,' whose de-
mands for time and help were constant. Fortunately he was able to
extract nuich interest and entertainment from the different types of
humanity tlmt were always coming on one pretext m- another, and his
genuine sympathy and quick sense of humour saved the situation from
buoouiing too wearing. This constant drain was, however, very gnat.
His unselfishness and courtesy prevented him from showing the weari-
ness of spirit he often felt, and many valuable hours were taken out of
his life by those with no claim, and no appreciation of what they were
doing.

" In addition to the ' total strangers ' was a long line of applicants for
aid of evt^ry kind. ' His house was known to all the vagi'ant train,'
and to all he was equally genial and kind. There was no change of
voice or manner in talking with the humblest mem])er of society ; and I
am inclined to think the kindly chat in Italian with the organ-grinder
;uul the little old woman peddler, or the discussions with the old Irish
gardener, were quite as full of pleasure as more important conversations
with travellers from Europe.

"One habit Mr. Longfellow always kept up. Whenever he saw in a
nev/spaper any pleasant notice of friends or ac(]uaintances, a review of a
book, or a subject in which they were interested, he cut it out, and kept
the scraps in an envelope addressed to the person, and mailed them
when several had accumulated.

" He was a great foe to procrastination, and believed in attending to
everything without delay. In connection with this I may say, that
when he accepted the invitation of his classmates to deliver a poem at
Bowdoin College on the fiftieth anniversary of their graduation, he at
once devoted himself to the work, and the poem was finished several
months before the time. During these months he was ill with severe
neuralgia, and if it had not bt'n for this ha])it of early preparation the
poem would probably never iiave been written or delivered.

"Society and hospitality meant something quite real to Mr. Long-
fellow. I caimot remember that there were ever any formal or obliga-
tory occasions of entertainment. All who came were made welcome
without any special preparation, and without any thought of personal
inconvenience.

"Mr. Longfellow's knowledge of foreign languages brought to uim
travellers from every countiy, — not only 1 oerary men, but public men
and women of every kind, and, diaring the stormy days of European
politics, great numbers of foreign patriots exiled for their liberal

112

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

opinions. As one Englishman pleasantly remarked, ' There are no ruins
ill ytmr country to see Mr. Longfellow, and so we thought we would
come to see you.'

"Mr. Longfellow was a true lover of peace in everyway, and held
war in absolute abhorrence, as well as the taking of life in any form.
He was strongly opposed to capital punishment, and was filled with
indignation at the idea of men finding sport in hunting and killing dumb
animals. At the same time he was quickly stirred by any story of
wrong and oppression, and ready to give a full measure of help and
symjiathy to any one struggling for freedom and liberty of thought and
action.

" With political life, as such, Mr. Longfellow was not in full sym-
pathy, in spite of his life-long friendship with Charles Sumner. That
is to say, the principles involved deeply interested him, but the methods
displeased him. He felt that the intense absorption in one line of
thought prevented d full development, and was an enemy to many of
the most bua itiful and important things in life. He considered that
his part was t(, cast his weight witli what seemed to him the best
elements in public hie, and he never omitted the duty of expressing
his opinion by his vote. He always wont to the polls the first thing
in the morning ou election d;iy, and let nothing interfere with this.
He used to say laughingly that he still belonged to the Federalists.

"Mr. Longfellow came to Cambridge to live in 18.37, when he was
thirty years old. He was at that time professor of literature in Harvard
College, and occupied two rooms in the old house then owned by the
widow Craigie, formerly Washington's Headquarters. In this same old
house he passed tlie remainder of liii life, being absent only one year in
foreign travel Home had great attractions for him. He cared more
for the quiet and repose, the companiouship of his friends and books,
than for the fatigues and adventures of new scenes. Many of the
friends of his youth were the friends of old age. and to them his house
Avas always open with a warm welcome,

" Mr. Longfellow was always full oi' reserve, and never talked much
alxmt himself or his work, even to his family. Sometimes a volume
would appear in print, without his 1 aving mentioned its preparation.
In spite of his general interest in people, <)nly a few came really close to
his life. With tliese he was ahvays glad to go over the early days
passed together, and to consult with them about literary work.

"The lines descriptive of the Student in the Wayside Inn might
apply to Mr. Longfellow as well : -

CHARACTERISTICS OF HI? POETRY.

113

' A youth WM there, of quiet ways,
A Student of old books and days,
To whom all toiijj^ues and lands were known,
And yet a lover of his own ;
With many a social virtue graced,
And yet a friend of solitude ;
A man of such a genial mood
The heart of all things he embraced,
And yet of such fastidious taste,
He never found the best too good."

much
Volume
ration,
llose to
days

might

CHARACTERISTICS OF HIS POETRY.

Longfellow's poetry reveals no new meaning in nature, no fresh
spring of hope in man. His religion was a sort of attenuated puritan-
ism. Rejecting some of the >jarlier dogmatic trammels he remained
content with the ordinary Christian explanation and quite indififerent
to any of the more recent guesses at the riddle of existence. His creed
has been summed up as "a child-like trust in God and resignation to
His will." His feeling for nature was hut an echo of that mystical or
romantic view current in Oeiinany in tiie earlier part of the century
and appearing so strik 'Iv also in Cailyle— the view that nature is
a garment concealing wii it reveals furms of unfationable beauty.
Longfellow could hear "the trail. ng garments of the night sweep
through her marble halls" and see " thn stars i nie out and listen to
the music of the seas," and this remained his attitude almost till the
end of his life. Of Wordsworth's simple natural tn. ii he had none.
His treatment of human emotion was eipialh, superlioial. Love for
exampL, as he conceives of it, differs equally from the passion and the
spirit'ial exaltation of otlier poets. It is merely a closer and more
perm.inent friendship, by preference the crown of ,* life-long acquaint-
ance. The inner conflict of the spirit, in whi' ti h writers as ( ieorge
Eliot delight, had no interest for him, whuu lie shrank from the
portrayal of the darker passions and the more repulsive realities. His
themes are such aspects of nature as easily lend themselves to mystical
or moral reflections, heroic deeds preserved in history or legend, and
tender or pathetic incidents in life. For records of human devotion
and self-sacrifice he had a special fondness, "whether they were
monkish legends, Indian tales or American history. " Of such themes,
it has been said that Longfellow could see every minutest beauty and
extract every poetic grace. This, Matthew Arnold would call a personal

i!i

114

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

estimate, the estimate of a man biased by his personal obligations to
the poet. What Longfellow gives us is the observations and reflections
on a narrow range of interests, of a man of tender feeling and refined
scholarly tastes. Deficient in humor and unable to put himself dram-
atically at another's point of view, his work is wholly subjective, a
mere repetition of himself. His words have no dynamic power. Fewer
eflFective quotations are obtainable from Longfellow's poetry than from
any other writer of similar vdlbme. His want of imagination he tries
to make good by a fertility of fancy, but his search for similes becomes
at last very tiresome. His popularity is mainly owing to the uncritical
temper of the poetry-reading public. Like Andrew Lang, the peoi)le
ask only for nepenthe, to be made to forget a world in which husbands
ill-treat their wives and fathers their children, and where the rascal
triumphs at the expense of the honest man. Longfellow has two strings
to his bow. In bis sermon poems he voices the moral ideas of the
middle classes, while in the tender sentiment of his other poems chey
find relief from their hard utilitarian and practical life.

EVANGELINE.

Historical Introduction. — Acadie, from an Indian word meaning
place, which also appears in Passamaquoddy, was the name given to the
region in which the Frenchman De Monts, in 1604, planted the colony
of Port Royal. In 1620 the English, who had long claimed the territory
in virtue of Cabot's discovery in 1497, took possession of Acadia, and a
Scotch Colony took the place of the French Colony at Port Royal,
hence the name Nova Scotia. In 1632 the country was restored to
France. Under Cromwell the French were again driven out, to be again
reinstated in 1667. Finally in 1713 the country was ceded to Great
Britain by tfhe treaty of Utrecht, and has since that time remained a
British possession. Previous to 1749 the inhabitants of the province
were almost entirely of French origin, occupying for the most part the
district in the neighborhood of Minas Basin. After the treaty of Aix-
la-Chapelle in 1748 had confirmed the title of the English to the
province, additional English settlements began to be made, and in
1749 the City of Halifax was founded. Henceforward it became the
chief care of the English-speaking inhabitants of Nova Scotia to pro-
tect the peninsula against possible reconquest by the French in Canada ;
and in 1756, in view of the possibility of a general outbreak of hostilities,

ony
ory
,nd a
yal,
d to
yain
reat
led a
prince
tthe
Aix-
the
d in
3 the
pro-
lada;
"lities,

TO FACE PAGE 114

'♦

EVANGELINE : IIISTOKICAL INTRODUCTION.

115

fleneral Lawrence, Governor of Nova Scotia, deemed it advisable to
take possession of the disputed territory about the isthmus of Chignecto,
upon which the French and English had already erected forts. The
capture of the French fort. Beau Sejour, promised also to remove a
constant source of annoyance to his province, for, acting from this
centre the French had not ceased to incite the Acadians to reViellion
and to foster among tliem a spirit of disloyalty to the British Crown.
Under the directions of General Lawrence of Nova Scotia, therefore,
troops were raised in Massachusetts who should co-operate with a
small body of British regulars to secure the reduction of Beau Sejour.
The expedition was successful, and Moncton, commanding the regulars,
with Winslow and Scott, commanding tne volunteers, succeeded in
clearing the isthmus of the French.

The capture of Fort Beau Sejour, however, by no means assured the
safety of the I'^nglish in Nova Scotia ; for the government at Halifax
had good reason to believe that in the event of an attempt, which was
almost certain to be made by the French, to regain possession of Acadia,
the Acadians would throw in their lot with their fellow-countrymen.
They were considered, therefore, as a standing menace to British occu-
pation of the province ; so much so that Governor Lawrence considered
it necessary at this juncture to take timely steps to prevent aid being
given to the enemy from that quarter, should the anticipated conflict
take place. The Acadians had in 1730, though very reluctantly, taken
an oath of allegiance to the Britisih crown, although in a form so
strongly modified as to impose piuctically no restraint upon them. In
the summer of 1755. therefore, tho inhabitants of Grand Prd and other
Acadian settlements were called upon to take an unconditional oath of
fidelity to the British crown. Numerous opportunities were given to
them to comply with the demand, but on every occasion they flatly
refused to do so, even in the face of the threat that in the oveut of
their refusal they would in all probability be dispossessed of their
lands. "Their rejection of it," says I'arkman, " reiterated ir. full view
of the consequences, is to be ascribed partly to a lixtd bi'ljdf that the
English would not execute their threats, partly to ties of race and kin,
but mainly to superstition. They feaicd to take pirt with the heretics
against the King of France, whose cause, as already stated, they had
been taught to regard as one with the causM of (Jod : they were C(»n-
strained by the dread of perdition."

When all efiforts to induce them to take the oath had failed, it was
.determined by the council at Halifax, that in the interest of self-

rrjn. i tMj famiimi

116

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

preservation they should be immediately dispossessed of their land,
deported from Acadia and distributed among the other British pro-
vinces. Accordingly in August of the same year, 1755, Winslow, with
the volunteers under his command, was despatched to Grand Pr^ with
orders to carry out the commands of the council in that district,
while other officers did likewise in other Acadian settlements. Having
arrived at Grand Prii, Winslow issued a proclamation to all the male
inhabitants of the district, demanding their attendance at the churcli on
the fifth of the month, in order that the King's will regarding them
might be made known. On the day appointed, four hundred and
sixteen males assembled in the church, and Winslow read to them the
proclamation of tlie council announcing their fate, and concluded by
declaring them prisoners in the name of the King. 1 )ep(irtation V)egan
one month later ; but it Avas not until the end of December that the
work was finally coniple,tc(l. During the preparations for their removal
they were granted as much freedom as possible, and in deporting them,
care was taken that the inhabitants of the same village, and more
particularly members of tlie same family, should not be separated.
Nevertheless it is certain that in a few cuses such separation did take
place. According to Parkman, from tlu; district of Grand Pre alone,
more than two thousand people were thus deported ; while from the
whole of the province the number exceeded six thousand. A large
number of the exiles found new homes in Louisiana, while not a few
eventually made their way back to Acadie, where, after the peace,
they were allowed to settle without molestation. It was fully five
years before the lands of which the Acadians were dispossessed, were
finally occupied by new stttlers of British stock.

General Introdlxti ^x. — In the story of Evangeline, Longfellow
found a theme peculiarly suited to his own poetic genius. The light
melancholy of the story is in keeping with his prevailing mood, while
his characteristic hopefulness and cheerfulness linds sufficient oppor-
tunities for display. The constant change of scene throughout the
poem is, moreover, favorable to his idyllic method, and his fondness
f^r portraiture of the picturesque.

But altliongh the element of beauty in the story of Evangeline is of
itself suthcient justification of its choice as a subject of poetic treat-
ment, nevertheless it is characteristic of liongfellow that he should
endeavor to make the poem incidentally convey Home moral truth.
This he has done in Evaiiffdlne in the precepts of Father Felician, which
are carried into practice ))y Evangeline, and emphasized by the poet at
the conclusion of the story : —

EVANGELINE : OENERAL INTKODUCTION.

117

DS3

of
at-
M
th.
ich
at

"Talk not of wastwl afTeetion, affection never was wasted ; '

If it enrich not the heart of another, its watera, returning ,

Back to their sprin^H, like the rain, shall All thuni full of refreshment;
That which the fountain sends forth, returns atcain to the fountain.
Patience ; accouiiilish thj' lahor ; accomplish thy work of affection !
Sorrow and silence are strong, anri patient endurance is godlike.
Therefore acc^onipliHh thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike,
Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven !"

In examining the pueni in regard to its artistic qualities, it will be
noticed that the poet has idealized the story, purged it of all its dis-
agreeable elements, and presented only the beautiful. A brief glance
at the setting of the story will reveal to us the method by which he has
secured this result. The scene of the poem is "placed not only in the
poetic pjvst, but among a people whose simple, primitive n)ode of life
suggests a much earlier age than that in which they actually lived. The
impression of remoteness is strengthened by skilful references to the
early life of their ancestry in Normandy, by the constant succession of
pictures of primeval forests and wildernesses, and above all by the
simple and childlike character of the Acadian people. It will be noted
also that in the choice of material for his similes, he has recourse to
the simple phenomena of nature. Especially striking, however, are
the series of scriptural references, which, besides giving additional
emphasis to the idea of primitiveness, give an added dignity, and are in
keeping with the tone of seriousness which characterizes the story.
The mind of the reader is at no point vexed with the intrusion of
references to the disagreeable facts of the modern busy world.

Evangeline has a distinctly American flavor. The constant reference
to wild, uncultivated, trackless regions, to the intricate mazes of never-
ending bayous, to Indian, hunter and planter, to American vegetation
and American bird-life, to Indian summer, to mixture of race and
mingling of tongues, to the mysterious vastness of the great new world
in the west, removes the reader at once out of the region of old world
idyll and romance.

In the matter of plot Evanoeline is peculiarly simple. No sub-plot
is introduced which might for a moment detract the reader's attention
from the bare pathos of Evangeline's lot. Indeed only such details are
introduced as serve in some way to bring into relief the single emotion
of the poem. For instance, the description of their childhood's com-
panionship adds materially to the bitterness of separation. The death
of Benedict serves to make the figure of Evangeline more solitary. The
one brief glimpse of Gabriel too, "weary with waiting, unhappy and

118

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

restless," intensifies the reader's sympathy for Evangeline. "There is
Imt one liguro whom we follow," says Stedman, "that one the most
touching of all, tlie betrothed Evangeline searching for her lover,
through weaiy years and over half an unknown world."

Metre. — //irwinm and Dorothea, in which (Hoethe depicted the snflfer-
inga of thu Lutlicran.s expelled from Salzburg, gave Longfellow many
8Ugge8tion.<i for the development of his Acadian story, and among others,
that of metrical form. The measure of Evangeline is the I'higlish dactylic
hexameter. 'I'he classical hexameter as used by Homer in the Iliad
and Odys/tey, and Virgil in the jEneid was based on quantity. It con-
tained live dactylic feet and one spondee. The dactyls contained one
long and two short syllables, and the concluding spondee two long
syllables. The English dactylic hexameter is based on accent, and con-
tains five feet composed of one accented, followed by two unaccented,
syllables, and one trocltee. The metre has never been very popular in
English, largely on account of the dearth of spondees. Many writers,
however, have tried their hands at it, including Kingsley and f Jlough.
It was the success of the measure in dough's hand that largely deter-
mined Longfellovv's choice. Often, indeed, the poet errs, his lines
become unmusical ; but on the whole he has succeeded very happily in
making the measure reflect the lingering melancholy of the poem. The
charm of the measure of Evangeline is the gentle labor of the former
half of the line, and the gentle acceleration of the latter half.

PRELUDE.

It is usual in narrative poetry to begin with an introduction stating
the main theme of the poem. Following literary traditions, poets in all
ages have thrown this into the form of an invocation to the muse or
other patron spirit. The opening lines of Homer's Iliad or Odyssey,
of Milton's Paradise Lost, or of Scott's Lady of the Lake, are well-
known examples. Longfellow's introduction has been greatly admired.
Dropping the customary invocation, he carries us at once to the
primeval forest along the Northern Atlantic. It is twilight, and the
sighing of the wind in the pines and the hemlocks, and the hoarse
sound of the incoming tide are in melancholy harmony. With inten-
tional ambigiiity he allows us for an instant to think that forest and
ocean are mourning the disappearance of the red-men before the whites,
only to fix our attention more firmly on the fate of the Acadian farmers.

EVANQ KLINE, PAGE 1.

119

i.\e
|se
In-

rs.

From the fate of a coniinunity he passes to the pathetic experiences of
an individual, and from the melancholy thonght that nature remains,
while man and his transient joys and sorrows pass away, ^to the more
inspiring thoughts of the enduring beauty and strength of woman's
devotion.

1. This. The reader is carried in imagination to Acadia.

forest primeval. A forest untouched by the axe. This was not
strictly true of the Acadian forest even in Longfellow's time.

2. Bearded vrith moss. Not true of Nova Scotia forests and incon-
sistent with the fertility ascribed to the pleasant valley. Where the
mean summer heat is insufHcient to ripen the ordinary grains, as
towards James' Bay in Northern Ontario, the dwarfed trees are festooned
with moss, but no one has ever seen, in the agricultural portions of the
province, anything that would justify the poet's picture.

garments of green. Alliteration or the rhyming of initial sounds is
one of the characteristic musical devices of thi§ poem. Has the color
anything to do with the choice of the following image ?

twilight. Why does the poet choose to view the scene at the close
of day ? This raises another question : What is the season ? Note that
deciduous trees are not mentioned.

3. Druids. The priests, bards and lawgivers of ancient Gaul and
Britain. The word is supposed to be derived from 6pvg, ca oak, their
temples having been consecrated groves of that tree. Some have
thought that the choice of image was governed by the analogy between
the Celts and the Acadians, both of v/hom were to disappear befc^ a
stronger power. The difficulty with tliis view is that while the Druids
were also Celts and disappeared with their race, the forest remains. The
comparison, in other worils, does not go on all fours unless we are to
suppose that the forest stands to the Acadians, these simple children of
nature, in the same relation as the Druids did to the Celts, and is
lamenting the fate in which it and the Acadians are alike involved,
namely, to disappear before the all-absorbing, forest-felling Anglo-
Saxon. Caesar and Matthew Arnold both refer to the belief in
immortality as the characteristic feature of the Druid religion. Does
the poet intend these evergreens — notice that the reference is only to
the pines and the hemlocks — to symbolize something eternal which
pities man's brief and troubled course, as Tennyson makes the yew,
also an evergreen, the symbol of some eternal principle in nature which
mocks man's sorrows and sufferings :

120

NOTES ON LONOPELLOW.

f 'I

I 5

' I!

Old 3'ew that graspest at the stone*
Thot name the underlying dead ;
Thy fll)re8 net the dreamless head,
# Thy roots are wrapped about the hones.

Here also the difficulty presents itself that if any such hopeful v:ew was
intended the fon^st might have heen represented as sad, but not dis-
consolate. As parallelism is one of the cliaracteristics of the jmem we
may be pretty sure that tlie thought is practically repeated in "stand
like harpers hoar," etc., ai»d that Longfellow was attracted only by
some external resemblance between the pines and the hemlocks an ] the
ancient Druids, and hud no iatention of pressing it.

eld. Oldeu time, antiquity. An archaic word generally meaning
old age.

prophetic. This word has two forces, "to declare " and " to declare
beforehand." The latter is the sense in which the word is generally
used. The former is the sense in which it is used fiere.

4. harpers hoar. See Scott's description of an ancient harpei , in
the Lay of the Last Minnbrl :

The way was lonpr, the wind was cold,
The niinxtrel was inflnn and old.
His withered cheek, and tresses gaj*
Seemed to have seen a better day ;

5. Loud from its rocky caverns. "The Bay of Fundy, 180 miles
long by 35 wide, lies in tlie direction of the great tidal wave, its tides
are consequently very fierce, rising to a height of 70 feet."

6. answers. Predicate of "wail."

8. roe. A species of deer. Develop the comparison. Does the
figure of the startled roe suggest the tragedy of the story ?

9. thatch-roofed. Is there any authority for the Acadians' use of
thatch? In a wooded country such a clinging to ancestral customs is
quite inexplical>le. English and French settlers in Upper and liower
Canada, though used to thatch at home, quickly adopced shingles or
slabs as roofing material.

10-11. Develop the simile.

15. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful viilagfe of
Grand Pr6. The village was situated (see map) on Minas Basin, near
the mouth of the Gaspereau and on its eastern bank. No traces of it
remain except the cellars of the houses, and a few aged orchards and
willows near the modern village of the same name.

B VANG ELI NK, I'AOIi: 2.

131

)

Grand Pr^. Great inea<low', from tlic extensive mnrshes adjacent.

lU. Acadie. In the oarlieat rnoonls the name is Cndie ; nftrrwanlH
it was variousl.v AmulUt^ Acradid or L'Acailii'. 'I'ho name is ^rohaldy
the F<>cnch adaptation of a iMifinac word infaiiini; piacu or n^jon, the
English uioditicatiou of whiuli, ([iiuddy, appt-ars in Quod(iy Head,
Quoddy ludiaus, and i'asbaniaqiioddy, i.t., PuUouk Ground.

PART THE ETKST.

Part the First deals witli the deportation of tlie Acadians and the
separation of tlio lovers. It contains live sections: — I. The Village of
(?rand Pre, and the lovers Evangeline and (Jabriel; II. The antunin
evening of their betrothal ; III. The hetmthal ; IV. The Iloyal Pro-
clamation of banishment ; V. The embarkation and separation of the
lovers.

I.— EvANOEUsr: and GAsniKL.

This section reflects Longfellow's peculiar attitude towards love and
marriage. Of ardent and romantic passion his poetry is singularly
devoid. Love as between the sexes is a calm and enduring affection
based upon long acquaintance and clear recognition of worth, and
eijually removed from the enthusiasm of Browning and the mercenary
motives so prevalent in old and wealthy societies. Members of a simple
primitive community that lived like one large family, the children of
life-long friends, and themselves playmates and good comrades from
infancy, Evangeline's and Gabriel's love was merely the flower of the
social spirit which prevailed in the village. 'I'here is something fine
and wholesome in this, and yet it must bo regarded as one of Long-
fellow's limitations that he has nowhere entered into complete sympathy
with the idealizing passion of the lover. Work like Carlyle's chapter
on Romance in Sartor Besartas is apparent!}' quite beyond him.

1. The Village.

Thefcpoet's object being to provide the idyllic setting for the loves of
Evangeline and Gabriel, his use of his material is admittedly skilful.
Only such details and persons are introduced as are interesting in tliem-
selves, and best mark the contrast between the Acadian happineiss of
Grand Pre and our hard, grasping imiividualisni. 'i'he name of the
village, the style of the houses, the blight dresses, housewifely virtues
and gay vivacity of the women, the devotion of all, and their strong

122

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

communal or social spirit are, in view of the poet's intention, well
chosen and significant. But waiving the question of historic accuracy
(see no>;e on 11. 52-57), Longfellow's picture is fantastic. Ilustic life of
such idet' • xcellence never existed outside of the artificial pastoral of
the Corin and Phillida type. Compared with the stern realism of
Wordsworth's and Scott's pictures of rural life, Longfellow's " local
color " seems almost trifling.

20. Basin of Minas. The Bay of Fundy is divided at its upper or
eastern end (see map) by the county of Cumberland into two parts.
The southern is the Basin or Minas.

21. Distant, secludec, still. Cf. (xoldsmith's "Remote, unfriended,
melancholy, slow."

22. Vast meadows. Some 2, 100 acres of natural marsh meadow.

23. Giving the -^illagfe its name. (Irand Pre. (See note on line 15.)

flocks without number. According to Abb(^ Reynal their horned
cattle amounted to 60,000 — obviously a gross exaggeration.

24. Dikes. Their dikes were a double row of piles with logs laid
lengthwise, and the interstices filled with clay packed hard. A flood-
gate allowed the water to flow out at low tide.

25. turbulent tides. So rapid is the advance of the tidal wave at
full moon that cattle have frequently been overtaken and drowned.

29. Blomidon. A rocky headland of red sandstone on the south side
of the narro-.v entrance to Minas Basin. A glance at the map will show
how it was north to Grand Pr6.

mountains. The Cobecjuid mountains on the northern side of the
Basin, opposite to (irand Pre.

34. peasants of Normandy. Assuming that the Acadians were
chiefly of Norman origm, *he poet moulds all details of cos.,ames and
superstitions in harmony with his assumption. They were, however,
descendants of the colonists brought out in 1632-1638 by de Razilly and
Charisay from about Rochelle, Sane'.onge and Poiton, on the west coast
of France.

the Henries. Henry III. of Valois. 1*^74-89, and Henry IV. of
Navarre, 1589-1610.

35. dormer-windows. (Lat. dormire, to sleep.) Vertical windows
in a small gable looking out of the side of a sloping roof.

39. kirtles. Jacket and skirt made the full kirtle. A half-kirtle
was either jacket or skirt.

£VANOELINE.

123

40. distaffs. The distaff was a staff held in the hand or stuck in the
belt, upon which was fastened the wool or flax for spinning. The
invention of the spinning-wheel at Nuremburg, 1530, did away with
the distaff.

'*?. Compare the priest of Grand Pr^ with Goldsmith's priest in The
Deserted Village.

49. tne Angelus. The angelua bell. Anr/eliis domini (ace Luke i,
28. Angelus Nuntiavit Mariae) was the full name given to the bell
which at morning, noon and night called the people to prayer in
commemoration of the visit of the angel of the Lord to the Virgin Mary.

52-7. In his History of Acadia, Hannay shows that the Acadians
were litigious, insincere in their professions, unfaithful to their solemn
pledges of neutrality, and treacherously hostile to the English, who
had shown them every indulgence. The Abb6 Keynal (171t3-1796), an
ardent friend of the peojJe, drew this fancy sketch of Acadian life as a
foil to the miserable condition of the French peasantry under Louis
XVI. The uncritical Haliburton incorporated the Abba's description
bodily in his history, and the equally uncritical Longfellow finding it
there used it as poetic material.

2. Evangeline and her Father.

In narrative poetry character is of course subordinate to incident and
ornament, yet Longfellow's delineations are external beyond most
others. Benedict is merely a hale old man of seventy winters, with
white hair and brown cheeks. Evangeline is seventeen years, with
brown hair and black, vivacious, yet soft and gentle eyes. Her dis-
position remains largely a blank, notwithstanding the poet's elaborate
attempt to present her in the three several aspects of bringing ale to
the reapers, going to church on Sunday morning, returning after the
service. Wlien Longfellow's American v^ommentator, Scudder, boasts
of the pictures for which the poem has furnished a theme, one feels
like givin/< the answer Hipj)olyta makes to Theseus in the ifidsuTumer
NighVs Dream, when the latter, pleading for the poor artisans who
having presented a play in his honor, says that nothing is wholly bad
if imagination amend it. It must, says Hippolyta, be your imagination
then. What is Benedict to Michael, or Evangeline to the Highland
Reaper !

66. thorn. The sloe or blackthorn, whose berries have a blackiah
bloom ? or the wild blackberry ?

70. Flagon, A drinking vessel with a narrow mouth.

«jv I iiii«ni^W3^<piP III oau

■ "HV"'" •"■■

124

NOTKS ON L0N(3FI':LL0W.

n I

72. hyssop. A plant witli blue purple flowers naed to give a pleasing
aroiuiitic odour to tlie consecrated Wi tur with whi(!li the piiest in the
Roman Catholic service sprinkles the people as tlio choir sings : "Thou
shalt sprinkle me with hyssop and I shall be cleansed."

74. chaplet. The rosary or string of beads used by Roman Catholics
in counting their prayers.

missal. (Lat. nmsa, the mass. ) The mass book containing the ordin-
ary ritual of the Roman C'atholic cliurch.

3. EVAN(iF.LINE'.S HoME.

82. rafters of oak. An architectural capping of the climax. In
Ontario, rafters ai"e usually of some lighter material, spruce or pine.

8.S. Sycamore. In England, a species of maple. In America the
name is often given to the buttonwood or ])laiie tree, but as the latter
is not a Nova Scotia tree, the maple is piol)ably intended. Hendock,
in line 33, was chcstnu r. till some critic drow attention to the fact that
the chestiuit was not indigenous in Nova Scotia. Sycamore may be a
similar slip.

woodbine. The honey suckle, called woodbine, i.e., woodbind, from
its habit of twining about trees.

87. penthouse. O.E., pentice ; O. F. , appeufi'i ; Lat., appendicium
an appendage. A shed with a sloping roof and open sides.

88-89. A reminiscence of the poet's travels in Catholic Europe.

90. Of. "The old oaken bucket that hangs in the well."

93. broad-wheeled.

wain. (A.S., waegn. ) A softened form of waggon.

antique ploughs. Ant'upte is here accented on the first syllable
where it renuiins in the form antic, which once had the same general
meaning. Their clumsy wooden plough, with one shaft or handle and
no iron about it except the point, would look (pieer in comparison with
the shapely and eflfective structure of steel which the modern farmer
uses.

94. seraglio. Literally the palace of the Sultan, but, as generally
used, the harem or women's apart. nents, and then the wives themselves.

9G. the penitent Peter. '* And Peter remembered the words of
Jesus which said unto him : Before the cock crow thou shalt deny me
thi'ice. And he went out and wept bitterly." Matthew xxvi, 75.

100-102. The constancy of love opposed to the mutability of things.
A slight suggestion of this.

EVANGELINE.

125

4. Evanoblinr's Lovkr.

This is the beginning of the love interest which, it must be admitted,
is rather tame. A master of plot and incident like Hcott "nOultl littve
introduced two or more rival suitors, for one of whom the lady had a
decided preference, while circumstances, or what she regarded as her
duty, seemed to require her acceptance of the other. This, of course,
Longfellow does not attempt. Evangeline has other suitors, but the
sole purpose of their anonymous introduction is to emphasize her
charms ; there is never the slightest doubt about her preference for
Gabriel, or of their parents' approval of their betrothal. Simplicity
being his aim, complications such as suggested could form no part of the
poet's plan, but he might have made more of the idealizing power of
love, whose witchery is felt in humble life as in the higher ranks. Of
work like Carlyle's "divine revelation in the form of a miow and rose-
bloom maiden," Longfellow is absolutely incapal)le. His conception of
love is too unenthusiastic. The love of Gabriel and Evangeline is just
the flower of childhood and youthful friendship. His admirers will say
that the hysterical passion of which other poets write either has no
existence in fact, or is as short-lived as violent, and that Longfellow's
conception of love as calm and tried affection possesses the greater truth
and sanity.

107. touch the hem of her garment. An allusion to Luke viii, 43,
where the woman is healed by toucliing the hem of Christ's garment.

108. by the darkness befriended. The bashfulness of the lover.

111. Patron Saint. In the middle ages every trade, place, or person
had a particular tutelary saint who was accordingly designated a patron
saint. Who was the patron saint of Grand Pre ?

113. that seemed a part of the music. Is this consistent with the
following line ?

118. craft of the smith. All the crafts had at one time their special
societies or cotifraternities. The craft of the smith was naturally held
in high esteem by the early warlike races, as shown by the Vulcan
myth in classical times and the Weyland myth in the middle ages.
Longfellow by numerous references makes clear his own respect for
this trade.

120. Father Felician. (L. felix, happy.) The name symbolizes
the character and inlluenue of the priest.

121. pedagogue. In classical times the servant who took the

126

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

children to school {nnig ayui). Later, the teacher himself with implied
disparagement. Here used in a cumplimeutary sense.

122. selfsame book. The missal.

plain-song^. In the Roman Catholic church, the chanting of the
collects.

128, like a fiery snake, etc. The reference is to the tire which
is expanded by heating before being placed on the wheel so that
contracting when plunged into water it may remain firmly fixed.

133. nuns going into the chapel. The French have several such
sayings : "Soldiers going to war," "Guests going to the wedding."

137. wondrous stone. Pluquet, treating of Norman superstitions,
relates the common belief that if one of a swallow's brood be blind, the
mother seeks on the seashore a little stone with which she restores its
sight, and that anyone finding the stone in the swallow's nest has a
sovereign remedy.

142. ripened thought into action. Stimulated others to realize
what they had only dreamed of.

144. Sunshine of St. Eulalie. St. Eulalie was a Spanish maiden
who suflFered at Merida on the 12th February, 308, during Diocletian's
persecution of the Christians. St. Eulalie's day is therefore the 12th
of February. An old French proverb runs as follows : —

On St. Eulalie's day if the sn.n be Bhowinif,
There'll he plenty of apples and cider flowing.

II. — The Betrothal Evenino.

This section carries the story forward to the autumn evening when
Evangeline and Gabriel are formally betrothed. Opening with a
beautiful description of Indian Summer, it contains the two charming
companion pictures of Autumn Evening in the Farmyard and
Autumn Evening Indoors, and concludes with the arrival of the
blacksmith and his son. Basil tells of the anxiety of the villagers
regarding the English ships in the harbor. This is the first discordant
note, the cloud :m larger than a man's hand, and though the subject is
dropped as inappiopriate to tlie glad occasion, we vaguely feel that the
lovers' sky is about to be overcast.

1. Indian Summkr.

149. sign of the Scorpion. One of the twelve signs of the zodiac.
The sun enters tliis sign about October 23rd.

EVANGELINE.

127

]5C. Birds of passage. Migratory birds. /

^ .-53. as Jacob of old with the angel. See Oenesis xxxii, et seq.

159. Summer of All-Saints. Indian summer usually beginning about
All Saints day, November 1st.

1 70. the plane-tt ee the Persian adorned, etc. Herodotus says that
on the way to Greece Xerxes found on the frontiers of Lydia, a beautiful
plane-tree of which iic became enamoured, a<loruing it like a woman and
leaving it under the protection of a guard.

2. Autumn Evkni -a in tue Farmyard.

The merry bustle of this scene should be compared with the noontide
picture of lines 93-102, where the sunsteeped farmyard is deserted of all
but the domestic fowl.

189. Norman saddles. Very high in front, and made chiefly of wood.

3. Autumn Evening Indoors.

One would think that Longfellow might have made more of this
contrast between reminiscent old age and expectant maidenhood. The
old man's mood is not inaptly rendered. In the security of his
abundance and isolation — a false security as it turns out — he gazes
at the fire, humming snatches of old ballads and ruminating on
the vicissitudes to which life is liable in more exposed situations.
Evangeline, however, is but superficially sketched. Her industry ia
referred to, but of her thoughts and feelings the single indication is her
sitting closer to her father, as if touched by the thought of soon leaving
him for her husband's home. How another poet would have developed
the situation.

203. Darted. With the farmer's movements. He was probably
rocking.

205. pewter plates. Pewter is an alloy of lead and tin formerly
much used for dishes, spoons and other domestic utensils.

dresser. A low cupboard.

206. as shields of armies the sunshine. Supply the predicate
"catch " with the subje' '. "shields."

209. Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. As a
matter of fact, the Acadians were Bretons or (irascons. See note on
line 34.

212-213. An echo of Wordsworth's description of Isabel in Michael,

i'^

128

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

4. Arrival of Gabriel and Basil.

The friendship of the two old men is intended as a foil to the youthful
enthusiasm of the lovers. Friendship, we see, like love is not a "like
to like but a like iu difference." Here, too, in Basil's account of the
anxiety of the village regarding the purpose of the Enghsh war ves;:v!ls
in the harbor we have, as already pointed out, the first discordant note.

227. jovial. Derivation and meaning ?

228. harvest moon. The full moon nearest the 21st of September
or the autumnal ecpiinox, rises for several consecutive nights at nearly
the same time.

2.31. jest. Benedict's comparison of Basil's face to the harvest moon.

234. horseshoe. It is difficult to account for the widespread belief
in the efficacy of a horseshoe. Lord M elsou had one nailed to the mast
of the Victory.

238. Gaspereau. See map.

240. his Majesty's mandate. "At a consultation between Colonel
Winslow and Captain Murray, it was agreed that a proclamation should
be issued at the different settlements requiring the attendance of the
people at the respective posts on the same day (5th Sept, 1755) ; which
proclamation should be so ambiguous in its nature that the object for
which they were to assemble could not be discerned ; and peremptory
in its terms as to ensure implicit obedience." Haliburton.

his Majesty. George II., 1727-1760.

249. Louisburg. On the southeast coast of Cape Breton. It was
built after the treaty of Utrecht had transferred the Nova Scotian
mainland to England, and was intended to be the centre of French
naval and military strength in America. Captured in 1745 by a Mas-
sachusetts force, restored in 1748, it was finally taken and dismantled
in 1758. At the time of the banishment of the Acadians it was in the
possession of the French.

Beau S6jour. Fair Abode. A French fort at the head of Cumber-
land Basin. It had just been taken by Winslow's forces before the
circumstances mentioned in the text.

Port Royal. Founded by Champlaiu in 1604 at the mouth of the
Annapolis river. Captux'ed by the English in 1710, and rechristened
Annapolis Royal. It was the capital of the Province till 1749, when
the government was transferred to Halifax.

EVANGELINE.

129

252. Arms have been taken from us. During the summer of 1755
the Acadians were ordered to surreuder their guns to the EngUsh
commandants at the several forts.

259. The contract was the legal marriage, which was followed by the
religious ceremony.

•260. Haliburton, on the authority of Reynal, says that when a young
man reached marriageable age the community built him a house and
stored it with food for a twelvemonth. There he brought the partner
he had chosen and also her dowry in flocks.

261. the glebe. First, farming laud belonging to the church, then
any such land as here.

267. A notary is an officer authorized to attest contracts or writings
of any kind.

III. — The COi^TRACT.

The presence of the mysterious ships in the harbor throws a shade of
sadness on the otherwise joyous occasion of Evangeline's betrothal.
Basil, notwithstanding Benedict's warning, brings the matter up again
on the notary's entrance. The notary had heard the village gossip, but
disclaims being of those who are ready to suspect evil intentions. And
yet his story, while it teaches the ultimate triumph of justice, only
deepens our impression of the possibility of injustice in the meantime.
The contract is signed, the notary departs, and the rest relapse into
silence, until Evangeline brings out the draught board. In the friendly
contention the old men forget their gloomy forebodings, as do the lovers
in each other's society. Nine o'clock comes, Gabriel and his father
depart, and in the seclusion of her chamber there comes over Evangeline's
heart a feeling of sadness.

1. The Notary and his Story.
270. Shocks. A corruption of shog, the root of shaggy.
275. Queen Anne's war (1702-13).

280. Loup-garou. ^Vere-wolf, i.e., man- wolf. A man with power
to turn himself into a wolf, which he does that he may devour children.

281. Cf. Milton's L' Allegro or Shakespeare's M. N. D. for traces of a
similar superstition.

282. Piuquet, who relates this superstition, thinks it may have been
suggested by the white ermine.

130

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

284. Among the European peasantry the belief still lingers that on
Christmas Eve the cattle in tiic stalls fall down in adoration of the
infant Saviour, as the legend says was done in the stable at Bethlehem.

285. Cf. the English superstition that ague could be cured by wearing
about the neck a spider sealed up in a goose quill.

302. An old Florentine story which in an altered form became the
theme of Rossini's opera, La Oazza Ladra.

328. Apply the figure to the state of Basil's mind.

2. SiawiNO THE Contract.

344. draug^hts. So called from the circumstance of drawing tl men
from one s(juare to another.

348. embrasure. Generally used in the military sense of a opening
for cannon. Here it means a window in a thick wall.

3. Evangeline's Chamber.

354. curfew. A corruption of couvre-feu or cover fire. In the
middle ages, when police patrol at night was unknown, it was
attempted to lessen crime by making it an offence against the laws to
be found in the streets at night, and the curfew bell was tolled at various
hours, from seven to nine o'clock, according to the custom of the place.
It warned people to lock their doors, cover their fires and go to bed.

381. Cf. Oen. xxi, 14, for the story of Hagar and Ishmael.

IV. — The Royal Proclamation.

The village has now been described and the principal characters in-
troduced. Though the picture may not stand close inspection, Long-
fellow has contrived to throw a certain charm over the whole. The
beauty of Evangeline, the comely strength of Gabriel, Benedict's jovial
good humor, the somewhat irascible honesty of Basil, and the idyllic
life of these ignorant Acadian peasants have won our sympathy and
we are prepared to resent the arbitrary action of the British Govern-
ment.

1. The Village in Holiday Dress.

As a background on which to paint in more violent contrast the base
treachery of the government, Longfellow displays the simple, guileless
nature of the Acadians. They have been summoned to hear his
majesty's mandate, the contents of which have been purposely con-

EVANGELINE.

131

in-

cealed. Wholly unsuspicious, however, tliey come into town in holiday
dress, intending to make merry with their friends. They find they
have been cruelly betrayed.

385 C. labour . . . with its hundred hands. Explain.

3!>5-8. This is based on the Abbe Reyual's highly colored account of
rural bhss in Acadia.

2. Evangeline's Betrothal Feast.

413. Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, etc. Lit., all the citizens of
Chartres ; a song composed by Henry IV. 's master of the music, Du
Caurroy (1549-1G09).

Le Carillon de Dunkerque. The chimes of Dunkirk ; a popular tune
among the Acadians.

3. The Proclamation.

427. casement. A window to turn on hinges.

430. their commander. Col. John Winslow (1702-1774).

456. we never have sworn them allegiance. They persistently
refused the oath. See introduction.

4. Father Felician's Influencr.

461. chancel. That part of the church where the altar is placed.
The door mentioned leads from the vestry.

466. tocsin's alarm. The alarm bell (O.F., toquesin, to strike).

470. vigils. Watches.

474. the crucified Christ' from His cross, etc. Pointing to the
image of Christ on the Cross. Cf. Browning's Fra Lippo Lippo :

Whose aad face on the cross sees only this
After the passion of a thousand years.

478. O Father, forgive them. Christ's prayer for those who crucified
him.

5. Evening Service.

482. tapers. Candles on the altar.

484. Ave Maria. Hail Mary. An invocation in use in the Roman

Catholic service.

486. Elijah. See //. Kings, ii.

132

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

6. Evanoelink's Helpfulness.

Tlie poet's object here is to show, in Evangeline's case, liow sweet are
the uses of adversity. Her attention to the ordinary details of house-
hold duty, her self-forgetfulnoss and strong words of comfort are con-
trasted with the other women's helpless wailing, and wandering from
house to house in the village. The eouiparison between the fragrance
which rises from the meadows as the shadows of evening begin to fall
upon it, and the "charity, meekness, love, and hope" that rise from the
fields of her soul as the shades of adversity fall, is very effective.

490. level rays. Cf. Scott :

The western waves of i'.)bing day
Uolled o'er the glen their level way.

492. emblazoned. To emblazon is literally to ailorn anything with
armorial bearings. These were often worked into the design of painted
windows.

494. wheaten. Their Norman fathers ate rye or barley bread.

49£. tankard. A large metal drinking-vessol with a lid.

498. ambrosial. Ambrosia was the food, nectar the drink of the
gods. Ambrosial therefore means anything pleasing to the taste or
smell.

499. her spirit within. A biblical phrase. Cf. also Tennyson's
"and her spirit changed within."

507. the Prophet. Moses. See Exodus, xxxiv, 29-35. Explain the
simile.

7. Evangeline's Faith.

This is a companion picture to the foregoing, intended to show the
consoling and sustaining power of Evangeline's character.

This account of the embarkation of the Acadians is based upon Hali-
burton's history, which merely repeats the Abb6 Reynal's exaggera-
tions. As a matter of fact great care was taken to prevent the separa-
tion of families. Accepting the story, however, as he found it, Long-
fellow has managed it with considerable art, and while arousing our
sympathy for the exiled community he contrives to fix our attention
upon the still more pathetic experience of Evangeline. With the other
women she has been all day superintending the removal of household

EVANOELINE.

133

goods to the beach. In the evening the men, who have been for four
(lays shut up in the church, art- released. With a perfectly nattiral
impulse, Evangeline runs first to her lover, but observing her fatlier's
altered looks, she goes to him. In the confusion of embarking Gabriel
is hurried aboard, while she is left with her father on the shore. The
burning' of the village is the old man's deathblow, and Evangeline,
bereft of husband and father, ■ s left utterly desolate.

1. The AssEMJtLiNO of tue WcjMEiN.

There is something very pathetic in the introductorj paragraph. The
crowing of the cocks as if to awaken the sleeping maids to the ordinary
routine of life, the women's last looks at their homes and the children's
clinging to tlic fragments of playthings.

525. maids. To whom does this refer ?

520. yellow fields. Why yellow?

531. urged on the oxen. The ponderous wain and the weight of

household goods.

2. Thr March to thk Suorb.

535. The boats were, of course, manned by English sailors.

541. At Grand Pre the males from ten years upwards were collected
and shut up in the church until the time of embarkation. 'I'hey
numbered 400.

557. eagerly running. Quite in keeping with Acadian simplicity
and theii' recent betrothal.

3. The Separation of Evangeline and Gabriel.

569. in the confusion. The hurry, confusion and excitement of the
embarkation,

570. Wives were torn, etc. An exaggeration ; ome separations
possibly took place, but the greatest care was taken to keep families
together.

575. refluent ocean. The outgoing tide.

577. kelp. Large, coarse seaweed.

579. leaguer after a battle. The camp of a besieged army ; from
Ger. layei',

582. its nethermost caves. Cf. "its rocky caverns," in 1. 5.

134

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

(

(■

4. Father Felicia n's Sympathy,

597. shipwrecked Paul. Soe Acl)^ xxvii, 22.

Melita. Tho ancient name of Malta ; Gk. MfhTn.

CO I. face of a clock. Longfullow hud a preference for illustrations
drawn from the clock.

605. Benedicite. Bless ye. The imperative second plural which
begins the Latin benediction of the Roman Catholic Church.

5. The Buknino of the Village.

615. Titan-like. The Titans were the fabled children of Heaven and
Earth (Uranus and Caia) who waged war against (^hronos. Briareus,
one of the Titans, had a hundred hands. In attempting to scale
Olympus, the abode of the gods, they piled Mount Pelion on Mount
Ossa. (Hence the expression to pile Pelion on Ossa.) They were
finally subdued by the thunderbolts of Jupiter, the son of Chronos.

619. Col. Winslow was commanded to deprive those who might
escape of all shelter and support.

621. gleeds. Burning coals.

6. The Dismay of the People and the Terror of the Homeless

Beasts.

6.30. sleeping encampments. Indian camps.

631. Nebraska. The Platte river, a tributary of the Missouri, which
it joins below Omaha.

7. The Death of Benkdigt.

653, Many did subsequently return.

657. without bell or book. The tolling of the bell marks the passing
of the soul into the other world. The book is, of course, the book of
services for the dead. Cf. "bell, book and candle " in connection with
excommunication.

PART THE SECOND.
I.

668. household gods. An allusion to the lares, manes and penates,

or household gods of the Romans.

669. without an example. Compare Louis XIV's treatment of the
Huguenots, or Ferdinand of Spain's treatment of the Jews.

EVANOEL .'■ '<•.

136

074. savanna. A treeless plain.

675. Father of Waters. The Mississippi.

670. Seizes the hills, etc. Rivera are constantly bringing down
Bcdinient, which tliey deposit at their mouth.

077. mammoth. An extinct species of elephant very much larger than
the existing tyi)e. Its remains are found in Europe and America.

705. Coureurs-des-bois. In the early history of French occupation,
those half-decivilized Frenchmen or half-breeds engaged in the fur
trade.

707. voyageur. A river boatman.

713. to braid St. Catherine's tresses. There were two St. Cather-
ines, both vowed to virginity. To braid St. Catherine's tresses means
consequently to remain unmarried.

720. affection never was wasted.

I hold it true whpfe'ov hefali,
I feel it vvhen I sorrow most,
'Tis better to have loved and lost.
Than never to have loved at all.

—Tennyson, " In Memoriam."

725. Sorrow and silence are strong. Cf. Wordsworth's Peeh Castle :

But welcome fortitude and patient cheer
And frequent sights of what is to be borne I

732. shards. Fragments of pottery.

II.

741. Beautiful River. The Ohio.

742. Wabash. A tributary of the Ohio.

743 golden stream. The Mississippi is tinged yellow by the
muddy waters of the Missouri.

749. kith. Literally an acquaintance.

750. the Acadian coast. Though ceded by France in 1762, Louisiana
did not pass into the hands of Spain till 1769. Attracted by the presence
of a French population on the lower Mississippi, the Acadians settled
along the river from New Orleans to Point Couple, above Baton Rouge.

Opelousas. A place in Louisiana sixty miles west of Baton Rouge.
755. chutes. In Canada, a rapid descent of a river, a fall ; but on i^ie
Mississippi a narrow channel with a free current.

^»^^w

136

NOTKS OX LONGFELLOW.

plume-like Cotton-trees. The cottonwood, so-called because its
seeds grow in catkiiiH, urd are covered with a cottou-like libre.

7i)7. lagoons. Here lake-like expansions of the river.

75S. wimpling. llippling.

701. china-trees. A species of mahogany, about thirty feet high,
with ])right green leaves, lilac-like flowers and yellow berries of a bitter-
sweet taste.

70-4. citron. A species of lemon tree.

766. Bayou. A stagnant or sluggish channel leading from a river.

Plaquemine. About twenty-two miles below Baton Rouge, connect-
ing the Missi.si^dppi with the Atchafalaya lakes.

76S. network of steel. The netwoik of natural canals which intersect
the Stat5 of Louisiana near the mouth of the Mississippi.

769. tenebrous. Full of darkness.

772. herons. Bird^ that freouent low, marshy gi'ound.

775. Cf. Gray's "The moping owl doth to the moon complain," etc.

780. compassed. Definitely stated.

782. miinosa. The sensitive plant.

783. hoof-beats of fate. Fate is not usually represented in this
guise.

805. whoop of the crane. The American or whooping crane.

roar of the grim alligator. Edward King, in an article in
Scribner's Mohthlij, November, 1873, descri])tive of a steamboat trip
down the Mississippi, speaks of the " bellowings of the alligators."

807. Atchafalaya. The chief of the three outlets of the Mississippi.
The lakes are e:.pansions.

809. lotus. The yellow water lily.

811. magnolia. A laurel growing on th-j Southern Mississippi to a
height of seventy feet, bearing white, swee^j smelling flowers.

816. Wachita. Also spelled Owac/titta, a tributary of the Mississippi.

820. trumpet-flower. A climbing shrul) with yellowish trumpet-
shaped flowers.

821. the ladder of Jacob. Is the simile effective?

837. palmettos. A species of palm ; also called the cabbage tree.
845. Longfellow makes use of the absurd notion of the conveyance of
intelligence from soul to soul by some secret psychic force.

EVANGELINE.

137

8/1(5. Teche. A }).ayou bogiiming in St. Landry Parish and rnnning
south to tlio Atchafahiya, a distance of one liundred and eiglit miles.

873. LongfeUow tried the pentameter verse in the mocking-bird's

song :

Upon a siiray that overhung the stream,
Tlx' iiiofkiii!,'-l)ir(l, awakiiifr from his dream,
Poured such delicious iuuRic from his throat
That all the air seemed listening to his note.
PI tintive at first tlie soni,' began and slow ;
It ..tjutht'd of sadness and of pain and woe ;
Tiifcii gathering all his notes, abroad hi' flung
The nuiltiludinous nmsic of his tongue ;
As after showers, a sudden gast again,
Ui»on the leaves shakes dow!i the raltliiig rain.

87S. Bacchantes. Women votaries of Bacchus, the god of wine.
With streaming hair they wildly danced, swaying and waving the
thyrsus or staff entwined with ivy and crowned with a ]tiue cone.

884. the green Opelousas. A beautifully verdant district on the
Teche, covering an area of about one million acres.

III.
890. Yule-tide. Christmas.

912. Spanish saddle. Higher than the English saddle in bow and
back.

914. sombrero. (Shade giver) ; a broad brimmed hat worn in warm
countries.

952. Adayes. Tlie Spanish Jesuits liad established missions about
the middle of the 17th century, among the Adayes Imlians, then
living in what is low Western Louisiana. These were abandtmed in
109;^, and twenty years later the Franci.scans took up the work, estab-
lishing four stations, (me of which was called San Mlijael de loH Adaes.

953. Ozark Mountains. A low range running north-east and south-
west through Missouri, Arkansas and Texas.

961. Olympus. A mountain in I^'orthern (ireece, the fabled home
of the gods.

908. gossip. A familiar acquaintance.

970. ci-devant. Heretofore, a French phrase.

984. Natchitoches. A French settlement among the Natchez
Indians on the lied Kiver.

1004. the fever. The yellow scourge of the South.

138

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

1009. Creoles. Native born ii>liabitants of the West Indies or
Spanish America of French or Spanish desciuit.

1033. Carthusian. An exceedingly strict monastic order foundf^d in
the 12th century, so called from the seat of the order, Chartreuse in
France. Almost jjerpetual silence was one of their vows.

1044. Upharsin. Lit. "They are wanting;" the conclusion of the
sentence written on the wall of the palace at Belshazzar's feast, " Mene,
meue, tekcl upharsin." See Dan. v, o-'28.

1057. oracular caverns of darkness. An allusion to the oracular oak
groves at Fpirus, Dotloua, etc.

10G3. the Prodigal Son. Gabriel. Explain the allusion, ^qq Luke
XV, 11 -.32.

1064. the Foolish Virgin. Evangeline. An allusion to Mattheio
xxi, 1-13.

who slept when the bridegroom was coming. A ref-r-^nce to
Gabriel's passing while Evangeline's party slept on the island.

IV.

1078. desert land. Very vaguely defined ; in Arkansas or Wyoming.

1082. Oregon. The Colundna.

Walleway. The Wallawalla, a tributary of the Columbia.

Owyhee. A tributary of the Snake, itself a tributary of the Oregon
or (yolumbia.

1083. Wind-river Mountains. A spur of the Uockios in Wyoming.

1084. Sweet-wattr Valley. The valley of the SM'eet-water in
Wyoming, one of the upper tributaries of the Nebraska or Platte.

1085. Fontaine-qui-bout. Fountain that boils. It rises in Pike's
Peak and Hows into the Arkansas.

the Sptt.iish sierras. Sieira moans saw-shajiod, and the vSpanish
Sierras are the Lower Rockies in what was then Spanish territory.

109 i. amorphas. A leguminous shrub-like plant bearing spikes of
pui'ple flowers ; sometimes also called Bastard Indigo.

1095, Ishmael's children. The Indians, whose fierce nomadic habits
suggest a comparison with the Arabs, the reputed descendants of
Ishmael, the son of Abraham, l>y Hagar (Gen, xxi, 14, ff. ).

1114. Fata Morgana. A sort of mirajre first noticed in the Straits
of Messina, less frecjucutly elsewhere, hence its Italian naaie. It con-

gon

labita

ts of

traits
t con-

EVANOELINE.

139

sists of the appearance in the air over the sea of objects on the neigh-
boring coast. Such a mirage is quite c( mmon in the south-western
United States. It is ilue to unec^ually heated layers of air.

I' 19, Shawnee. A vagrant tribe of Algonquin Indians dwelling
between the Red River and the Canadian River, in or near what is
now Indian Territory.

1120. Camanches. A fierce Shoshonees tribe that dwelt in what is
now Western Texas.

1139. Schoolcraft's Algic Researches is the source of Longfellow's
Indian legend.

1167. the Black Robe chief. The Jesuit priest. Tlie missions on
the Mississippi were founded ))y Marquette in 1073.

1181. vespers (Lat. ws^jer, evening). The evening service.

1182. susurrus. Whispe»f; (Lat. susvn-o, I whisper).

1192. gourds. Plants f>,llied to the pumpkin and cucumber.

1194. suns. Years. The Indian mode of reckoning.

1199. some lone nest. Compare Wordsworth's sonnet, To a Dis-
tant Friend.

1211. Clo'.>:ers for mendicant crows. The crow from his color is
likened to a ]>lHc;k-r«)bed brother of some mendicant o'^der, and the corn-
stalks are his cloister. Tlie illustration does not soem very apt. Is it
the proverbial impudence of the begging friars that Longfellow is
tliinking of ?

1212. golden w^eather. Cf. the description of Indian summer in
Part the First.

121.3. Blushed at each biood-red ear. To find a red ear in husking
was for a maiden a fortunate omen, pointing to her soon securing a
brave Avarrior as a husband.

1219. compass-flower. Also called the Polar plant. 'A tall, rough,
bristly plant of Iho aster family, whose, larger lower leaves are said to
assume a vertical position with their edges tumesi north and south."

1222. blossoms of passion. This cannot refer -in the Passion flower,
which was tliouglit to represent our Lord's passion, the filamentous
processes the crown of thorns, the nail-shaped styles the nails of the
cross, and the line anthers the marks of the woundh. The expression
must be wholly figurative. Contrast Father i^eHcian and the Jesuit
priest.

I;;

S'\

'I;

If B

I'
I

!vi I

I Pi*
[I

140

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

hi i

1 1'

1226. asphodel. A flower of the lily fatnily, with a pale blossom,
sometimes called king's lance. In (Jreek mythology the departc*! heroes
dwelt in meadows of asphodel. Compare also Tenuyson's Lvtos-eaters.

nepenthe. In Homer, a magic potion which' produced forgetfulness
of all sorrow.

1229. wold. ( A. S. weald.) Open, hilly country.

1233. Saginaw. A Alichigan river flowing into Lake Huron.

1241. Tents of Grace . . . Moravian Missions. The Moravians
are a Protestant sect, followers of John Muss, who were driven from
Bohemia at the beginning of the 18th century, and settled in Saxony
under the protection of Count Zinzendorf, and hence often called
Hernhuters. Tents of Crao'^ is the name by which they designate
tht.ir assembly places. They are devoted missionaries, working in
Labrador, the Cape, Russia, Tartary, etc. In 1880 they had 100
mission stations and 350 missionaries.

1242. battle-fields of the army. What wars are meant 1

1252. Delaware. The Delaware, rising in New York, forms the
entire eastern boundary of the State of Pennsylvania.

1253. Guarding in sylvan shades. The name of the State is from
Penn, the name of the founder, and Hijloa, a wood.

Penn the apostle. William Penn, the founder of Philadelphia, the
City of Brotheily Love, was one of ti\e most influential Quakers of his
time (1644-1718). The term "apostle" is owing to his deserved
reputation for enlightened philanthropy.

1256. M,?jiy streets in Philadelphia are named after forest trees.

1257. Dryads. Wood nymphs.

1264. the Thee and Thou. The old Sf^cond person singular, which
has fallen into disuse in classic I'^nglish except in solenui language, is
still used by the Quakers, who, however, employ "thee " as subject as
well as object.

12G5. recalled the past. French use ta among near relatives and
vous as a polite si.iL'lar.

1288. Sister of Mercy. The French Order of tlio Daughters of Our
Lady of Mercy (Fi lies de Notre Dame de Misericr)r(le) was founded in
1633 by St. Vincent de Paul. They were recognized as an order by
Pope Clement IX. in 1650. P'rom the color of their dress they were

A PSALM OF LIFE.

141

called the Gray Sisters. According to their vows they were to have for
monastery the houses of the sick, for cloister the streets of the town or
wards of the hospital, and for veil holy modesty.

1292. the 'watchman. The old time watchmen used to light the
lamps early in the evening and go the rounds during the night, calling
out as they went the hour and the weather.

1296. German farmer, (iermans formed a large proportion of the
original tattlers.

1298. a pestilence. A terrible visitation of yellow fever in 1793.

1299. wondrous signs. Vast flocks of wild jngeons wliich were then
thought to point to an unhealthy season.

1308. almshouse. Longfellow's explanation was: "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 beau-
tiful trees about it inside of a high enclosure. I walked along until I
came to the great gate and then stt i)ed inside and looked carefully
over the place. The charming picture of lawn, flower-beds and shade
which it presented made an impression which has never left me, and
when I came to write Ei^aiKjellne I placed the flnal scene, the meeting
between Evangeline and Gabriel, and the death at the poor-house, and
the burial in an old Catholic grave-\ard not far away, which I found
by chance in another of my walks."

1326. Christ Church. Erected in 1695, rebuilt in 1727, spire added
1754. The chmies wjre almost the first iu America, and cost £560 at
the time.

1328. Swedes . . church. Built in 1700.

1383. the little Catholic churchyard. See »ote to line iJ08.

;;u«

1
'I

A PSALM OF LIFE.

A Psalm Of* Life was written in Cambrdge on a brij^ht summer
morning in w'uly, 1838. "I kept it some time in manuscript." says
Longfellow, "■unwilling to show it to ai y.me, it being a voice fmn my
inmost heart, at a time when I was rallyinc fram iloprnssion ' H was
published anonymously in the Knkkcrhin-k-i'r Maj^i^r ' 'cti !>er, 18.38.
and was followed within the year by four other j«ems entitkni pi«iUms,
viz., A Psalm of Death t' Th<' Eeoper and the FiotctrsJ ; a secou<i i^salm

142

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

of Life (The Light of Stars) ; a third Paalm of Life (Footsteps of Angels);
a fourth Psalm of Life (A Midnight Mass fur the Dying Year).

The first two lines of the poem indicate that the psalmist, i.e., the
writer of this psalm, judging life merely from its externals, has come to
the conclusion that all is vanity, that life is but an empty dream or
show. Against this conclusion his better self, his heart, rises up and
testifies. Compare the lines in In Memorlam :

If e'er wh(^n faith liad fallen asleep,

I heard a voice ' lielieve no more,'

And heard an ever-l)reakin<i shore
That lumhled in a (Jodlesn deep ;

A warmth within the l)reast wonld melt

The freezing reason's colder part,

And like a man in wrath, the heart
Stood up and answered ' I have felt.'

The thought of the poem naturally falls into five divisions, the belief in
immortality as an inspiration to earnest living, the desire for progress as
a principle of action, the necessity of immediate and energetic effort,
the possibilities and privileges of human life, and in the last stanza the
final lesson to be drawn from t^ie foregoing truths. "The Psalm of Life
proclaims the gladness of living well to be the best of poetry."

In his Letters on Literature, Andrew Lang comments as follows upon
the poetic value of the Psalm of Life : —

"I believe it is the manner, after all, of the Psalm of Life, that has
made it so strangely popular. People tell us, excellent people, that it
is 'as good as a permou,' that they value it for this reason, that its
lesson has strengthened the hearts of men in our difficidt life. They
say so and they think so ; but the poem is not nearly as good as a
sermon ; it is not even coherent. But it really has an original cadence
of its own with its double rhymes; and the pleasure of this cadence
has combined with a belief that they are being edified, to make readers
out of number consider the Psalm of Life a masterpiece. You, my
learned prosodist and student of Browning and Shelley will agree with
me that it is not a masterpiece, But I doubt if you have enough of
the experience brought by years to tolerate the opposite opinion as
your elders can. Even in spite of this friendliness and affection which
Longfellow wins, he does moralize too much! The first part of his lyrics
is always the best, the part where he is dealing directly with his
subject. Then comes the 'practical application,' as the preachers say,
and I feel now that it is sometimes uncalled for, disenchanting, and
eveu manuf*ctured."

A rSALM OP LIFE.

143

Poetic Form. — The Pmhn of Life, as its title indicates, is a lyric. It
is, however, a lyric of reflection and contains a series of somewhat
disjointed provnr])ial maxims which the jjoet has fused or boxind
together by his own personal enthusiasm. The stanza form is the
quatrain. The meti'e is trochaic tetrami ter, the unaccented syllable
being dropped at the end of the second and fourth lines. Notice and
account for the irregularities in 11. 4, 5, 10, 22, What is the eflfect of
the use of the trochaic metre ?

1. numbers. Lines in poetry, or notes in music.

2. an empty dream. The opposite of real and earnest in 1. 5.

3-4. slumbers is perhaps suggested by dream, 1. 2. He who con-
siders life only as an empty dream, is, to all intents and purposes, dead.
He is not lirliiy, in the true sense of the term.

7. " In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till thou return
unto the ground ; for out of it Avast thi»u taken ; for dust thou art and
unto dust shalt thou return." GeiieMs iii, 19. See also Eccles. iii, 20.

13. It requires a great deal of time to attain perfection in any line of
work, and life is quickly passing.

14-16. We may face the tasks «9f life bravely ; nevertheless, every
heart-beat brings us nearer death. There are various ways of muffling
a drum so as to deaden the sound. It ia commoidy done by loosening
the strings at the side and covering tlie drum-head with cloth.

18. bivouac. Cognate with the verb ?(Yf '<•/>. An encampment for the
night without tents. A bivouac impli»;s prtparation, on the part of the
soldier, either to resume the march at any mf>Baent, or to resist sudden
attack. Hence the word here suggests that life is but a preparation for
eternity to follow, and emphasizes the necessity of watchfulness against
despondency and idleness, the enemies of actif>n.

21-23. Cf. the motto of Longfellow's IJijperlon : " T^ook not mourn-
fully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the
Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future without
fear and with a manly heart."

22. Lulce iv, 60.

24. "Let the heart be right ; God will see that the result will be
right." For a similar sentiment, see /. Corinthians, xv, 58.

28-32. Possil)ly suggested by the familiar incident in Rohinson
Crmoe. Perhaps there is a suggestion that the sands may harden into
rock and preserve the footprints through all time.

Ii;»t

144

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

35. Cf. Wordsworth's Character of the Happy Warrior :

Who, not content that former wortli stand fast,
Looks forward i)ersuverinj,' to tlie hint.
From well to better, daily self-surpast.

36. to wait. That is, to wait patiently for results.

WRECK OF THE HESPEllUS.
Composed December 30th, 1839. Pul)lished January, 1840.

The following extracts from Longfellow's diary and letters explain the
history of its composition : —

Deo. 6, 1839. News of shipwrecks horrible on the coast. Twenty
bodies washed ashore near (Uoucester, one lashed to a piece of the
wreck. There is a reef called Norman's Woe, where many of these
wrecks took place ; among others the schooner Hesperus, Also the
Sea Flower on Black Rock. Must write a ballad on this.

Dec. 30, 1839. I sat till 12 o'clock by my fiie smoking, when suddenly
it came into my mind to write the Ballad of the Schooner Hesperus,
which I accordingly did. Then I went to bed, but could not sleep.
New thoughts were running in my mind, and I got up to add them to
the ballad. It was three by the clock. I then went to bed and fell
asleep. I feel pleased with the ballad. It hardly cost me an efifort. It
did not come into my mind by lines, but by stanzas.

Jan. 2, 1840. I have broken ground in a new field, namely, ballads ;
beginning with the wreck of the schooner Hesperus on the reef of
Norman's Woe in the great storm of a fortnight ago. I shall send it to
some newspaper. I think I shall write 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 on the people's feelings. I am going to
have it printed on a sheet with a coarse picture on it. I desire a new
sensation, and a new set of critics. Nat. Hawthorne is tickled with the
idea. Felton laughs and says ' I wouldn't.'

The rough edition was not issued.

From these extracts from the poet's journal and letters, it will be
noted that the newspaper accounts of the actual wreck of the Hesperus
supplied little more than the mere suggestion of the story. One detail,
however, was given, that of the body 'found lashed to a piece of
wreck,' and from this single item the poet succeeded in developing a

WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.

145

is ;
of
to
s a
es,
to
ew
the

be
Irws

narrative and shaping it into artistic form. In the ballad, the form
lashed to the wreck appears as a child, the skipper's daughter, and
around her fate the whole interest of the poem centres. Tlie story of
the sufferings of a child is always more tragic than that of another, and
in this case Longfellow has made the most of favoring con<litions. In
order that her death may be the more impressive he brings into
prominence her delicate beauty, her childish, questioning innocence, and
her prayerful trust in

Christ who stilled the wave

On the lake of Galilee.

The death of the father and the destruction of the Hesperus^, wliich the
poet has represented almost as a human being, serve only to set in
relief, and to prepare us for, her own more tragic doom. As it is the
child's death, too, rather than that of the skipper or crew, which
excites our compassion, the consideration of it very properly closes the
ballad.

The directness of the narrative, which deals only with the tragic and
picturesque outlines of the story, anil the use of simple and striking
simile, contributes also to the effectiveness of the poem.

Poetic Form. — The Wreck of the Hesperus is a ballad, and comes,
therefore, under the head of Epic Poetry. For characteristics of the
Ballad, see chapter on Poetic Form. It will be "noticed that The Wreck
of the Hesperus conforms to the demands of the ballad, in simplicity
of style, directness of narration, and interest of stirring incident. The
regular Ballad measure is used, viz., the quatrain, composed of alternate
iambic tetrameter and trimeter line. Many irregularities are found, as
for example in 11. 5, 13, 21, 49, 50, 60, 81, 85. Account for each of
these? How can you justify such deviations from the regular metrical
form? What is the effect of the absence of i"hyme in the first and
third lines of each stanza ?

I. Compare with the first line of the Ancient Mariner.

5. fairy-flax. The dwarf or mountain fiax, which exhibits a beautiful,
delicate blue fiower.

6-8. Cf. She 'Wits a Phantom of DeWjht, 11. 7-8 :

But all thinjjs else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn.

II. flaw. A sudden gust of wind ; a sudden and violent windstorm.
17. Cf. the Bit Had of Sir Patrick Spens :

146 NOTKS ON LONca'KLLOW.

Late, latp, ycstropii I saw the new moon
With tlic f)l(I moon in licr arm ;
And I fear, I fwir, my tnastor dear !
We sliall liave a deadly .storm.

29. Note the directness of the nartiitive, proper to the ballad.
55-0. Mark iv, 35-41,

60. Norman's Woe. A dangerous reef near the entrance to Cilou-
cester harbor, Massachusetts.

82. In his criticism of the ballail, Poe objected strongly to this line.
83-4. Cf. Kingsley, The, Sands o' Dee :

Oh, i.s it weed, or fish, or floating hair—

A tress o' H'olden hair,
O' drowiit'd maiden's hair

Above the nets, at sea ?

85-8. The picturesqueness of the proper names Hesperus and Norman's
Woe adds to the poetic effi^ct. The ballad properly does not admit of
comment by the author in per.son. Does tlie addition of the last stanza,
in the present poem, add to its effectiveness ?

THE DAY IS DONE.

Composed in 1844 : published in 1845. In 1844 Longfellow compiled
a volume of lyrics from various poets, and preiixed to the collection
(which he entitled The Waif) the present poem, of his own composition,
as an introduction.

The Daij is Done gives expression to a common mood of ordinary
daily life. After the " toil and endeavor " of the day's duties there is
often a reaction, a desire for freedom from the cares of the day, a long-
ing for 7'eM. The setting in of darkness, the accompanying rain and
mist, the lights of the village suggesting life and companionship else-
where, serve only to intensify this feeling of unrest. In such a mood
the poet seeks and finds sympathy and relief in the soothing melody of
"some simple and heartfelt lay," rather than in the * mighty thoughts '
of the ' grand old masters.' The appropriateness of such a sentiment as
an introduction to a volume containing selections from such poets as
Herrick and Shelley, is obvious.

PoKTic Form. — The Day is Done is a simple lyric giving expression to
the poet's personal feeling of longing and unrest. The tone of the poem

THE OLD CLOCK ON TUB STAIRS.

shows strongly the influence of Cfcrnian lyric poets, such as Heine and
Uhland. The effect of the regular iambic trimeter measure is varioil V»y
the use of feminine endings and tlie frequent introduction of anapiestic
and trochaic feet.

3-4. What is the main point in the simile ? •

5. village. Caml)ridge, which was incorporated as a city in 1846.

9. In a poem entitled In the Timlhjht, Lowell speaks also of the
indefinable* feelings to which the approach of darkness gives rise.

33-36. Cf. Longfellow, Hymn to the N'ujht, stanza x ;

O holy night ! from thee I learn to bear

What man has borne before !
Thou layest thy flna;er on the lips of care,

And they complain no more.

41-44. Discuss the poetic value of the simile.

:ii.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

Longfellow's journal of Nov. 12, 1845, contains the following entry :
"Began a poem on a clock, with the words 'Forever, Never,' as a
burden ; suggested by the words of Bridaine, the old French missionary,
who said of eternity ' Cest une pendule,' etc." The translation of the
extract from Bridaine, quoted in the journal and used in part as a motto
for the poem, is as follows : "Eternity is a clock, the pendulum of which
says and repeats these two words only, in the silence of the tomb,
'Forever ! never ! Never ! forever ! ' and during these awful revolutions
one reprobate soul cries, ' What time is it ? ' and the voice of another
in anguish replies, ' Eterniiiy.' "

Jacques Bridaine (1701-1767) was a famous French preacher and home
missionary. He travelled through the south of France, preaching from
town to town, and enjoyed a wide popularity. Being invited to go to
Paris to preach, he delivered there, in the church of St. Sulpice, a sermon
on Eternity, which is described as having produced "a terrible impre -
sion" on all who heard it.

The Old Clock on the Stairs describes a clock standing on the
staircase of an "old-fashioned country-seat," now known as the
Plunkett Mansion,- in Pittsfield, Mass., belonging to the maternal
grandfather of Mrs. Longfellow. Longfellow was married in July,
1843, to Miss Frances Apple ton, daughter of Nathan Apple ton, of

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148

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

Boston, and in the course of their wedding trip they made a visit to
Pittafield, where Longfellow saw the old clock an<l heard something of
tlie family history. Ten years later, Sept. 10, 1853, his journal contains
the entry, "The old homestead at Pittsfield has been sold — reserving
only the 'old clock on the stairs.'" The now famous clock was re-
moved to Boston and stands in the residence of Mr. Thomas Appleton.

The plan of the poem is systematic. Stanza one introduces the
subject ; stanzas two and three deal with place and time, while the
remainder of the poem follows in regular order the course of family life
— as in The Hanging of the Crane — and applies the motto of the poem
to each and every scene. The obvious teaching of the poem, the ex-
planation of the motto, is contained in the last stanza, and the poem is
therefore one of consolation. To all pain and sorrow, and to the regrets
that mingle with the pleasures of life, the common answer is given —

On Earth the broken arcs ;
, In Heaven the perfect round.

But is there not, perhaps, also in the poem, besides this doctrine of con-
solation for the short-lived pleasures of life, a suggestion of the necessity
of earnest activity, the lesson of the Psalm of Life ? Time is passing !
Eternity is at hand ! Opportunities ne^.-^ected and tasks unperformed
will never return ; they have passed away forever.

Poetic Form. — The Old Clock on the Stairs may be classed as a lyrical
ballad. Unlike The Day is Done or The Fire of Driftwood, it almost
entirely lacks the individual and personal note characteristic of the
lyric. On the other hand, it deals principally with the past, though with
the history of a fa?niliar object rather than with historical incident or
stirring event. The refrain following each stanza, however, as well as
the lyrical tone of the concluding stanzas, justify the application of tlie
term lyric to the poem. The metre is iambic tetrameter, varied by the
frequent introduction of trochaic and anapaestic feet. The imitative
refrain at the end of each stanza is after the manner of Poe. How does
the use of the rhyming couplet harmonize with the sentiment of the
poem ?

1-8. The words of the refrain at the end of each stanza gain additional
inipressiven'jss and solemnity by their association with the antique past.
The voice of the old clock is, as it were, a voice from the grave. Hence
the appropriateness of the choice of epithets — old-fashioned, antique,
ancient.

.3. ; ortico. An open vestibule or porch, with roof supported by
columns.

THE PIRE OP DRIPTWOOD.

149

12. Explain the points of the simile and discuss its appropriateness.

35. Hospitality is personified, as indicated by the use of the capital.

37. skeleton at the feast. A reference to an eastern custom de-
scribed by Herodotus in speaking of the Egyptians, as follows : "At
their convivial banquets, among the wealthy classes, when they have
finished supper, a man carries round in a coffin the image of a dead body
carved in wood, made as like as possible in color and workmanship,
and in size generally about one or two cubits in length ; and showing
this to each of the company, he says, " Look upon this, then drink anJ
enjoy yourself ; for when dead you will be like this." — Herodotus ii, 78.
Tr. Gary. Cf. , also, Scott, The Ikdisvian, xxviii.

43. prime. The spring of life ; youthful health, strength or beauty.

44. afHuence. Abundance, profusion.

57. Cf. Longfellow, The Hangimj of the Crane :

The crown of stars is broken in parts ;
Its jewels, hrifc'hter than the day,
Have one by one been stolen away
To shine in other homes and hearts.

60. Cf. Longfellow, Ai(f Wiedersehen, Stanza I:

Until we meet again ! That is the meaning
Of the familiar woi*ds, that men repeat

At parting in the street.
Ah yes, till then ! but when death intervening
Rends ua asunder, with what ceaseless pain

We wait for the Again !

THE FIRE OF LRIFTVVOOD.

Written in 1846. Published in the volume entitled Seaside and
Fireside, 1850.

An entry in Longfellow's journal of Sept. 29, 1846, gives an account
of the visit to Marblehead, out of which this poem arose. "A delicious
drive through Maiden and Lynn to Marblehead to visit E. W. at the
Devereux Farm by the seaside. Dro've across the beautiful sand.
'\''^hafc a delicious scene ! The ocean in the sunshine changing from the
silvery hue of the thin waves upon the beach, through the lighter and
deeper green, to the rich purple in the horizon. We recalled the times
past and the days when we were at Nahant. The Devereux Farm is by
the sea, some miles from Lynn. An old-fashioned farm-house, with low

150

NOTES OX LONGFELLOW.

rooma and narrow windows rattling iu the sea-breeze. After dinner we
drove to MarbleUead — a strange old place on a rocky promontory, with
narrow streets, and strange, ugly houses scattered at random, corner-
wise and everywise, chrusting their shoulders into the streets and
elbowing the passers out of their way. A dismantled fort looks sea-
ward. \ e rambled along the breastworks, which are now a public
walk, and asked in vain for the Reef of Norman's Woe, which is, never-
theless, in this neighborhood. On returning to the Devereux Farm
we sat on the rocks and listened to "the bellowing of the savage sea."

Marblehead is a seaport in Essex county, Massachusetts, fifteen miles
north-east of Boston. It is built on an elevated and rocky peninsula
four miles in length and two in width, projecting into Massachusetts
Bay. It was once incorporated with Salem, which joins it on the west.
Many of the houses date from the colonial period, and one of the
churches was built in 1714. The population in 1890 was 8,200.

The Fire of Driftivood is an attempt to describe in language, as
Tennyson has done in The Days That Are No More, the vague,
evanescent feelings of longing and regret which are associated with the
memories of the past. Longfellow finds — as does Tennyson also — that
he can best accomplish his purpose not by direct lyric expression, but
by calling in the aid of the concrete to typify for him his own abstract
feelings and emotions. Both in the driftwood, speaking as it does of
the wrecks of the past, as well as in the fitful and expiring flame, he
finds a symbol of the ** long-lost ventures of the heart," the dreams, the
yearnings, the friendships, which have long expired, leaving only the
sad memory in the heart.

The poet does not attempt to spiritualize his theme or to show the
effect of such musings on the mind, as does Wordsworth. Cf. Lntiina-
tions of Immortality : " The thought of our past years in me doth breed
perpetual benediction." As in Tennyson's lyric, referred to above, the
poem simply aims at giving expression to the mood, without examining
into the relations of such moods to life.

It will be observed also that in the setting of the poem the poet has
depicted such details as are in keeping with the general theme. As
"sad and strange " as are the days that arc no more, is the strange, old-
fashioned town with its dismantled fort and quaint houses, '^'he sea
breeze is damp and cold, and the gloom of the room is in keeping with
the gloom of the heart. Finally, the strangeness of the voices heard
while the speaker is unseen, suggests the startling strangeness of our
past hopes and longings seen through the intervening years.

THE FIRE OP DRIFTWOOD.

151

Poetic Form.— In lyrical quality this poem resembles The Day is
Done more than any other contained in these selections. Both poems
are written in a decidedly minor key. In metrical form The Fire of
Driftioood is quite regular. There is little variation from the almost
uniform iambic tetrameter measure. Point out any instances of the
introduction of trochaic feet, and any examples of slurred syllables.

5-8. port. The harbor of Marblehead.

town. Marblehead.

lighthouse. On the point of the peninsula at the entrance to the
harbor.

dismantled fort. Fort Sewall, constructed in 1742.

13-24. Cf. Scott, Lady of the Lal-e, Canto i, 33 :

Again returned the scenes of youth,

Of confident undoubting truth ;

Again his soul he interchanged

With friends whose hearts were long estranged,

They come, in dim procession led,

The cold, the faithless, and the dead ;

As warm each hand, each brow as gay,

As if they parted yesterday.

17-20. Cf. Clough, As Ships Becalmed at Eve :

E'en so— but why the tale reveal
Of those, whom year by year unchanged,

Brief absence join'd anew to feel.
Astounded, soul from soul estranged ?

28. a mournful rustling — which found expression in the mournful
tones of the speakers.

29-32. Under such conditions the mind is naturally inclined to
reverie, and conversation so subdued is easily broken. The leaping
and expiring flame diverts the attention from mournful reminiscences of
past life, only to fix the sj'-mpathies upon kindred themes.

41-4. The various sounds which "mingle vaguely" with their
speech, — wind, ocean, and driftwood-fire, each and all speak to them of
past wrecks and ventures lost at sea ; hence, instead of breaking
harshly in upon the "fancies floating through the brain," they are
rather in sympathetic accord with those reveries whose kindred theme
is the long-lost ventures of youth— wrecked friendships and wrecked
hopes.

-^c^

CBI^^FT^ JW«»i'<^-"r"W>P9i iiiiiip^

152

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

43. In the Middle Ages, wlien the fortunes of merchant vessels wero
much more uncertain tiian at present, the term voilnre was applied to
the merchandise and hence also, as here, to the vessel itself.

(!f. Mtrclumt of Venice, Act I, So. 1.:

Believe me, sir, had I sucli venture forth
The hotter part of my alTeetioiis would
Be with my hopes abroad.

43. It was too true that life had its long-lost ventures, the thought
of which brought sadness to the mind.

KESKi NATION.

Written in 1848. Published in Seadde and Fireside, 1850.

Resignation was called forth by the death of Longfellow's infant
daughter, Frances, who died Sept. 11, 1848, when scarcely one year of
age. As the poet's journal for these months indicates, he was deeply
aflfected by her loss.

The thought of the poem falls naturally into three parts, the first
four stanzas constituting the introduction, the next seven the main
thought of the poem, and the last two the conclusion. The introductory
thought, based on scriptural teaching, is a restatement in figurative
language, of a very trite truth. In the main body of the poem the
author endeavors to raise the thought above the commonplace, by the
expansion in concrete form of the idea of the soul's continued growth
after death. This theme has been made use of by otiier poets, notably
Browning ; but Longfellow in this poem has endeavored to make a
more practical use of it than they, by applying it to actual human life as
a means of consolation. The last two stanzas draw the inevitable
conclusion from the preceding thought and justify Redgnalion as a title
for the poem.

Poetic Form. — Resignation may be classified with the Psalm of Life
as a lyric of reflection. The tone of Resignation is, however, more sub-
dued than that of The Psalm. This diflfei'ence of effect is produced
partly by the use of the long pentameter lines in Resignation, lengthened
still further by the use of feminine endings, and partly by the substitu-
tion of the iand)ic measure for the trochaic. Lines 35 and 45 exemplify
the usual deviations from the standard foot.

KESIGNATION.

153

^ 7. Cf Matth^^ . ii, 18 : - In I^ama was there a voice heard, lamenta-
tion ami weei.n.g a.ul great n.ourning, Ijachel weeping for her children
aiKl would not be comforted because they are not. "

9-12. Cf. //. Corinthiam, iv. 17 : -For our light affliction which is
but for a n,o„,ent, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal
■veight of glory."

10. Cf earthly damp.., 1. U. Noxious vapors and exhalations from
the earth produce disease. Hence the ground is spoken of as the
source of evd.

19 Elysian- Heavenly; blessed. Elysium, in Greek myth, ia the
abode of the blessed after deatii.

26. Cf. Browning, Old Pictures in Florence, xxi, xxii :

There's a fancy some lean to, and others hate --

That when this Ufe is ended, begins
New work for the soul in another state,

Where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins :
Where the strong and the weak, this world's congeries,

Repeat in larj,'e what tliey jiractised in small.
Through life after life in ujiliniited series ;

Only the scales to be changed, that's all.

Yet I hardly know. When a soul has seen

By the means of Evil, that Good is best.
And through earth and its noise, what is heaven's serene,-

Wlien our faith in the same has stood the test-
Why, the child grown man, you burn the rod ;

The uses of labor are surely done ;
There remaineth a rest for the people of God :

And I have had troubles enough, for one.

33-4. the bond which nature gives. Love, the strongest link of
connection between parent and child.

Cf. Wordsworth's il/jc/meZ .•

Instinctive tenderness, the same
Blind spirit that is in the blood of all.

51-2. Cf. Tennyson's In Memoriam, v. :

I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel.

■

154

Notes on lonofrllow.

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

liOngfellow'a journal of Oct. 14, 1852, l)oars the entry : "Copied a
poem I have just written, The. Wardvn of tho. Cinque Purtn.^' It was
published in Putnam's Matjnziue, January, 18;")3, and included in the
volume of 1858, entitled The Conrtuhip of Miles Standi,sh, and Other
Poems. The warden was the Duke of Wellington, who died Sept.
14, 1852.

Stedman, in Poets of America, comments upon the character of the
poem, as follows :

** But neither war nor grief ever too much disturbed the artist soul.
Tragedy went no deeper with him than its pvthos : it was another
element of the beautiful. Death was a luminous transition. The
Warden of the Cinque Ports is all melody and association. He made a
scenic threnody, knowing the laureate would supply an intellectual
characterization of the Iron Duke. His fancy dwells upon the ancient
and high-sounding title, the mist and sunrise of the channel, and the
rolling salute from all those rampart guns, that yet could not arouse
the old lield-mardhal from his shunber. Tennyson fills his grander
strophes with the sturdy valor and wisdom of the last great English-
man, but within our own poet's bounds the result is just as undeniably
a poem."

The Cinque Ports was the name of an ancient jurisdiction in the
south of England, including originally the five ports — as the name
Cinque Ports signilies— -Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe and
Dover. To these five, however, two other towns, Winchelsea and Rye,
were afterwards added. The jurisdiction of the Cinque Ports was
established by Edward the Confessor, and more perfectly organized by
William the Conqueror. In return for certain privileges and immuni-
ties granted them by the ancient charters, it became the duty of the
five ports to contribute almost entirely to the defence of the southern
coast. The highest office in connection with the jurisdiction was that
of Lord Warden, who, besides being Governor of Dover Castle, was also
by virtue of his office, sheriflf, lord lieutenant and admiral. The
Municipal Reform Bill of 1835 abolished the jurisdiction, so that since
that date the office of warden has been entirely honorary. The appoint-
ment to the office of warden, however, still confers the right to the free
use of Walmer Castle, KePu, the warden's official residence. At the
close of 1898 Lord Balfour was appointed Warden of the Cinque Ports
in place of the Marquis ri Salisbury, resigned.

THE WAUDKN OP THE CINQUE PORTS.

165

The Duke of Wullington (1769-1852) was the third son of the Earl of
Mornington. Ho entered the army in 1787, served with distinction in
India, and during the struggle witli Napoleon successfully conducted
the war in the peninsula against the French forces (1808-1814). In 1815
he defeated Napoleon in the decisive battle of Waterloo. In 1828 he
resigned the position of Commander-in-Chief of the Array to become
Prime Minister. In 1830, on account of his attitude towards the Reform
Bill, he was forced to withdraw from the Ministry, and in 1842 waa re-
appointed Commander-in-Chief. Ten years later, Sept. 14, 1852, he
died peacefully at VValmer Castle, Kent, the official residence of the
Warden of the Cinque Ports, and waa buried with impressive ceremonies
in St. Paul's Cathedral.

Poetic Form.— T'/ie Warden of the Cinque Ports, like 77ie Old Clock
on the StatJ's, is a lyrical balLad. It will be noticed that the personal
element characteristic of the lyric and the simple stirring incident of
the ballad are alike lacking. The poem is simply a picturesque descrip-
tion of the conditions attending a certain event, Tennyson's Ode, on
the other hand, is purely lyrical in the truest sense, — a personal and
national expression of deep emotion. In reinject to metrical form,
what is the effect of the alternation of the long iambic pentameter
verses with the short trimeter lines ? Is the stanza form suited to the
expression of deep feeling? Notice especially and account for the
irregularity in length of 1. 20.

3. panel. A compartment of a wainscot or ceiling, or of the surface
of a wall, etc., sometimes enclosing sculptured ornament.

9. Hastings is in the county of Sussex ; Sandwich, Romney, Hythe
and Dover, are in Kent.

11. In order to pay respect to the English nation in their bereavement.

13-16. A suggestion of the ancient hostility of France and England.

13. couchant. Lying down as if ready to spring.

21. the burden. The refrain; the repetition of the "morning
salutations."

23. The Duke of Wellington wa?" appointed Warden of the Cinque
Ports in 1829.

27. embrasure. An opening in a wall or parapet, through which
guns are pointed and fired.

29. an eye impartial. Impartial because in the pursuance of duty.

156

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

31. Field-marshal. An officer of the liighest military rank in the
lUitish, (Jtriiiaii, Jiiid some othcu' Kiirnjicau aruiies. The rank is often
merely iioiiiinal. 'i'he l)uko<)f Wulliiigtou was ajipoiuted Field-marshal
iu England in 1S12, and in Austria, Prussia and Russia in 1818.

t34. Cf. Tennyson's description of Death in Gareth and Lynette :

IIif,'h on a nijyht-hlaok horse, in nipht-black arms,
With white tirtMut-hont', and barren rihs of Death.
And crown'd wiili lleHliless laughter— Home ten steps —
In tiie half liglit -thro' the dim dawn -advanced
The monster, and then paused, and spake no word.

41-4 "On September 14, lSr)2, the Duke of Wellington died. His
end was singularl}^ pcacoful. He fell quietly asleep about a quarter
l)ast three in the afterno(m in Waliner Castle, and he did not wake any
more. He was a very old man — in his eighty-fourth year — and his
death had naturally been looked for as an event certain to come soon.
Yet when it did coihe thus naturally and peacefully, it created a pro-
found public emotion On his death, it (the nation) tried to

give him such a public funeral as hero never had. The pageant was
indeed a splendid and gorgeous exhil)ition. It was not perhaps very
well suited to the temperament and habits of the cold and simple hero to
whose honor it was got up. Nor, perhaps, are gorgeous pageants
exactly the sort of performance in which, as a nation, England particu-
larly excels. But iu the vast, silent, respectful crowd that thronged
the London streets — a crowd such as no other city in the world could
show — there was better evidence than pageantry or ceremonial could
supply, of the esteem in which the living generation held the hero of the
last." — McCarthy, Hidory of Our Oion Times.

45-8. " Longfellow draws but one lesson from his death, and that a
stern one. In her decrees, Nature is inexoralile. She continues her
course untouched by man's joys or sorrows." Compare with this the
conclusion of Tennyson's Ode, with its conception of death as continued
growth rather than utter loss.

EXCELSIOR.

Written in 1841. Published iu 1841 in the volume entitled iJaWads
and Other Poevia.

On his return home from a party one evening, Longfellow noticed in a
fragment of a New York newspaper, the seal of New York State, a
shield with the rising sun and the motto Excehior. This suggested to

EXCKLSIOR.

157

him the idea, of the poem, and he jntted the lines as thoy occurred to
him, on the hack of a letter from his friend Charles Sumner.

"Imperfect as it is," Hays Eric Robertson in his life of Longfellow,
"the poem has circulated round the world and will probably eo circulate
in future ages a Ihjmn of Aspiration."

In a letter to Mr. H. T. Tuckerman, Longfellow himself gives ua his
interpretation of the poem as follows :

"I have had the pleasure of receiving your note in regard to the poem
Excelsior, and very willingly give you my intention in writing it. This
was no more thaa to display in a scries of pictures, the life of a man of
genius resisting all temptations, laying aside all fears, heedless of all
warnings, and ]>ressing on to accomplish his purpose. His motto is
Excelsior, "Higher." He passes through the Alpine village, through
the roHgh, cold paths of the world — where the peasants cannot under-
stand him, and where his watchword is an unknown tongue. He dis-
regards the happiness of domestic peace and sees the glaciers — his fate —
before him. He disregards the warnings of the old man's wisdom and
the fascination of woman's love. He answers to all, "Higher yet."
The monks of St. Bernard are the representatives of religious forms and
ceremonies, and with their oft-repeated prayer mingles the sound of his
voice telling them there is something higher than forms or ceremonies.
Filled with these aspirations, he perishes without having reached the
perfection he longed for ; and the voice heard in the air is the promise
of immortality and progress ever upward.

"You will perceive that Excelsior, an adjective of the comparative
degree, is used adverbially —a use justified by the best Latin writers."

Finding that he was wrong in his contention regarding the adverbial
use of Excelsior, Longfellow afterwards had recourse to another explana-
tion and attempted to justify the form as an ellipsis for the sentence,
" Scopus mens excelsior est."

Poetic Form. — In Excelsior Mve find an adaptation of the Ballad form,
for the purpose of giving expression to a modern thought. In the
incident of Excelsior considered by itself we find little of absorbing
interest ; the manifest absurdity and improbability of the action is an
immediate bar to our full sympathy. In the consideration of the alle-
gorical meaning of the story, however, and in the spirit of aspiration to
which it gives expression, the sympathies of the reader are at once en-
listed. How does the use of rhyming iambic tetrameter couplets

158

NOTES OS LONOPELLOW.

harmonize with the Bftiitiment of tlio poem ? What is the efifect of the
continued repetition of Euxrlnior tis a refrain ?

16. the Pass. The Pass of St. nernanl. See 1. .^2.

Stanzas 3, 4, 0, Cf. Mattliew Arnold, h'liijhf/ Chapd.

We, we have chosen our ]):ilh •
Tilth to a ck-ar purimscd jr>ial,
I'ath ol advance I — biit it leads
A loii^', steep journey, throni^h sunk
(JorKcs, o'er niount:iins in snow.
Cheerful, with friends, we set forth —
Tlien, on the hei;,dU, comes the storm.
Thunder crashes from rock
To rock, the cataracts reply ;
Litfhtninj^s dazzle our eyes ;
ItoarinjJT torrents have breach'd
The track, the stream-bed descends
In the place where the wayfarer once
Planted his footsteps— the spray
Boils o'er its borders !— aloft.
The unseen snow-beds dislodge
Their hanging ruin ! alas.
Havoc is made in our train !
Friends, who set forth at our side
Falter, are lost in the storm.

32. St. Bernard. A famous mountain pass in the Pennine Alps,
8,000 feet above the gea level. At its crest, on the edge of a small lake
frozen over nine months out of twelve, stands the ho/^pice, founded in
96i! by Bernard de Menthon, a Savoyard gentleman, for the benefit of
pilgrims to Rome. It is said to be tlie highest habitation in Europe.
It is inhabited by ten or twelve monks o' the Order of St. Augustine,
whose duty it is to give shelter to travellers, and, assisted by their
famous dogs of the St. Augustine breed, to rescue those who are in
danger. It is estimated that eight or nine thousand travellers suinually
take advantage of their hospitality.

34. the startled air. The keen cry breaks in upon the settled stillness
of the mountain height.

THE BRIDGE.

Written in 1845 : published in 1846 in The Belfry of Bruges and
other Poems.

Longfellow's journal of 1845 contains the following entries : "Oct.
9, Finished 'The Bridge over the Charles.' Oct. 17, Retouched 'The
Bridge.'"

TUE UUIDGE.

159

Two entries in the journal of 1838, seven years before the poem was
written, are also of interest.

" March 12. Went [to Boston] to sec Vandenhoff perform ' t'ing licar.'
As I walked out over the }>ri(lge the rising moon shone through the
misty air. The reflection of *^ho stars in the dark water looke<l like
sparks of fire. Stood still to hoar the soft souiul of the dissolving
ice-cakes in the brine — a low and musical sound, a gentle simmering
like ihe foaming of champagne. "

*' March 15. I always sfcc^p on the bridge ; tide waters are beautiful.
From the ocean up into the land they go like messengers to ask why
tribute has not been paid. The brooks and rivers answer that there
has been little harvest of snow this year. Floating seaweed and kelp
is carried up into the meadows as returning sailors bring oranges in
bandanna handkerchiefs to friends in the country."

Longfellow uses the bridge for pontic material, not for any intrinsic
beauty in the object itself, but for its personal associations, and for the
picturesqueness and syiii ■ /lism of its surroundings. The poem is
descriptive of two moods which are in direct contrast to each other —
the mood of the past, restless, longing, rebellious, and the mood of the
present, subdued, patient, and sympathetic, both moods tinged with a
shade of melancholy. It is characteristic of Longfellow that he passes
abruptly from the one mood to the other without attempting to assign
reasons for the change, although, indeed, the poem does suggest that it is
due to the subduing influence of time alone. The purely descriptive
eLment in stanzas 1-5 not only serves the purpose of supplying a pic-
turesque background for the poem proper, but also aids in putting
the feelings of the reader into immediate sympathy with the prevailing
sentiment of the poet. The last two stanzas, in harmony with, and
suggesting perhaps the secret of, the poet's sympathetic mood, form a
pleasing conclusion for the poem.

Poetic Form. — The Bridge is a simple lyric, similar both in tone and
in metrical form to The Day is Done, and containing metrical irregu-
larities of a similar nature.

L the bridge. Over the River Charles, between Cambridge and
Boston.

3-4. Cf. Tennyson's In Memoriam, cxxxi :

And last the dance ; till I retire :
Dumb is that tower which spake so loud.
And high in heaven the streaming cloud,

And on the downs a rising fire '

160

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

11. fiamingf furnace. The flames from the funnels or chimneys of
the foundries. In the manufacturing districts of Enghind and Scotland
numbers of these fires may still be seen. By night they present a very
picturesque appearance, as they are visible for many miles.

18. belated. Late ; delayed until late, especially at night time.

29-32. Cf. Longfellow, To the Jiiver Charles, St. iv :

Oft in sadness and in illness,

I have watchcfl thy ciurent glide,
Till the beauty of its stillness

Overflowed me like a tide.

57-60. Cf. stanzas ii and iv.

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.

Written, probably, in 1846. Published in the same year in The
Belfry of Bruges and other Poems.

An entry in Longfellow's journal, dated August 31, 1846, contains a
reference to the -^oem, whioli not only suggests its recent composition,
but also helps us to identify some of the details of scene : —

"The last day of summer. Began my college work. Classes un-
usually large. In the afternoon a delicious drive with F. and C. through
Brookline, by the cbnreh ainl 'the green lane,' and homeward through a
lovelier lane, with barberries and wild vines clustering over the old
stone walls."

As Brookline is a residential suburb of Boston, it is probable that
Boston is the toion mentioned in Stanza 3. It has been conjectured that
hUjhway refers to Western Avenue, that the church mentioned inline 11
is the Unitarian church of Brookline, and that line 12 has reference to
Miss Frances Appleton, daughter of Mi-. Nathan Appleton, of Boston,
to whom Longfellow was married in 1843.

The three poems. The Bridge, The Fire of Driftwood, and A Gleam
of Sunshine, have much in common, in that they all deal with the
memories of the past. Thoughts of the past are always characterized
by a shade of sadness, in the expression of which in words Longfellow
is peculiarly felicitous. The present poem merely recalls in detail the
emotions and feelings of a single incident of past life, softened and
beautified by the passage of time, and rendered more pleasing by its
contrast with present care and sadness.

A GLEAM OP SUNSHINE.

161

lat

on,

its

Poetic Form. — A Gleam of Sunshine ia a simijle love Ij'ric. As is
characteristic of Longfellow, however, it does not express strong
passion, but rather a shade of sadness, to which is added a touch of
reflection. The metre is quite rigular, an alternation of iambic tetra-
meter lines, the second and fourth lines of each quatrain rhyming.

5-8. Years have intervened between the present and the past just as
the brook intervenes between the footsteps 'seen on either side.' The
present and the past are distinct ; the intervening years indistinct.
Through these intervening years come the memories of the past to meet
the thoughts of tbe present, just as the footsteps go forward to meet in
the centre of the brook.

13. linden -trees. Lime trees.

23-4. Cf. Lady of the Lake, Canto I, lines 354-357 :

A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew ;
E'en the slight harebe ! raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread.

25-6. Two lines of a hymn, written by Anna Letitia Barbauld, and
contained in the Unitarian hymn-book. The stanza in which the lines
occur, reads as follows :

Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares

Of earth and folly born ;
Ye shall not dim the light that streams

P'rom this celestial morn.

29-30. Cf. the title of the poem.

31-2. Genesis xxviii, 12. "And he dreamed, and
set up on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven
angels of God ascending and descending on it."

39. Ruth the beautiful. Probably beautiful in character, although it
might be inferred from her story in the book of Jiuth, that physical
beauty was also one of her characteristics.

40. The transfiguring fancy of the lover finds in all things an exalta-
tion of his own love. Tlie lover's eye transforms the object of his wor-
ship into 'one of God's holy messengers'; the message of the choir finds
a ready response in the happiness of the lover' ■ heart ; the 'dusty beam'
speaks to him of Jacob's ladder and angels ascending and descending ;
' Paith, the beautiful ' is the very divinity of the lover's thought.

49. thoughts. A settled sadness. To such a sadness he refers in
The Bridge, lines 39-40 :

And only the sorrow of others
Xi Throws its shadow over me.

behold a ladder
: and behold the

. V

NOTES ON WOEDSWORTH.

THE KOMANTIC MOVEMENT IN ENGLISH LITERATURE.

In didactic purpose, in choice of themes, in versification, in style,
in fact in the entire treatment of their subject, the writers of the
eighteenth century were at direct variance with the aims and ideals of
the poets of the beginning of the nineteenth century. The object
which the writers of the former period had in view was rather to
instruct the reader and to please his intellect, than to touch the
emotions or appeal to the imagination. Hence in the choice of themes
they were led to select such subjects as gave free play to the purely
intellectual qualities, at the expense of the emotional and imaginative —
questions in philosophy, in politics, or indeed such subjects as gave
opportunity for the exercise of the qualities of satire and wit. Indeed,
in the early half of eighteenth century literature, satire is by far
the most prominent species. It is not to be wondered at that such
literature was exclusive, and that, as the writer addressed himself
principally to the small and cultivated knot of city critics and wits,
literature ceased almost entirely to deal with rural life and with the
middle and lower classes, but fed upon, and flourished in, the artificial
conditions of city life. The literateur of the age of Queen Anne
considered the phenomena of nature and the life of the peasant alike,
as beneath tlie dignity of the poetic muse.

In the period immediately following the Restoration th'e use of the
heroic couplet, first brought into favor by Edmund Waller (1605-1687),
was generally adopted as the standard measure of English verse, — the
form in which the principal poems of Dryden, and Pope, and their
followers, were expressed. A mutilated form of the Pindaric ode also
became popular early in the period and to some extent shared the
honors with the heroic couplet. These two forms of verse, it may
be said, the poets of the eighteenth century carried to perfection.
The first result of the almost exclusive use of the heroic couplet was
to introduce into it an ease and a fineness of polish hitherto unknown in
English verse. The constant aim of the writer of the eighteenth century
was to express himself, first of all with clearness,. and in the second place,

162

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THE ROMANTIC MOVEMENT IN ENGLISH LITERATURE. 163

with point .iii'l smartness of expression. It is this characteristic in the
doinaiu of prose, that renders the essay of the age of Queen Anne the
best of its kind in Knghsh Uterature.

In the effort, however, to raise the character of poetry above the mean
or commonplace, the poets were* especially careful to avoid the use of
the homely idioms of the language, and all such words and phrases as, in
their estimation, might possibly affect the dignity of their w(trk. Hence
there came into use a regular conventional vocabulary of stereotyped
words and phrases which ran the round of the poets from generation to
generation, becoming, no doubt, more hackneyed and meaningless as time
went on. The writings of the age abound in classical allusions and
figurative language, and in general and abstract, rather than particular
and concrete terms. The whole poetic vocabulary was, in short, in the
highest degree artificial and lacked in individuality even more than did
the subject-matter or thought.

The eighteenth century movement in literature falls naturally into
three distinct periods ; the period of rise between 1G60 and 1700, of
which period Dryden (1631-1700) is the most prominent figure; the
period of maturity, the age of Queen Anne, during which time Swift
(16G7-1745) and Pope (1688-1744) jointly held the sceptre; and the
period of decline, or later eighteenth century period, dominated by the
powerful personality of Dr. Samuel Johnson (1709-1784). It is with
the latter, preparing, as it does, the way for the new nineteenth century
movement, that this sketch must entirely deal.

Towards the close of the career of Pope, there arose a new generation
of poets who began to show in various ways an inclination to depart
from the traditions of the dominant school. In 1730, Thompson (1700-
17^8) published the Seawns, which departed from established precedent
in two marked respects, viz., in the use of blank verse instead of the
heroic couplet and in the intrc "" "tion of man in humble life, and the
general phenomena of nature, as subjects of poetic treatment. In
Thompson's Castle of Indolence (1748), atul in the productions of Collins
(1721-1759) and Gray (1716-1771), we observe the beginnings of a finer
melody and a truer appreciation of beauty, besides a more minute
delineation of nature — a new thing in the literature of the time. Gold-
smith ( 1728-1774), the most important figure in the group which
acknowledged the dictatorship of Dr. Samuel Johnson, represents the
reaction in favor of the classical school, biit his heroic cou inlets have a
simi>licity ami grace entirely wanting in the earlier verse. Besides this,
his Qwn sympathies led him to depict the character^ and scenes of

i|>NiwiwiaM - -

164

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

humble life, and most important of all, the reader cannot but feel that
the poet is speaking almost entirely from his own personal observation
and expeiicnce of life.

The live years (1770-1775) marked by the deaths of Gray and of
Goldsmith, the last groat representatives of eighteenth century ideals,
are also tlie years of birth of Wordsworth (1770), Scott (1771), Cole-
ridge (1772), Southey (1774), and Lamb (1775), the representative
figures in the coming romantic movement. Tlie quarter of a century
thus intervening between the two movements is largely a period of
literary inactivity. Indeed, tlie ten years following the death of
Goldsmith are among the most unproUictive in English literature.
Nevertheless it was a period of germination. The favorable reception
of the works of the fictitious Ossian in 17G2, and of tlie manuscripts of
Chatterton in 176S, and above all, of Pcrctj's Reliqacs in 1765, M'as
sufficient evidence of a growing tendency in the literary mind to turn
back beyond the cold classicism of Pope and his followers, to the color and
sentiment of media;val romance. These puljlications, however, repre-
sent oidy one phase of the new tendency in literature. Strictly speak-
ing, the true heralds of the nineteenth century movement did not appear
lantil the decade following the death of Goldsmitli. In 17S4 Cowper
(1731-lSOO) published The Tiuk, while simultaneously Burns (1759-
1796) was preparing for publicati(m his first thin volume of songs and
lyrics. Crabbe (1754-1832) and Jilake (1757-1827) had, in the previous
year (1783), given to the world their earliest productions in verse. The
productions of Cowper and TJurns deal almost entirely with the simple
incidents of common life, and, as neither poet aimed primarily to please
the world of letters, tlieir poems are, accordingly, the simple expression
of their own natural feelings and emotions. The personality of the
writer in both cases, becomes, for the first time in the literature of the
century, an important element in the poet's work. Cowper brings to
his treatment of nature personal love, while, at the same time, having
come under the infiuence of the evangelical movement, he mr.kes his
verse a medium of exjn-ession of his own personal religion. In the
songs and lyrics of Burns, on the other hand, passion — an essentially
new thing in the literature of the age — is a predominant quality. But
side by side with this runs a companion emotion, which plays an
important part in nineteenth century thought and action, viz., a new
sympathy with humanity, or, to use the words of the connnon phrase, a
recognition of the 1 rotherhood of man. The work of Crabbe »vas much
more popular in his own generation than in our day, and it is certain
that the strong realism in his delineation of humble life had much to

The romantic movement in English literature. 165

do in shaping the character of much of the poetry of the later school.
The simplicity and delicate chann of the simple lyrics of Blake, the
visionary engraver, represent, in conclusion, the purely artistic side of
the new tendency in literature.

From this imperfect summary it will readily be seen that the poetry
of the time was developing certain new characteristics, which may be
briefly enumerated as fcdlows : — An increasing interest in mediaeval
and romantic literature ; choice of tliomes from nature and humble life ;
the introduction of the personal and lyric element into poetry ; the
expression of religious fervor, passion, and sympathy for humanity ; a
more realistic method of depicting life and nature ; and, in conclusion,
the cultivation and elaboration of the finer artistic qualities of verse.

The publication of the Lyrical Ballads, in 1798, may be said to mark
the end of the transition period, and the true beginning of the Romantic
movement. The productions of the poets mentioned in the preceding
section indicated an increasing tendency to depart from the aims and
ideals of tlic eighteenth century writers. But these poets wrote, for
the most part, in obscurity and isolation, and their work was rather an
unconscious departure from former ideals than an intentional and sys-
tematic condemnation of the principles of eighteenth century poetry;
and, as we have seen, individual poets exhibited only single and
different phases of the new tendency in literature. It remained for
the poets of the Romantic movement, in its maturity, to formulate and
combine tlie qualities which were only incidentals to the transition
poets, into a poetic theory, and to lead a conscious reaction against the
principles of the former school. Such a conscious and premeditated
attack upon these principles was sure to find opposition, especially
among the critics and literati themselves ; for, though public taste was
gradually turning away from the old models, the so-called literary
public still clung with tenacity to the established doctrines of the
previous age. Hence, as might have been expected, the work of
V/ordsworth and Coleridge, challenging as it did the accepted theories
of poetic art, at first met with opposition from the critical public.
In fact, it was not until this generation had passed away and a new
generation, whose taste the poets had themselves helped to create, had
taken its place, that the true value of the work of Wordsworth and
Coleridge in subverting false ideals, and in destroying false tastes came
to be finally recognized.

The principal phases of the Romantic movement, in its opposition to
the eighteenth century aims and ideals, may be said to be represented

166

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

almost in their entirety by the three great contemporary poets of the
age, Wordsworth, ('oleridge and Scott. The work of Wordsworth is,
as asserted by himself in tlie famous preface to the Lyrical Balladn,
inspired thioughout by a philosophic purpose — viz., to elevate and
ennoble life by revealing to iis the true laws of our l)eing. His themes
are chosen, in the main, from nature and humble life ; the emotional is
given a prominence above the simple narrative and descriptive elements
of his work ; and the language of his poems is made, in so far as con-
sistent with poetic requirements, to conform to the language of ordinary
life. He is the literary descendant, on the one hand, of Cowper and
Crabbe — on the other hand, of Burns. But it is, above all, to the
puritan Milton, with his consecration of life's common way, that he
owes most in moral grandeur arid in purity of style. In Coleridge we
find combined the new-born love for mediieval ballad literature, asso-
ciated with medieval mysticism, togetiier with a wonderful power of
producing fine iliusical effects. Some of the qualities the most striking
in Coleridge's work, it will be noticed, had already been shadowed
forth in the mysticism and delicate charm of the verse of Blake. Scott,
in conclusion, represents more than any other poet of his time, the
historical and romantic phases of the new movement. In the romantic
scenery and legends of his own country, as well as in the picturesque
past as depicted in mediaeval ballad and chronicle, he finds material
for the modern poetical romance, in which action, character, descrip-
tion, sentiment, and historical interest constitute the chief charm, rather
than philosophical truth or fine musical effect.

The qualities and spheres of activity of all three poets, as well as of
minor poets representing other phases of the movement, must neces-
sarily overlap to a certain degree ; but enough has, perhaps, been said,
to indicate to what extent Wordsworth and his contemporaries repre-
sented the revolt against eighteenth century conditions, and to set
forth his relation to the different forms and phases of what is commonly
known as the Romantic Movement.

r-^

BIOGUAPIIY

16T

BIOGRAPHY.

At Cockermouth, on the Dorwciit, at the foot of the Cumberland
Highlands, Wordswoitli \v,i3 horn Apr 1 Ttji, IJjO, the second of a
family of five, four brothers and a sister (the self-devoted Dorothy).
On both sides he came of that sturdy race largely Norse in origin,
which inhabits the Lowlands of Scotland and the northern counties
of England, and through Imtli he w:is connected with the middle
territorial gentry. IMuj Wordsvvortlis were settled, the poet tells us,
at Peniston in YfU'kshire as siusUl landowners "since probably before
the Norman Conquest." His grandfathor, the first of tlie family to
leave the county, purchased a small estate in Cumberland. Here
his father was })orn and bred to the law, in which capacity he served
the Earl of Lon^idale for several years both prior and subsequent
to the poet's birth. His mother, Anne Cookson, was the daughter
of a Penrith merchant, but her mother, a (Jrackeuthorpe, belonged to
an old Westmoreland family of about the same rank in life as the
Wordsworths. Both parents were persons of education, refinement
and strenuous orderly life, and both though early taken away — his
mother in his eighth, and his father in his thirteenth year — left a
strong impress on his character. His mother especially possessed,
he tells us, a fund

Of modest meekness, simple mindedness,
A heart that found benifjnity and hope,
Beinjj itself benijjfn.

Wordsworth, however, lays no great stress on heredity. Each man
is a new creation, a fresh incarnation of the divine spirit, a miracle
whose beginning transcends our powers of explanation.

Hard task, vain hope, to analyze the mind.

If eaoh most obvious and particular thought.

Not in a mystical and idle sense

But in the words of reason deeply weighed, ,

Hath no beginning.

The importance of earl^ associations in determining his bent is not,
however, denied. * His inherited energy of nature might have made
him a great warrior or administrator, had not circumstances led hira
early to take an absorbing interest in the forms, colors, sounds and
fragrances of the world of nature.

After his mother's death in 1778, William and his elder brother were
sent to the Grammar School of Hawkeshead, in the midst of the Lake

168

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

District. Nothing cotiM have been more favorable to the development
of the poet's peculiar bent. He was allowed to follow his own lead in
his reading. His favorite authors were ridding, l.aSagt^and SinoUet,
though he could repeat by heart much of Sptnser, Shakespeare and
Milton. The boys lodged with the cottagers of the village, while their
rambles among the hills brought them into close contact with the
shepherds and peasants of the district. A healthy and vigorous boy,
delighting in mountain rambles, boating, nutting, iishing, and, in the
winter, skating, there was, to a careless eye, nothing to indicate the
coming poet. But constant association with beautiful and impres-
sive forms was having its efl'ect upon him. He began to be conscious
of nature as an awful external presence rebuking injustice and curbing

his irregular passions.

Sonietinies it befell
In these nijrht wanderitufs that a stroiif,' desire '

O'erpowered my better reason, and the bird
Which was the captive of another's toil
Became my prey ; and irlien the deed was done
I heard atnong the bolitari/ hills
Low breathings cmning after vie, and sounds
Of undistin<,'uishuble motion, steps almost as silent
As the turf they trod.

These fits of vulgar joy and terror were not the pure feeling of such

lines as

The silence that is in the starry sky.

The sleep that is among the lonely hills,

but they were the means employed by nature to build up the vision and
the faculty divine. Even at this time, however, there were not wanting
flashes of a higher inspiration :

Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy
Which through all seasons on a child's pursuits
• Are prompt attendants, mid that giddy ])lis9
Which like a tempest works along the blood
And is forgotten ; even then I felt
Gleams like the flashing of a shield ; the earth
And common face of nature spake to me
Rememberable things.

In 1787 Wordsworth entered Cambridge, from whtch he graduated in
X7?l. He could not, he tells us, print the ground where the grass had
yielded to the steps of generations of illustrious men, nor mingle with
"so many divers samples from the growth of life's sweet season,"
frequent the rooms once occupied by Spenser and by Milton, nor lie
within sight of the antechapel

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BIOGRAPHY. l69

Where the statue stood J

Of Newton, with his i)rism and silent face
The marble index of a mind forever
Voya}?iiig through strange seas of thought alone,

without emotion, br.t college life and labors seemed frivolous after the
grave and strenuous p(iasant life lie ha<l known. His college vacations
were spent at Hawkeshead, and it was during one of them, when
returning from a frolic at early dawn, that the crisis of his life occurred :

The morning rose in memorable pomp,
The soa lay laughing at a distance ; near
The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds ;
And in the meadows and the lower ground
Was all the sweetness of a conunon dawn —
Dews, vapours, and the melodies of birds,
And labourers goi?ig forth to till the fields.
Ah, need I say dear Friend ! that to the brim
My heart was full : I made no vows, but vows
Were then made for me : bond unknown to me
Was given that I should be, else sinning greatly,
A dedicated spirit.

The bent of his mind was fixed. He may go back to the University or
be temporarily carried away l)y the fervor of awakened France, but he
must in the end return to Nature,

In his third Cambridge vacation he made, with a college friend, a
fourteen weeks' tour of Switzerland and the Alps. Returning to Cam-
bridge, he took hh degree in January, 1701, and went up to London,
where he spent four months. His recorded impressions of the "mon-
strous ant-hill on the plain of a too busy world," show how numb he had
become to life on its great vanity fair side. Careful observation and
truthful description, but of such inspiration as we find in his touches of
natural description not a gleam. With what a different eye Chaucer,
Shakespeare, Burns, Carlyle or Browning would have viewed the grand
spectacle of metropolitan life. Wordsworth kept his own centre firm
and unshaken, however, rejecting what brought no help to his spirit,
but eagerly seizing on all Ihat kept alive his love of simple natural
truth.

From London he went to Wales, and from Wales to France, lured
forth, as he tells us, by the dramatic spectacle of the Revolution. Like
most of the young men of the time, Wordsworth, from the very
beginning of the revolutionary movement, manifested a sympathy with
the mas.ses in tlieir struggle for freedom, louring his ])edestrian tour of
1790 iu France and Switzerland, and on his return to France in the

170

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

autumn of 1791, his role was rather that of a sj'mpathetic spectator
than that of an enthusiaat. It was not until 17!>2, wlien his mind came
under the influence of JBeaupuy, himself a man of culture and of noble
family, that he became fired with the glow and the enthusiasm of the

hour.

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be younf was very heaven 1

When recalled to England in December, 1792, his sympathies
remained with his revolutionary friends in France. Even the execution
of the king, and the fate of the Girondists, tliough no doubt serving to
cool his ardor, failed to excite in him feelings of revulsion, and when, in
tlie war of 1793, " Britain joined the dire array " in the struggle against
France, Wordsworth and Coleridge alike rejoiced in the reverses of
their native laud. Shortly after his return, appeared his first volume
of verses, coutiuuiug An Ereniug Widk and Descriptive Sketches, poems
interesting principally as exhibiting the struggle of Wordsworth's spirit
to free itself, from the fetters of the classical tradition of diction and
rhythm. Meanwhile the revolutionary party in France had changed
their war of self-defence into a war of conquest, for the oppression of
liberty, and the advent of Napoleon had brought with it the subjuga-
tion of Switzerland and the virtual enslavement of France herself.
Wordsworth was naturally very much distressed. For a time he
haughtily refused to admit his disappointment, attempting to justify
the action of France. A period of scepticism followed, in which he

dragged

All precepts, judtfinents, maxims, creeds,

Like culprits to the bar ; calling tlie mind,

Suspiciously to establish in plain day

Her titles and her honours; now believing,

Now disbelievinj'' ; endlessly perplexed

With impulse, motive, rijfht and wrong, the ground

Of obligation, what the rule and whence

The sanction ; till demanding formal proof

And seeking it in everything, I lost

All feeling of conviction. *"

He doubted his mission, thought that his inspiration had deserted
him. His bent, however, was too strongly fixed. "The peculiarity
of Wordsworth's case," says Professor Alexander, "is that he found
healing not in books or in the teachings of others, not in what would
be ordinarily called a religious source but in a revelation and healing
that came to him direct from visible nature and from contemplating
the simple lives of the 'statesmen' and shepherds of his native moua<

tic spectator
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The Lake District.

TO FACE PAGE 171

BIOGRAPHY. 171

tains. The poet's hopes ceased to centre around any great movement
like the Frencli Revolution, and he perceived that not in great political
movements but in tlie domestic life of the simple unsophisticated man,
is the true anchor for our faith in humanity and our confidence in
the future of the race." Altogether too much stress has been laid on
this " defection to the cause of democracy." Shelley mildly deplores it
in his sonnet To Wordstmrth, while Browning's Loi^t Leader is supposed
to be a sorrowful reference to the same thing. In truth there was no
such defection. He was just as true a democrat, with just as high a
sense of the dignity of mankind as ever, only he had come to place less
value on violent and arbitrary movements for reform.

The years 17!^3 and 1794 were spent in various parts of England, from
the Isle of Wight to Keswick in the Lake District. In tlie latter year
he spent some months in Penrith nursing a consumptive friend, Raisley
Calvert, in his last illness aiul planning an entrance into journalism.
Calvert, however, seeing promise in the embryo poet, bequeathed to
him £900, a sum whi ih, thou^jh barely sufficient to place him beyoncl
immediate need, made it possible for the poet to follow the bent of his
genius. His sister and he, therefore, took up hous( m 1795 in Racedown,
a secluded hanilut of Dorsetshire, n ar Bristol, N/here tiiey remained
eighteen months. Their joint income was not more than £60 or £70 a
year and many amusing entries in Dorothy's journal refer to the frugal
housekeeping of this time. But with plain living went plenty of high
thinking and their home both then and later became the Mecca of all
the young enthusiastic loveis of the things of the mind.

Dorothy Wordsworth's part in the development of her brother's
genius nnist never be forgotten. She was one of tho.se whom Wordsworth
describes as poets lacking oidy the accomplishment of verse. Slie was
the first to detuot and a[)[)reciate her brother's gift, and with rare self-
devotion consecrated her life to its development.

She whispered still that brij^htncsb would return.
She in the midst of all preserved me still
A poet, made me seek beneath that name
And that alone, my office upon earth.

During hi J residence with his sister, at Racedown, Wordsworth
wrote Oiiilt and Sorrow, afterwards published under the title of The
Female Vaarani and 7Vte Borderem, a tragedy, several satires in emula-
tion of Juvenal, and a few Spenserian stanzas. These half-hearted and
very imperfectly successful attempts revealed to him, at least, his
unfitness for satirical and dranuitio composition, and were thus part

172

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

of the means by which, under his sister's genial influence, he groped
his w.ay out of tlie fonnalisiu of tlie eighteenth century towards a
simpler and sincerer style.

What he now needed was the assurance of some friendly outside
voice ; and Coleridge opportunely supplied the needed stimulus. Cole-
ridge had seen original poetic genius in tlie Descriptiiv Sketches and paid
a visit to Wordsworth at IJacedown. So stimulating was the com-
panionship, that Wordsworth, to be near Coleridge, removed to Alfox-
den, near Nether StoAvey, in Somerset, under the shadow of the
Quantock Hills, and for the next twelve months the two original
men were almost coustaut companions. Wordsworth's style rapidly
matured. In response to Coleriilge's quick and generous appreciation,
ideas, the confused product of years of meditation, ranged themselves
in cleartir and more appropriate forms. A pedestrian tour through
Western England, in 1798, resulted in the publication of the Lyrical
Bnlldds, C(»leri(lge taking the supernatural themes, Wordsworth endea-
voring to give the interest of romance to every-day topics. Coleridge
contributed The Ancient Mariner and three other pieces ; WordsAvorth
We re Seven, The Bemrie of Poor Sii.mn, Tintern Abbey, Simon Lee,
The Thorn, The Idiot Boy, The Last of the Flock, Goody Blake, Expos-
tulation and Reply, and The Tables Turned, \S hese poems reflect all the
higher qualities of the poet's thought ;NLiut the critics, blinded by their
admiration for what was then called elevation of style, passed over

such lines as

That blessed mood
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelliijible world
Is lightened.

I have learned
To look on nature not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth but, hearing oftentimes
The still, sad nmsic of humanity.

and derisiv-'y seized on lines like

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans.
" As sure as there's a sun in heaven,"
Cries Betty, "he'll be back again.
They'll both be here— 'tis almost ten,
Both will be here before eleven."
Poor Susan moans, ]i()or Susan groans,
The clock gives warning for eleven.

■H

BIOGRAPHY.

173

■2 -^

Wordsworth, liis sister and Coleridge, had in the meantime sailed for
Germany. The visit had no Sjiocial iiiflnonce upon Wordsworth.
Coleridge went on to Ilat/.uburg ; the Wordsworths stayed at Coslar on
the edge of the Haitz forest where they remained till the following
spring. The winter was a severe one even for Germany, and Words-
worth, thrown back upon himself, had occasion to prize his memory.
Such stores as silent thought could luring from his own past life or
from his conversations with (Jolcridge, at Alfoxden, were drawn upon
for a number of productions of great merit. The Prelude, an auto-
biographical poem in thirteen books, intended as an introduction to a
still larger Excursion was planned and begun, and here were written.
The Fountain, The Poet's Ep'ttaph, Rath, Two April Mornimjs, Nuttimj,
and the series known as tlie J-.uey poems, namely, Strange Fits of
Passion hare I knoion ; She dwelt amonrj untrodden loays ; I travelled
among tiuhunvn men ; Three years she grew ; and A slumber did my
spirits steal,

-^ Keturning to England in December, 1799, brother and sister settled
down in Dove Cottage, Grasmere. ) Next year a new and enlarged
edition of the Li/rical Ballads was published, containing, besides many
new poems, the famous Preface, defining the true theory of poetic
diction which so infuriated the critics. The ])oet had at length ac-
quired the courage of his convictions and did not hesitate to charac-
terize the style of Pope and his followers as stilteil and artificial — a
glare and glitter of a perpetual j'^et broken and heterogeneous imagery.

In 1S02, Wordsworth and his sister visited France. Lines on West'
minster Bridge, the first of the splendid series dedicated to national in-
dependence and liberty, Avas composed on the roof of the Dover coach,
and Fair Star oj Erening, Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee,
Toussaint, Milton thou shonldst be living at this hour, It is not to be
thought of that the Flood, When I have borne in memory what has
tamed, in the course of the tour or shortly tfter his return A still
more memorable event in the same year nmsed liim to one of his happiest
fits of activity. Lord Lonsdale paid to the Wordsworths a long out-
standing debt of £8,500, and the poet's share warranted his taking a
wife ; in October, accordingly, he married his cousin, Mary Hutchinson,
whom he had known frcmi childhood, and whose grace and wisdom are
celebrated in She was a Phantom, of Delight. To this time also belong
Alice Fell, Beggars, My heart leaps up, Resolution and Independence, A
tour of Scotland in the following year resulted similarly in The High-
land Girl, The Solitary Reaper, Stepping Westward, At the Grave of
Burns, Yarrow Unvisited, Yarrow Visited and Yarrow Revisited.

174

NOTKS ON WOUDSWORTn.

In 1805 the Words worths romovod to Allan Bank, and liere were
written the Odo to I) '(>/, Tn the Shjhtrl, and The Waf/tinurr. The Odd
on the Intinintinufi of ItinnnrtnlUji^ hvyi,n\\ thr c years rarlicr, was finished
in 180G, and in 1M)7, on removal to the (jriwnicro parsonagr, the Sung at
the Feast of Broittihain Cantle and The White Doe of IhiMunc.

The first or youtliful period in Wordswortli's poetical life and work,
also called the "golden decade," is gem rally regarded as coming to
an end in 1808. ilis nuddle or mature period, 1808-1818, witnessed,
besides many minor poems, the coini)Uti(tn of his longest poem, the
Excursion, with its long introduction, ttie Prelude. What princii)ally
characterizes his decadence is his stumbling upon a number of serial
arrangements of his reflections on nature and human life. The Sonmta
on the River Dnddon, following the river from its source to its mouth, .
embody his philosophy of natiire, the Eccleaiastic.al Sonnets give the
history of the church from the time of the Druids, while other such
chains are Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, Memorials of a Tour on
the Continent, etc^

In 1812 the poet and his family removed from Grasmere parsonage to
Rydal Mount, a short distance from Grasmere, where h« continued to
live until his death. In 1813 he was appointed Distributor of Stamps
for Westmoreland, an office which added £500 a year to his income.
Although his works were at first coldly received by a prejudiced public,
a discerning few, led by Coleridge, Southey, De Qnincey and Arnold
of Ivugby, read and admired the new V(in and worked to insure its
popularity with the rising generation, until, as Myers says, between
1830 and 1840, "Wordsworth passed from the apostle of a clique into
the most illustrious man of letters in Englaiul/' In 1840 he received
a pension of £300 a year from the government, and on the death of
Southey, in 1843, Mas appointed poet laureate. Seven years later, in
1850, he died, at the age of eighty and was buried amid his family
in Grasmere churchyard. His sister, and lifelong companion, Dorothj%
became a mental invalid in 1830 and died in 1855 at the age of eighty-
four. His wife survived him for nine years. Tennyson's decisive
appearance in 1842 marks the floodtide of his iiopularity. The poetry-
reading public more and more forsook Wordsworth for Tennyson and
the newer poets until, though his fame is securely established, it has
again become necessary to draw attention to the joy and strength to be
drawn from his poetry.

The Three Sisters, Rijdal Mount.

TO FACE PAGE 17+

William Wordsworth.

TO FACE PAGE ITS

Kvn«9-

CHARACTEIIISTICS OF THE MAN.

ITf)

CHARACTERISTICS OF THE MAN.

"He wasn't a man as said a deal to common folk," said a Grasmere
peasant in answer to an ennuirer, "but lie talked a deal to hissen."
" He was not a man that folks could crack wi'/' said ".aother, "nor not
a man as could crack wi' folks."

"I have known him nearly twenty years, and for ahout that time
intimately. The strength and character of his mind you see in 'J'he
ExciiVHton, ajid his life does not belie his writings ; for in every relation
in life and point of view he is a truly exemplary and admirable man."
Southey.

" During the last seven or ten years of his life, Wordsworth felt him-
self to be a recognized lion in certain considerable London circles, and
was in tlie habit of coming up to town with his wife for a month or two
every season to enjoy his quiet triumph and collect his bits of tribute
tales qaales. Wordsworth took liis bit df lionism very quietly, with a
smile sardonic rather than triumphant, and ceitainly got no harm by it,
if he got or expected iittle good. For the rest, he talked well in his
way; with veracity, easy brevity, and force, as a wise tradesman would
of his tools anil workshop, and as no unwise one could. His voice was
good, frank and sonorous, though practically clear, distinct, and forcible
rather than melodious ; the tone of liini business-like, sedately confident:
no discourtesy, yet no anxiety about being courteous. A fine, whole-
some wisticity, fresh as his mountain breezes, srfc well on the stalwart
veteran, and on all he said and did. You would have said he was
usually a taciturn man ; glad to unlock himself to audience sympathetic
and intelligent, when such offered itself. His face bore marks of much,
not always peaceful, meditation ; the look of it not Wand 3r benevolent
so much as close, impregnab.e and hard, a man miilta tacere loqaive
paratus, in a woild where he ha 1 experienced no lack of contradictions
as he strode along. The eyes were not very briilinnt, but they had a
quiet clearness ; there was enough of bi'ow, and well-siiaped ; rather too
much of cheek (" horse-face," I have heard satirists say); face of squarish
shape, and decidedly longish, as I think the head itself was (its
"length" going horizontal); he was large-boned, lean, but still firm-
knit, tall, and strong-looking when he stood, a right good old steel-grey
figure, with rustic simplicity and dignity about him, and a vivacious
strengtli looking through him which might have suited one of those old
steel-grey markgrafs whom Henry the T'owler set up to ward the
'marches' an. I dc ^attle with the intrusive heatheKt in b, stalwart and
judicious manner." Carlyle's Reminiscences,

176

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

CHARACTERISTICS OF HIS POETRY.

[

It ;

Wordsworth's represents more strongly than any other poetry, the
reaction against tlie eighteenth century forms and ideals. 'J'he general
life and thought of the eighteenth century had not been characterized
by any depth of feeling or genuineness of emotion, and the work of the
poets of the so-called classical school fairly reflected the character of the
age. "Their poetry is largely didactic, intended to insl,ruct or to please the
intellect, rather than to appeal to the imagination and the emotions of
men. Hence, the poets of the time wrote consciously for the entertain-
ment rather of the literati, than of the common people. In so doing, they
were naturally led to de.l with tho life of the city as opposed to rural
life, and to the life ot n.-^.i in society as o])[)osed to the humbler walks
of life. As a result, furthermore, of this effort to please a critical
public, form came to be considered as of more importance than matter.
The poet was conteJfnt with a suporlioial treatment of his.subjt'ct, and
gave no thought to tho spiritual aspect of hia theme. His chief care
was to maintain the dignity of his verse. As a consequence, he had
recourse to conventional stereotyped expressions, to classical imagery,
and to figurative language, and avoided the natural language of com-
mon life ; .and, furthermore, as the rhyming heroic couplet gave a
certain point and smartness to the expression it came to be used more
largely than any other form of verse.

Wordsworth, in the preface to the Lyrical Ballads, aetfor^h his theory
of poetry, as opposed to that of the Classical School, laider thiee main
heads. He therein declared, (1) that each of his poems had a purpose,
to trace in incid' .ica and situations "the i)rimary laws of our nature ; "
hence, he went to humble and ru."tic life, and to nature herself for his
art ; (2) that the actio:i niid situation should be only .secundtiri/ to
feeling ; hence, the iM'ofoundly emotional nature of hia work ; (',i) that
the language of poetry differs from that of prose only by the use of
metre : hence, in some of even his bccst work we find the actual lan-
guage of daily life, not, however, the latu.?uage of men in the pursuance
of tlieir ordinary duties ; but rather the laii^Miage of their impassioned
moods. This piefat;e, with some sli'_dit modifications, constituted
Wordsworth's life long poetic creeil, and it will at once be seen, that in
following out these three fundamental principles therein stated, he
deliberately broke with the old traditions and became the recognized
leader of the new movement in literature.

i ^^,v, -..**/,..

Rydal Water.

TO FACE PAGE 177

CHARACTERISTICS OF HIS POETRY.

177

The early poems of Wordswortli are in<lee(l as regards the nineteenth
century, "the voice of one crying in the wilderness, 'Prepare ye the
Way.'" The French Revolution was indeed an indication of the
tendencies of the times and it pointed unmistakeably tc two great
nineteenth century movements, viz., the search for liberty and the rise
of democracy. In a special sense, Wordsworth, himself a child of the
Revolution, gives voice to these two dominant ideas. Freedom, as
nature herself is free, is everywhere considered the prime condition of
true living : and as to democracy, it is through the illiterate, the half-
witted, the very -humblest of mankind, that he illustrate the primcary
laws of existence. Wordsworth is, moreover, in a sense, the fore-runner
of the great scientific movement of the nineteenth century ; for in his
minuteness of observation and in his rigid adherence to truth he
certainly foreshadows the scicnlilic method of the present age.

No' simpler or more appreciative estimate of Wordsworth exists than
Matthew Arnold's : " The cause of its greatness is simple, and may be
told quite simply. Wordsworth's poetry is great because of the extra-
ordinary power with which Wordsworth feels the joy offered to us in
nature, the joy offered to us in the simple primary afiFections and
duties ; and because of the extraordinary pi wer with which, in case
after case, he shows us this joy, and render.^ it so as to make us
share it.

"The source of joy from which he thus draws is the truest and most
unfailing source of joy accessible to man. It is also accessible univer.
sally. Wordsworth brings us Avord, therefore, according to his own
strong and characteristic line, be brings us word

Of joy in widest commonalty spread.

Here is an immense advantage for a poet. Wordsworth tells of what
all seek, and tells of it at its truest and best source, and yet a source
where all may go and draw for it. . ..

." Nevertheless, we are not to suppose that everything is precious
which Wordsworth, standing even at this perennial and beautiful
source, may give us. Wordsworthians are apt to talk as if it must be.
They will speak with the same reverence of The Sailor's Mother, for
example, as of Lucy Gray. They do their master harm by such lack of
discrimination. Lucy Gray is a beautiful success ; The Sailor's Mother
is a failuie. To give aright what he wishes to give, to interpret and
render successfully, is not always within Wordsworth's own command.
It is within no poet's command ; here is the part of the Muse, the
12

r
I

178

NOTES ON WOKDSWORTII.

inspiration, the Ciod, the 'not ourselves.' In Wordsworth's case, th?
acciilont, for so it may ahnost be called, of inspiration, is of peculiar
importance. No poet, perhaps, is so evidently tilled with a new and
sacred energy when the inspiration is upon him; no poet, when it fails
him, is so left 'weak as is a breaking wave.' I remember hearing
him say that ' Goethe's poetry was not inevitable enough. ' The
remark is striking and true ; no line in CJoethe, as (ioethe said himself,
but its maker knew well how it came there. Wordsworth is right,
Goethe's poetry is not inevitable ; not inevitable enough. But Words-
worth poetry, when he is at his best, is inevitable, as inevitable as
Nature herself. It might seem that Nature not only gave him the
matter for his poem, but wrote his poem for him. Ho has no style.
He was too conversant with Milton not to catch at times his master's
manner, and he has fine Miltonic lines ; but he has no assured poetic
style of his own, like Milton. When he seeks to have a style he falls
into ponderosity and pomposity. In the Excursion we have his style, as
an artistic product of his o^vn creation ; and although Jeflfrey com-
pletely failed to recognize Wordsworth's real greatness, he was yet not
wrong in saying of the Excursion, aj a work of poetic style : ' This
will never do.' And yet magical as is that power, which Wordsworth
has not, of assured and possessed poetic style, he has something which
is an equivalent for it.

" Every one who has any sense for these things fe Is the subtle turn,
the heightening, which is given to a poet's verse by his genius for style.
We can f ", , •. in the

After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well—

of Shakespeare ; in the

though fall'n on evil days,

On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues —

of Milton. It is the incomparable charm of Milton's power of poetic
style which gives such worth to Paradise Regained, and makes a great
poem of a work in which Milton's imagination does not soar high.
Wordsworth lias in constant possession, and at command, no style of
this kind ; but he had too poetic a nature, and had read the great
poets too well, not to catch, as I have already remarked, something of
it occasionally. We find it not only in his Miltonic lines ; we find it
in such a phrase as this, where the manner is his own, not Milton's —

.... the fierce confederate storm
Of sorrow harricadoed evennore
Within the walls of cities ;

CHARACTERISTICS OP HIS POETRY.

179

although even here, perhaps, tho power of stylo, which is undeniable,
is more properly that of elocpient prose than the mibtle heightening and
change wrought by genuine poetic style. It is style, again, and the
elevation given by style, which chiefly makes the eHectiveness of
Laodaineia, Still the riglit sort of verse to choose from Wordsworth,
if we are to seize his true and most characteristic form of expression, is
a line like this from Michael : —

And never lifted up a single Btone.

There is nothing subtle in it, no heightening, no study of ])oetic style,
strictly so called, at all ; yet it is expression of the highest and most
truly expressive kind.

"Wordsworth owed much to Burns, and a style of perfect plainness,
relying for ed'ect solely on the weight and force of that which with
entire lidelity it utters, Burns could show him.

The poor inhabitftnt below

Was (luick to learn and wise to know,

Andkeeiil}' felt the friendly glow

AikI aofter flame ;
But thouKhtlens follies laid him low
And staiti'd his name.

Every one will be conscious of a likeness here to Wordsworth ; and if
Wordsworth diil great things witli this nobly plain manner, we must
remember, what imlecd he himself would always have been forwanl to
acknowledge, that Burns used it before him.

"Still Wordsworth's use of it has something unique and unmatch-
able. Nature herself seems, I say, to take the pen out of his hand,
and to write fr him with her own bare, sheer, i)enetratiug power.
This arises from two causes : from the profound sincereness with which
Wordswortli feels his 8ul)jcct, and also from the profoundly sincere
and natural character of his subject itself. He can at»d will treat such
a subject with nothing but the most plain, lirst-hand, almost austere
naturalness. His expression may often be called bald, as, for instance,
in the poem of RfHoJution and ludependtvci' ; but it is bald as the bare
mountain tops are bald, with a baldness which is full of grandeur,

" Wherever we meet with the successful balance, in Wordsworth, of
profound truth of subject with profound truth of execution, he is
unique. His best poems are those which most perfectly exhibit this
balance. I have a warm admiration for Lnodameia and for the great
Ode ; but if I am to tell the very truth, I find Laodaineia not wholly

F v'-T — T--'

ISO

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

freo from aomothing artificial, and the great Ode not wholly free from
something declamatory, if I had to pick out poems of a kind most
perfectly to show VV'oni.swoith's uni(iue powt-i-, I sliould rather choose
poems such as Michael, The. Fountdhi, Th' Hi'ihlund Reaper. And
poems with the peculiar and uni(pie beauty which distinguishes these
Wordsworth produced in considerable number."

\\ I

Chronological Table of Works with Dates of Publication.

[It must be noted that the order here given is only ai)proxiniately correct in the
case of several longer poems and compilations whose protluction was the work of
years.]

1793

Evening Walk

Descriptive Sketches

The Female Vagrant

The Borderers .... 1 795

Lyrical Ballads ( First Edition) 1798

Lyrical Ballads (Second Edition) 1800

Memorials of a Tour in Scotland 1803

Poems 1807

Prose Pamphlets 1809

The Excursion ^ \a\±

Memorials of a Tour in Scotland j

The White Doe of Kylstone 1815

Thanksgiving Ode 1816

Peter Bell )

The Waggoner /

Sonnets on the River Duddon 1 820

Memorials of a Tour on the Continent 1820, 22

Ode — Intimations of Immortality (?)

Miscellaneous Sonnets

Ecclesiastical Sketches ^

Description of the Scenery of the Lakes /

Yarrow Re-visited and Other Poems 1834

Minor Pieces

Ode on Installation of Prince Albert 1847

Prelude 1850

1819

1822

13
<
a.

/• !

THE EDUCATION OP NATURE.

181

THE EDUCATION OF NATURE.

Tliis poem, composed in the JIartz Forest in 1799, and published in
1800 in the second edition of the LijrietU Bdlhulft, is the fourth of a
series of five poems addressed to the unknown '"Ijucy. " Of the live
poems on "Lucy," Mr. A. J. Georye says: "They are genuine love
poems, and yet liow far removed from that species of love-poetry which
encourages vulgar curiosity, or the parade of the inmost sanctuary of
the heart. All that is given us is that Lucy once lived, is now no
more. "

Children of a larger growth, you see, have liked to believe that the
poem commemorated tlie love and beauty and early death of an actual
Lucy known to Wordsworth, and pupils are not to be blamed for asking
the question, but there is, says Knight, no evidence for any such view.
The poems are expressions of ideal love, and the intensity of feeling in
many of tlie lines proves only the energy of the poet's imagination,
which thus bodies f rth the forms of things unknown and gives to airy
nothing a local habitation and a name.

The poem gives expression to the poet's belief that nature in her
various phases not only influences the character of man, but also
moulds into beauty his physical form. In the interpretation of the
poem it will be noticed, in the first place, that the con ditions und er
which nature works are ideal. The life of the three year old child has
hitherto been free, and when nature takes her into her care ' a lovelier
floiKjir^oti earth wasuever sown.' In the second place nature performs
a two-fold function, supplying the^iinpidse to kindle the emotions and
the sense of the controlling power oTZZpc^To restrain Them. In contrast
to the active life qf the fa wii kindling the'lffipulses, stands the restrain-
ing repose of flower and tree, mountain, stone and heathj_^jif^ ' mute
insensate things ;^thus stanza three explains and illustrates the effect
of the two-folii iiifluence of law and impulse.^ "The fourth stanza,"
says Dowden,f" tells of the education of visible beauty mhe fifth of
impulses from sound ;\\the sixth, of the vital joy communicated by
nature. ")^n the last «taiiza the poet tells of how nature, ever inexor-
able, characteristically completes her work, cutting down "the loveliest
flower" in its fullest beauty. ) The life and death of Lucy, however,
the poet suggests, have not been without an influence of their own.
Notice, too, finally, " the heath, the calm, and quiet scene," in keeping
with the subdued nature of the lover's grief.

It is interesting to compare this poem with Shelley's solution of a
somewhat similar problem iu the Stnaitive Plant, or with Longfellow's

, ^jB;*-

182

NOTKS OS WOUDSWOKTII.

/i('niij)utfin)}. T.ongfollow ofTeiJt the mourner only the familiar common-
pl.ux'H (tf consolation -riMiiiion with the lovi'd ono in lioavfn. Shelley
tella him tliat deatli is a mockery, that the loved one his merely become
one with nature, is a i»re8encc still to he loveil and known, '* spreading
itself where'er that [»o\v«!r may move which has withdrawn his being to
its own,' that our human organs of perception only are at fault, that
'tis wo, 'tis ours are ehani^ed," not those who are gone. One is
liackneyed, the other fanciful ; neither can be verified. Wordsworth's
c\(|uisite rightness, as Huskin calls it, is shown in his giving us uothing
that does not rest on experience. Whatever may be said of the life
beyond the grave, of one truth Wordsworth is certain, that "the dead
and the distant, while we long for them and mouru for them, are as
truly present as tlie iloor we stand on."

TuK SUH-TITI.K— 7'//« Ediii'ittlon of N^atnre is a sub-title given by
Palgrave when selectini,' the poem for The. ilohlca Tieasitri/.

I. Three years^ Favorite ballad number.

3. Sown. Compare " Hero scattered like a random seed " iii IVie
Highland Girl.

6. lady. True culture is natural, not artificial. See The, [iijluence
of Natural Ohjeets, for the poet's view of the moral and spiritual
grandeur of nature's teaching.

7.-8. In the second edition of the poem, iu lo02, Wordsworth tried
the effect of the following variation :

Her teacher I myself will be.
She ia iny darliiij^ ; and with me.

Three years later he restored the lines as here.

8. law and impulse. A sense of order as Avell as quick and eager

visitings of thought and feeling. "Nature is all sufficient, both as a
moral law to restrain from evil and as an inspiration to rouse to active
good." W^ebb.

II. feel an overseeing power. Implicitly rather than distinctly con-
scious of an august presence. " I think Ave caiuiot doubt of one main
conclusion, that though the absence of a love of nature is not an assured
condemnation, its presence is an invariable sign of goodness." — Ruskiu's
Modern Painters. Wordsworth himself in Tlntern Abbey says :

Nature never did betray
The heart that loved lier ; 'tin her jirivilege,
Throiij,'h all tlie years of tliis our life, to lead
From joy to joy :

TIIK KDUf'ATION OP NATURE. 183

Aud again,

I liiivo felt '_

A jireaonco that disturlis mo witli the joy
Of ('lL'vat.('(l tlioiiu'lils : a si'Msn Hiililiiiio
Of Hoini'tliiii},' far iiioro dct'iily intcrfiiHed,
Wliosc rlwcUiii^' in 111' li;;lil of Hctliiij; suns,
And I ho round ocean ar.d the livinj,' air,
And llinhhio Hky, and in the mind of man :
A motion and a s]iirit, that impels
All thinkinj,' tliin;;>i, all ol)je(!lH of all thought,
And rolls through all thinj^s.

12. To kindle or restrain. Compare law and impulse.

13. sportive as the fawn. Natiiru's intlucnces contribute to the
human ch.iracter a cheerful, buoyant liveliness. Compare Ruth:

And when he chose to sjwrt and play.
No dolphin over was so (;ay
Upon the troi>io sea.

14. lawn. An open space, especially in a wood. A glade.

If reathing balm. Is "breathing" an active participle used
pas ? Does it refer to the restorative influence of nature or of

Lucy upon those whom she met.

18. mute insensate things. No thought is so constantly active in
Wordswortli's conception of nature's inlluence as that of the calming
and soothing iuHuence of her great silences. Compare Song from the
Feast at Brouyhani Castle :

Love had he found in huts where poor men He ;

His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky.

The sleep that is among the lowly hills.

23. Grace that shall mould. Here, too, the poet debated the com-
parative merit of dili'erent forms. "A beauty that shall mould her
form," was the reading of the first edition. In this case, second
thoughts were best. The edition of 1802 contained the lines aa we have
them since.

24. silent sympathy. Unconscious adjustment to her environment.

26. lean her ear. To catch the subtle, almost inaudible tones of
nature : compare "The harvest of a quiet eye."

27. secret place. Compare with "The sleep that is among the
lonely hills."

31. vital feelings of delight. " Vital feelings of delight," observe.
There are deadly feelings of delight ; but the natural ones are vital,

■A.:..

184

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

necessary to very life. Aiui they must be feelings of delight if they
are to be vital. Do not think you can make a girl lovtly 'f you do not
make her happy. " Ruskiu, Sesame ami Lilies.

37. The work was done. Lucy's education was completed. Hen

was now

A countenance in which did meet,

Sweet records, promises as sweet. ,

41-2. Compare with Browning's yl/>< Vog.er :

Never to be again ! But many more of its kind
As good, nay, better perchance ; is this your comfort to me 7

To me who must be saved because I cling with my miiid
To the same, same self, same love, same God ; aye, w hat was, shall be.

SHE WAS A THAN TOM OF DELIGHT.

This poem was written in 1804 at Town-end, Orasmere ; published in
1807, ami addressed to Wordsworth's wife, Mary Hutchinson. "The
germ of the poem," says Wordsworth, " was fourjjiies composed as part
of the Veraes on the Highland Girl. Though beginning in tliis way, it
was written from my heart as is sufficiently obvious."
~ The plan of the poem is simple. Each stanza is used to describe a
single phase of the writer's appreciation of the various qualities of an
ideal woman. In the first stanza the poet describes those superficial
and attractive qualities, mostly physical, due for the most part to the
life and vivacity of youth. The descriptive terms, phantovi, apparition,
shape, iniatje, themselves suggest the elusive charm of yjuuth, while the
suggestions us to her personal appearance are made all the more striking
by the use of imagery borrowed direct from the beauty of nature herself.

The second stanza advances a step farther iiico the life of the poet's
ideal. She has already charnieiL^li^^JsWCy ; further acquaintance,
while not robbing her of thip charm, enables us to see something of the
emotional life, qualities more ])ractical and more sta})le, united with the
former. Yet, to be an idoj,! woman she must not be entirely without

fault.

Who lo\o9 me must have a touch of earth,
lie is all fault who has no fault at all.

The last stanza reveals to us the more substantial elements j(
character, qualities o f so ul rather than qualities of heart. The^e
qualities, as a general thing, are brought into prominence wheti the

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

185

passage of time briugs w'th it the subduing iiiHuence of sorrow — when
the earHer inipuii.. . of youtli have passed away. It must be noted in
reading this stanza that the ideal woman, having reached her highest
state of development, does not lose those qualities which charm the
fancy and appeal to the heart. She is " a perfect woman," and " yet a
spirit still."

Of. The Prelude, xiv, 11. 268-271 :

She came no more a phantom to adorn
A niomeiit. hut an inmate of the heart.
And yet a syiirit, there for me enshrined
To penetrate the lofty and the low.

"The three stanzas of this poem," sa/s Webb, "represent woman
under three aspects. In the lirst she is depicted as an ideally beautiful
and eiitrancuig o})ject in man's eyes ; in tiie second, as the pleasant
companion of his tvur^'-day life ; in the third, as an intellectual and
moral being, fitted to be his adviser and comforter."

47 "To till but one single moment with beauty too bright and
ethereal -to last." 'i'urner.

5-8. " Her eyes and hair were dark, her complexion fair, and her
disposition cheerful."

Cf. Byron, She Walts in Beauty :

She wallts in beauty, liite the ni<;:ht

Of cloudless climes and starry skies ;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes,

Thus mellowed to that tender lijjht . «

Which heaven to gai y day denies. '

15-6. "The perfect loveliness of a woman's countenance can consist
only in that majestic peace which is founded in the memory of happy
and useful years, — full of sweet records ; and from the joining ot
this with that yet more majestic childishness, which is still full v'.
change and promise ;— opening always — modest at once, and bright,
with the hoi)e of better things to be won, and to be bestowed."
R'"skin, Sesdine and Li'lcs.

17-8. Cf. Her Only Pilot, 11. 12-14 :

While here sits one whose brightness owes its hues
To flesh and liioo<l ; no goddess fiom above,
No fleeting spirit, but my own true love.

22. " The very pulse of the machine ' has ijcen an offence to some
lovers of this poem. Does Wordsworth mean by machine merely the

"1IH"¥W"W"1'""H1 -<l,*'".Mi;t.""l'IF'.>»tM<|JJiJl|p]J5p^P»|15JUiipii|flllJ»f»»

186

NOTKS ON WORDSWORTH.

body, as Hamlet does in his signature of the letter to Ophelia, "Thine
whilst this machine is to him? I rather think the whole woman
with all her household routine is conceived as the organism of which
the thoughtful soul is the animating principle. "—Dowden. 8inco
Wordsworth's time the word machine has become more limited and
purely technical in its signilication.

24. Passing through life with a due sense of its meaniiig and its
responsibilities.

A LESSON.

This is the last of three poems addressed to the celandine, written in
1802 and published together in 1807. In the first two, written on April
30th and May 1st, 1802, the poet expresses much more strongly his per-
sonal love for, and joy in, the flower. Here we catch what is rare in
Wordsworth— {< despondent note. The poet finds in the life of the flower
that which makes it a type of the lot of human kind. As the celandine
in the early year posses-ses suflftcient vitality not only to defend itself
from storm but also to avail itself of the gifts of nature, tho sunshine
and the dew, so does man receive the varied gifts which youth bestows
so prodigally upon him. But in the case of the flower, the season
comes when it no longer has sufficient strength to protect itseli as of
old ; so also man, with early joys and enthusiasms, powers and faculties
dissi2)ated, becomes in old age a pensioner to whom nature deals out
her joys with niggard hand.

The Title. — Again an invention of Palgrave, in Golden Treasury.

1. the lesser celandine. So called to distinguish it from the cheli-
(ionium majus, or greater celandine. It is more generally known as the
coiiimon pilewort, or swallow- wort. It is a small, yellow flower, a sort
of buttercup, with star-shaped blossoms and glossy green leaves. It is
one of the earliest flowers of the spring-time.

2-4. Cf. the second poem to the same flower, 11. 33-40 :

Blithe of heart, from week to week
Thou dost play at liide and seek ;
While t'..e patient primrose sita
Like a be<?j,'ar in the cold,
Thou, a flower of wiser wits,
Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold
Liveliest of the vernal train
When ye all are out again.

■

A LESSON.

187

13. inly muttered. Why inly muttered ?

20. in my spleen. The si)leen, an organ of the body, formerly
regarded as the seat of the passions ; hence ill-humor. In his ill-
humor and disoontent with the conditions of life, it is a source of
melancholy satisfaction to the poet to llnd another whose lot is as
unfortunate as his own.

CI ReHolution and Independence, st. xx, for an expression of the
opposite mood.

I co)ild have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit man so firm a mind.

21-2. a prodigal. Youth.

a miser. Old age.

pensioner. A dependant,

Magnus explains that pensioners were "attached to a district and
personally supported by gifts in kind," and adds that the institution is
"now almost extinct."

Compare with the sentiments expressed in the poem that of the
following passages :

Grow old aloni,' with me ;

The hest is .\ et to he.

The last of life for which the first was made.

Browning, Rabbi Ben Ezra.

So fartw it still in our decay,
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what it leaves hehind.

Wordsworth, The Fountain.

Far from the world I walk and from all c .-e ;
But there may come another day to me
Solitude, pain of heart, distress and pf.verty.

Wordsworth, Itea.lution and Independence.

We will walk through life in such a way
That, when time hrings on decay.
Now and then I may ))o,sses3
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.

And have faculties to take

Even from things by sorrow wrought,

Matter for a jocund thought.

Spite of care and spite of grief

To gambol with Life's falling leaf.

Wordsworth, The Kitten and Falling Leaves.

I8g

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

We will crrieve not, rather flrul

Stren^'th iti what remains behind ;

In the |)rinial symjathy

Which havinijf been must ever l)e,

III tlie soothinjf thoiis'hts that spring

Out of human suffering,

In the faith that looks through death.

In jx-ara that bring the ]>hil(isoi>hic mind. t

Wordsworth, Ode on Intimations of Immortality.

TO THE SKYLARK.

Written at Rydal Mount in 182.") ; published in 1827.

Twenty years before this poem Mas written, Wordsworth addressed
another poem very dissiiiiil.ir to this, to the skylark. In the earlier
poem, the poet catches the infection of joy in the lark's song, and his
own strain endeavors to rival it in ecstasy. It is a poem of youth and
youth's hopefulness and joy. In the hrfer poem, Wordsworth, leaving
the quality of the lark's song, characteristically leans his ear for "the
still, sad music of humanity." The usual source of inspiration to song
is the return of leafy spring. But the lark is privileged beyond others
of its kind. Singing so far above the earth, it finds its motive in its
surroundings, "a privacy of glorious light," and in its nest beneath
" upon the dewy ground." As such, it becomes the type of the truly
wise in this world, who seek their highest happiness in the simple
primary affections and duties of life.

Dowden says : "The idea of tliis poem may be found in The Prelude,

Book xiv, 11. 3S2-3S7 :

And hence, this song which like a lark
I have protracted, in the unwearied heavens
Singing, and often with more j)laintive voice
To earth attempered and her deep drawn sighs,
Yet cent'ring all in love."

The skylark is an exclusively European bird. Our Canadian horned-
lark, so conumm about the roadsides and fences in the s])ring, occasion-
ally sings from a point high in the air above its nest, but its song is
neither musical nor of long duration. Of the English skylark, John
Burroughs writes as follows :-

"The bird that occupies the second place to the nightingale, in British
poetical literature, is the sl^ylark, a pastoral bird as the Philon-el is
arboreal — a creature of light, and air, and motion, the companion of

TO THE SKYLARK.

189

the ploughman, the shepherd, the harvester — whose nest is in the
stubble, and whose tryst is in the clouds. Its life affords that kind of
contrast which the imagination loves — one moment a plain pedestrian
bird, hardly distinguishable from tb'' ground ; the next, a soaring,
untiring songster, revelling in the upper air, challenging the eye to
follow him, and the ear to separate his notes.

"The lark's song is not especially melodious, but lithesome, sibilant
and unceasing. Its type is the grass, where the bird makes its home,
abounding, multitudinous, the notes nearly all alike, and all in the
same key, but rapid, swarming, prodigal, showering down as thick and
fast as drops of rain in a summer shower." Binls and Poets.

1. Ethereal minstrel. C)mpare Shelley's description of the lark's
song, 11. 3 5.

pilgrim of the sky. "Lone traveller into the sky. " Webb.

2. Cf. Shelley, To a Ski/lark, st. 20 :

Thou scorner of the ground.

where cares; dbound. The ignobility and anxiety of life being pro-
ductive in certain minds of cynicism and indifference.
3-4. Cf. Hogg, The Skijlark, 1. 12 :

Thy lay is ia heaven, thy love is on earth.

6. composed. B\)lded. An absolute construction.

7. Cf. Tennyson, The Shjlark, 11. 1-8 :

How the blithe lark runs up the golden stair
That leans thro' cloudy H:ates from heaven to earth,

And all alone in the empyreal air,
Fills it with jubilant, sweet so^^s of mirth ;

How far he seems, how far

With the \\g\\t upon hia wings ;
Is it a bird, or star

That shines, and sings?

Or the lines from John Lyly :

Who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear ;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.

13. the nightingale. Cf, Keats' Ode to the Nightingale and Milton's
U Fenseroso.

190

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

14, Privacy of glorious light. A very eflfective paradox. Cf. Shel-

lel, To a /Skylark :

Like a poet liiddcn
III the lij,'ht of thought.

10. The instinct of the skylark is "more divine" than that of the
niglitingalc, in that l)esi(les being true to its nest it soars heavenward.

17-18. "The wise, while they do not neglect the lowlier duties of every
day life, cultivate at the same time higher ami holier interests. They
harmoniously combine tiie two inter-related aiins. A comparison is
implied between this steadfastness of the wise and the constancy with
which the magnetic needle points to the north and south poles."
Webb.

THE GREEN LINNET.

Written in 180,3 ; published in 1S07.

In making tluv gr(3on linnet the subject of poetic treatment, Words-
worth is inspired t(, some extent, no doubt, by the beauty of the l)ird
and by his love for it, and describes merely for the sake of the
description. But as utiual he looks also beyond mere externals and
sees in the linnet one cliaracteristio which makes it the symbol of the
life of nature itself, viz., its capability for joy or enjoyment. In the
expression of joy the linnet is pre-eminent ; for while other forms of life
are mutually dependent upon each other for their happiness the liiniet
"too blest with any one to pair" is itself its own enjoyment. It is to
be noted that the enjoyment of the linnet linds expression not only in
its song (stanza 5) but also in movement ' tanza 3). It has the double
"joy of voice and pinion."

The green limiet corresponds to the purple-finch of America, but is a
much more abundant and conspicuous bird than its Canadian congener.
Mr. Wintringham writes in "The Birds of Wordsworth," p. 123 : 'of
all English birds, the greenfinch, or the green-grosbeak, is best adapted
to its position in nature. Its color makes it almost imperceptible to all
who are not adepts in ornithology. The bright gamboge yellow of its
primary feathers and the bright golden-green of the least wing-covets do
not foil the hiding powers of its other plumage, but rather complete
than destroy the bii'd's perfect adaptation."

6. orchard-seat. " This of all Wordsworth's poems is the one most
distinctively associated with the orchard at Town-end, Grasmere,"
Knight,

TO THE CUCKOO.

191

"The 'orchard-seat' was upon the torr.ace at the rear of the garden
and was reached l)y stone steps out by the poet himself ; at the present

time an arbor stands there.
Cf. A Farewell. 11. 1-6.

( Jeorge.

Farewell thou little nook of mountain-jyround,

Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair

Of that nia<rniflcent temple which doth hound

One side of our whole vale with {grandeur rare;

Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,

The loveliest spot that man hath ever found.

10. covert. A place of shelter.

15. the revels of the May. May-day celebration. Cf, Tennyson,

The May Qufen, or llerrick, Coriiina's Maying.

18. paramours. Usually used in a bad sense. In Wordsworth it
simply means lovers. Cf. Hart Leap Well :

And in the sununer-time when days are long,
I will come hither with my paramour ;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
We will make merry in that pleasant l)ower.

20. Sole. Single.

16-24. Cf. the lines on the green linnet in The Kitten and Falling

Leaves :

Where is he, that giddy sprite.

Blue-call, with his colors hright,

Who was blest as bird could be.

Feeding in the apple-tree ;

Made such wanton spoil and rout

Turning blossoms inside out ;

Hung —head pointing toward the ground —

Fluttercfl, penihed, into a round

Bound himself and then unbound ;

Lithest, gaudiest harlecfuin 1

Prettiest tumbler ever seen !

Light of heart and light of limb.

What is now become of him ?

TO THE CUCKOO.

Written in the spring of 1802, in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere ;
published in 1807.

7'o the Cuckoo is not merely an expression of the poet's delight in the
pleasing "shout" of the cuckoo itself. Indeed it is one of the most

192

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

prominent characteristics of Wordsworth that he should look beyond
the mere beauty of the bird's song, to eiuiuire into its deeper relation to
his own life. As he listens in rapture to this " wandering voice " of
returning spring, it becomes for )iim in the Hrdt place a symbol of tlie
mysterious in life and of the '' un^iubstautial" spiritual joy, the hi^liest
joy of living. This joy is intimately connected in the poet's maturer
mind with childhood's associations, and it is as an agent in recalling the
happiness and delight of "that goltlen time" that the cry of the
cuckoo appeals especially to his imagination.

The cuckoo spems to have been Wordsworth's favorite bird — what the
skylark was to Shelley and the Nightingale to Keats. Four separate
poems, the present one, the Sonnet to the. Cuckoo, The Cuckoo at Lave.rna,
and The Cuckoo and the Ni(jhtin(/ale (alaptod from Chaucer), besides
numerous references in other poems, testify to his atTection for it.

The liluropean cuckoo is much more attractive, both in song and
plumage, than its American fellow. But the cuckoo of our forests
is an improveiAent on the Old World species in one respect at least,
that it builds a nest and does not impose its young upon other l)irds.
Of the American cuckoo, John Burroughs writes in Wake Bohin:
"The cuckoo is one of the most solitary birds of our forests, and is
strangely tame and quiet, appearing ecpially untouched by joy or grief,
fear or anger. Something remote seems ever weighing upon his mind.
His note or call is as of one lost or wandering, and to the farmer is
prophetic of rain."

1. have heard. In past years.

3. Cf. Shelley, To a Skylark, 11. 1-2.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit I
Bird thou never wert.

"His (Wordsworth's) placid life matured a quite iimisual sensibility,
really innate in him, to the sights and sounds of the natural world —

the flower and its shadow on the stone, the cuckoo and its echo

Clear and delicate, at once, as he is in the outlining of visible imagery,
he is more clear and delicate still, and finely scrupulous in the noting
of sounds ; so that he conceives of noble sound as even moulding the
human countenance to nobler types, and as something actually 'pro-
faned' by color, by visible form or image. Walter Pater, Appreciations.

4. wandering^ Voice. Cf. the sonnet To the Cuckoo :

But loiifj as cock shall crow from household perch
To rouse the dawn, soft j^ales shall speed thy wing
And thy erratic voice be faithful to the spring t

TO THB CUCKOO.

193

And also The Cuckoo at Lavernn :

A gratulation from that vagrant voice
Was wanting.

6. twofold shout. Referring to the two notes of the cuckoo's cry.
Cf. sonnet, To the Cuckoo :

Like the first sumnionB, Cuckoo ! of thy bill
With its twin notes inseparably paired.

Also, The Sun Has Long Been Set, 11, 8-9 :

And the Cuckoo'a sovereign cry
Fills all the hollow of the sky.

9-10. The bird has no knowledge of the effect which he produces
upon his hearer. He sings only about sunshine and flowers. Is
" babbling " an appropriate word?

12. visionary hours. The period of boyhood, when the mind was
full of dreams and visions.

Cf. When to the Attractions of the Busy World:

Orasmere's peaceful lake,
And one green island, gleam between the stems
Of the dark firs, a visionary scene I

Also, Scorn not the S net :

The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow.

13. darling of the Spring. Cf. The Solitary Reaper, 11. 13-16 :

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Cf. also The Cuckoo and the Nightimjale :

And as I lay, the cuckoo, bird unholy,
Broke silence.

14. Even yet. Now that the visionary hours of my boyhood have
passed away.

19. a thousand ways. As a result of the peculiar introverted,
ventriloquial character of the bird's notes.

24. The cuckoo is of an unsocial nature, and keeps out of sight. On
account of its habit of leaving the rearing of its young to other birds, its
appearance causes all the small birds to set in pursuit of it.
18

XI.

194

NOTES ON W0HD8 WORTH.

26-8. Webb qiKttes Intimations of Iviviortality, 11. ltil-164:

Hence in a season of calm weather,
ThoiiKh inland far we be,
Our souls have si^'ht of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither.

Cf. also The Fountain, 11. 29-82 : ,

My eyes are dim with childish tears,

My heart is idly stirred,
For this same sound iu in my ears

Which in those days I heard.

30-1. Stopfortl Brooke, in "Theology in the English Poets," says:

"There are times when the sense of this spiritual life in nature
becomes so dominant that the material world fades away and wo feel
as if we ourselves were pure spirit, and all the objects of sense were not
real things we could touch, but unsubstantial appearances. ... It
is an experience many of us have gone through. It conies chiefly when
the incessant small noises of nature make less attack upon the ear,
when we are high up on a mountain side, or when we sit at night by
the sea when the low mist seems to hush the water into silence, or
when in deep noon one sound alone, like the wandering voice of the
cuckoo, smites on the ear. One knows how Wordsworth felt this last
— how the invisible bird became to him only a voice, a mystery ; till
the whole world was taken out of the region of sense and made as
visionary as this herald of t)ie spring. It is an experience which often
came to this poet as boy and man."

Cf. Ode on the Intimations of Iinmorttilit

hty

Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise ;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things.
Falling from us, vanishinga ;
Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized.

31. Faery. "A variant of the more usual word fairy ; the form
faery is connected with Spenser's great poem, and is here specially
appropriate as suggesting his meaning of the word pertaining to the
region of the ideal and of imagination ; whereas fairy is rather sugges-
tive of the more trivial ideas connected with the fanciful beings of
childish story." Alexander.

In the majority of editions in which this poem appears, line 31 is
followed by a coh)n or semi-colon, instead of a comma.

TO THE DAI8Y.

195

TO THE DAISY.

Oomposed in 1802 ; published in 1807.

In the arrangonient of his pocma for publication in collected form,
Wordsworth classified them under various lieadings — Poetns of the
Fancy, Poems of the Imagination, Poems Founded on the AHections, etc.
To the Daisy was placed in the division entitluil Poenm of the Faudy.

"Fancy," he explains in the edition of 1815, "depends upon the
rapidity and profusion with wliiuh she scatters her thoughts and images,
trusting that their number and tiie felicity witli which thoy are linked
together will make amends for the wants of individual value ; or Hhe
prides herself upon the cuiious subtility and the successful elab(M-ation
with which she can deteut their lurking atiinitioH." To the Daimj is
little more than an " elal»orati(>n " of the "lurking affinities" of the
flower to other objects of "all degrees," and as such ru(iuirea little
comment. Tiiu tirst stanza gives us an insight into the spirit in which
these similes are conctiived — the spirit of love, and in the concluding
stanza the poet cannot refrain from once again expressing his own
personal relations and obligations to the daisy.

Of stanzas .S, 5, 6, Huskin writes in Modern Painters, iii, as follows :
"Observe how spiritual, yet how wandering and playful, the fancy is
in tlie first two stanzas, and how far she Hies from the matter in hand,
never stopping to brood on the charactta- of any one of the images she
summons, and yet for a moment truly seeing and believing in them all ;
while in the last stanza the imagination returns with its deep feeling to
the heart of the flower, and cleaven/ant to that."

"It is curiously characten?. iic that Wordsworth, who taught hia
philosophy by examples taken from the field, Michael, Margaret and
their like, should have exercised hia fancy upon the blossoms of the
hedge-row. In contrast to Tennyson, whose idylls were of tiie king,
and whose honey was won from the roses, Wordsworth went to humble
life for his people and his flowers alike. He made beautiful the ' unas-
suming commonplace of nature,' and recurred again and again to the
daisy, the primrose, the violet, and the common pilewort as parallel
types to his heroes of the plough." Magnus.

Of the English daisy John Burroughs writes in Fresh Fiefdi : "It
is a flower almost as common as the grass ; find a square foot of green
sward anywhere and you are pretty sure to find a daisy, probably
several of them, fiairuwort — child's-flower it is called in some parts, —

196

NOTKS ON WORDSWORTH.

and ita expression is truly infantile. . . . Some flowers please us
by their intrinsic beauty of color and form ; others by their expression
of certain human qualities ; the daisy has a modest, lowly, unobtrusive
way that is very taking'. A littU; white ring, its margin unevenly
touched with crimson, it looks up at one like the eye of a child.
. . . The daisy is prettier in the bud than in the flower as it then
shows more crimson. It shuts up ou the approach of foul weather ;
huucc Teuuy&on says the daisy closes

Her crimson fringes to the showers.

I. here. In the seclusion of his home in Grasmere.
9. dappled. Variegated, spotted with daisies.

II. through all degrees. Of high and low degree : for example, the
daisy is compared to a queen at one moment and to a starveling the
next.

25. Cyclops. Tlie Greek word for roimd-eyed. In Greek myth the
Cyclopes were giants having a single round eye in the middle of the
forehead.

30. boss. The circular protuberance in the centre of the shield,
corresponding to the yellow centre of the flower.

46-8. *'f. stanzas 7 and 8 of the first poem, To the Daisy : "In
youth from rock to rock "

If stately passions in nie burn.

And one chance look to Thee should turn,

J drink out of a humbler urn

A lowlier pleasure ;
The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life our nature breeds ;
A wisdom fitted to the needs

Of hearts at leisure.

Fresh smitten by the morning ray.
When thou art up, alert and gay.
Then cheerful Flower ! my spirits play

With kindred gladness ;
And when, at dusk, by dews oppresfc
Thou sink'st, tlie image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast

Of careful sadness.

SUBJUOATION OP SWITZERLAND.

197

TO A DISTANT FRIEND.

Composed in 1836 ; published the same year.

The Fenwick note gives us Wordsworth's own account of its composi-
tion. " In the month of January, when Dora and I were wall' ing from
Town-end, Grasmero, across the valo, snow being on the ground, slie
espied, in a thick tliough lenllcss hcilge, a bird's nest, hiilf-lilled with
snow. Out of this comfortless appearance arose this s')niR't, which was,
in fact, written without the least reference to any individual object ;
but merely to prove to myself that I could, if I thought tit, write in a
strain that poets have been fond of. On the 14th of February, in the
same year, my daughter in a sportive mood sent it as a Valentine under
a fictitious name, to her cousin C. W."

4, Can it be that there is nothing concerning which you feel in duty
bound to write — the fulfilment of some obligation towards me or the
granting of some favor or request ?

boon — originally meant a petition, but now a favor or a g\ft.

5. Emphasize viy and thee.

7-8. An absol ite "onstruction. Even in my most selfish ('least
generous') momenta I have been content to ask nothing of you that
would in any way interfere with your happiness.

mendicant. A beggar ; properly an adjective, as in ' the mendicant
friars, '

11-12. Of. Evangeline, 11. 1198-99.

But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes
Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.

13. eglantine. Sweet-briar.

THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF

SWITZERLAND.

[ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND.]

Composed in 1807 ; published the same year.

"This was composed while pacing to and fro between the Hall of
Coleorton, then rebuilding, and the principal farm-house of the estate,
in which we lived for nine or ten mouths." Wordsworth's note.

" The invasion of Switzerland by France in 1797 completely alienated
Coleridge's sympathies from the French, and he expressed his feelings

198

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

in hia great poem, France : An Ode, But Wordsworth's sonnet probably
has special reference to Bonaparte's " Act of Mediation," 1803, by which
the Swiss Confederation was reinstituted. While it was an improvement
in many respects on the Helvetic Republic, int ' 3W arrangement,
guaranteed by Bonaparte, made French influence predominant in
Switzerland." Dowdsn.

In 1807, the date of the composition of this sonnet, Napoleon was
making preparations for the invasion of England.

2. One of the Mountains. The music of mountain streams. Cf.
11. 8 and 13.

3. Mountainous countries and islands, being difficult of invasion, have
at all times manifested a strong spirit of freedom.

Cf. Milton, L' Allegro, 11. 35-36 :

And in thy ritjht hand lead with thee
; The mountain n3 inph, Sweet Liberty ;

And Tennyson, To tht Queen, 11. 33-36 :

By shaping pome august decree,
Which kept her throne luisiiaken still.
Broad-based upon her ; ople's will,
And conipass'd by the inviolate sea.

5. a tyrant. Napoleon Bonaparte.

holy g^lee. Rejoicing in the righteousness of your cause.
9-10. one deep bliss. The music of Alpine torrent?.
that 'which still is left. The sound of the ocdau breaking upon
British shores.

MILTON THOU SHOULDST BE LIVING AT THIS HOUR.

Written in 1802 ; published in 1807.

Upon the circumstances which called forth the Sonnet, Webb
comments as follows: "The state of England in 1802 was one that
might well fill a nature like Wordsworth's witli dismay. The wealth of
the country had gi atly increased, but so had the population ; the rate
of wages was thus kept down, and the rise in the price of wheat,
owing to the war, while it enriched the landowner and the farmer,
tei'ribly impoverished the laboring classes. The anu)unt of the poor
rate was doubled and with the increase of poverty came the increase of
crime. ' It is indeed from these fatal years that wc must date that war

MILTON THOU SHOULDST BE LIVING AT THIS HOUR. 199

of classes, that rtocial severance between employers and employed,
which still forms the main difficulty of P^nglish politics ' (Green's History
of the English People). In politics it was an age of coalitions and time
serving expedients ; there was little or no progressive movemeu!;, rather
a reaction."

1. Milton. John Milton (1608-1674) passed the first thirty-two
years of his life ir academic study in London and Cambridge and in
retirement at his father's residence in Horton, Buckinghamshire.
During this period of youthful study, he composed the greater number
of his shorter poems and already contemplated the great epic of his
later life. In 1841 he was recalled from a tour on the continent by the
outbreak of hostilities between Parliament and King. Espousing the
cause of Parliament, he became the ardent aposUa and champion of
freedom, political, social and religious. Under the commonwealth he
became secretary of the Council of State and conducted all correspond-
ence with Foreign Courts. Upon the Restoration in 1660 he withdrew
into retirement to prosecute the work of his great epic, which he com-
pleted in 1665. As a result of over-study, blindne^ had overtaken him
in 1552. He died in 1674 at the age of sixty-eight.

2-.^. a fen of stagnant water:,. ''Men's hearts seem dull and dead
to noble aims and efforts." Webb.

3-6. Altar . . . happiness. In all departments of life, religious,
military, literary, domestic and social, lower ideals, false ideas of
happiness as l)ased on outward circumstance and show, have led us to
sacrifice true happiness and peace of mind, the outcome of ' plain living
and high thinking,' which our forefathers so dearly prized.

4. the heroic . . . bower. In olden times the hall was the princi-
pal room of the castle ; the bower was the ianer apartment set apart
for the ladies. In the present connection hall and Jioioer stands for the
better class of English society, the middle and upper classes, whose
steady courage in the struggles of the past has giv«n birth to such a
wealth of heroic deed.

5. dower. '*.. gift ; an endowment (from Lat. dotare, to endow ; dos,
a gift). The conditions which make possible such * inward happiness '
are the gift or ' dower ' which ovr ancestors have won and handed
down to us.

6. inward happiness. Cf. the sonnet Near Dover, 11. 13-14.

by the soul
Only, the nations shall be great and free.

III! ii

l-l

200

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

7-8. It ia to the ' faith and morals ' of Miitou that >\\)ri«wort'h
looks for the regeneration of the age.

What know we greater than the soul,

On God and Godlike men we buiki our trust

> Tennyson.

* ' Leaving out of view the pretensions of our contemporaries (always
an incalculable influence) we think no men can be namea whose mind
still acts on the cultivated intellect of l^^ngland and America with an
energy comparable to that of Milton. . . , Shakespeare is a voice
merely ; who and what he was that sung — that sings, we know not.
Milton stands erect, commanding, stiVx visible as a man among men,
and reads the laws of the moral sentiment to the new-born race."
Emerson.

8. manners. Like the Latin mores, refers rather to principles of
conduct than to the observance of the laws of etiquette.

Cf. To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth :

Of him, with far

Hutton.

Hail ancient manners, sure defence,
Where they exist, of wholesome laws.

9. " He (Wordsworth) is the most solitary of poets.
more point tliau of Milton, may it be sai<l,

His soul was like a star and dwelt apart "

10. Cf. Tennyson's sonnet on Miltcm, 11. 1-4 :

O mii^hty-niouth'd inventor of harnionie.s,
O skill'd to sin;^ of Time or Eternity,
God-jfifted orj^an-voice of Kngland,
Milton, a name to resound for ajfes.

12. SO. Sums up the characteristics mentioned in 1. 11.

13. yet. What ia the point of the contrast implied in this con-
junction.

14. " Upon his return to I'ligland in 1639, Milton oecujiied himself
for seven years in teaching private pupils, showing them an example of
' iiard study and spare diet.' " Webb.

WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

Composed July 31, 1802 ; pubhshed in 1807.

" Written," says Wordsworth, " on the rooi of a coach on my way to
France." Dorothy Wordsworth has tlie following entry in her journal
of 1802 : " We left London on Saturday morning at half-past five or

WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

201

six. We mounted the Dover coach at Charing Cross. It was a beautiful
morning. The city, St. Paul's, with the river, anil a multitude of little
boats, made a most beautiful sight as we crossed Westminster Bridge.
The houses wore not overhung by tlieii cloud or smoke, and they were
spread out endlessly ; yet the sun shone so brightly, witli such a tierce
light, that there was something like the purity of one of nature's own
grand spectacles." c

Webb quotes a passage from a letter by Mr. R, S. Watson, in illus-
tration of the sonnet. "Many years ago I chanced to be passing over
Waterloo Bridge at half-past three on a lovely June morning. It wus
broad daylight, and I was alone. Never when alone in the remotest
recesses of the Alps, with nothing around me but the mountains, or
upon the plains of Africa, alone with the wonderful glory of the southern
night, have I seen anything to approach the solemnity — the soothing
solemnity of the city, sleeping under the early sun :

Earth has not anything to show more fair."

" Westminster Bridge (the sonnet) is justly famed for its beauty, and is
interesting, too, from another point of view. Wordsworth's attitude
towards London was never very deeply Inspired. His residence there
before the Revolution produced little more than a 'country cousin's'
sensations. After his return from Paris, at the end of 1792, he was
more or less a stranger in the city, and its attraction to him was in its
position as the centre of political affairs rather than in any romance of
its own. The Reverie of Poor Susan, in whose vision

Bright vohunes of vapor through Louhbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside,

is the most inspired utterance provoked. It is characteristic, there-
fore, that the present fine sonnet should be of London at rest, not in its
ceaseless motion." Magnus.

Westminster Bridge crosses the Thames at the east end of the Houses
of Parliament, connecting the district of Westminster with that of
Lambeth.

4. like a garment. Cf. Psalm civ, 2: "Who coverest thyself with
light as with a garntent."

5. bare, distinct ; not involved in mist or smoke.

6. In the immediate neighborhood of Westminster Bridge are many
imposing structures, of which the Houses of Parliament, with their two
prominent towers, Westminster Abbey and Whitehall, are the chief.

202

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

!■

The theatres are mostly situated in the neighborhood of the Strand, but
at the present day there is a large theatre close to the south-west
entrance to the bridge.

temples. Applied to the more imposing edifices used for religious
purposes, such as Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's Cathedral.

7. " London, as he s^es its outspread panorama in its early morning
brightness and purity, seems to him at one with the silent beauty of the
nature he loves. In its mid-day smoke and noise, London is cut off
from all community with the green fields around and the blue sky
above." Webb.

10. his first splendor. Cf. The Lady of the Lake, canto v, 1:

Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light,
When, first 1^ the bewildered jiiljf rim spied,
It smiles upon the dreary brow of night ;
And silvers o'er the torrent's foaming tide,
And lights the fearful path on mountain side.

12. at his own sweet will. Its natural serenity undisturbed by busy
commerce.

13. Dear God 1 The exclamation marks the culmination of the
poet's feeling.

14. that mighty heart. The source of life, activity and emotion.

THE INNER VISION.

One of the poems composed or suggested during a tour in the summer
of 1833 ; published in 1835. Dowden.

"This sonnet reveals to us the method of the poet's work, and if
rightly understood will show us the ground of his criticism upon
Scott's method, which he considered as too conscious, approaching
nature with a pencil and note book, and jotting down an inventory of
her charms. In every scene'' says Wordsworth, " many of the most
brilliant details are but accidental ; a true eye for nature does not note
them, or at least does not dwell on them." George.

2. It is characteristic of Wordsworth that he composed mor<) easily
while walking upon smooth and level ground. His friend Coleridge did
his best work under the opposite conditions.

5. Compare the similar idea expressed in Keats' Ode on a Grecian
Urn, stanza 2.

THE INNER VISION.

203

Heard melodies are sweet, but those un^ eard
Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pljie-, play on ;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more en iear'd,
Pi|ie to the spirit, ditties of no tone.

6. tone. Literally tone refers to the character of sonnd ; here to the
character of the me<litation. Its association with music and. painting
has given it an increased poetic value.

8. The beauty which he will enjoy upon lifting the eyes again to view
the ' fair region,' and the beauty which he has already looked upoti and
enjoyed.

9-14. "The octave is introductory, and states a feeling which the
poet experiences ; this feeling is an illustration of a broad truth which
underlies Wordsworth's poetic work. In the sestette the poet proceeds
to give expression to this truth, and his sense of its importance, — the
external world furnishes merely the basis for poetry ; the most valuable
part of a poem is that which is added by the reflective powers or by the
feelings of the artist himself, and such reflection or feeling may elevate
the huml)lest external fact which we observe by our senses." Alex-
ander.

9. If Thought, and Love desert us. "If working in isolation, the
intellect <loes nothing of moral worth." Aubrey DeVere.

Thought. That is, the intellect working through meditation and
reflection, enables us to discover the spiritual significance of facts,
objects and phenomena. Love, that is, a warmth of feeling towards all
the objects of ouf contemplation, directs and controls the character of
our meditation, tempers the judgments of the intellect, and perfects the
poet's delineation of the external world by adding the emotional
element to the intellectual interpretation of its significance.

10. commerce. Communion, intercourse.

12. The sj)iritual significance ia of more importance than details of
sound, color, smell, etc., which may or may not be noticed by the poet.

13-14. Expand the metaphor. •' What made Wordsworth's poems a
medicine for my state of mind was, that they expressed not mere outward
beauty, hut stales of feeling, and thought colored by feeling under the
excitement of beauty. I needed to be made to feel that there wr.o real
permanent happiness in tranquil contemplation. Wordsworth taught
me this, not only without turning away from, but with greatly increased
interest in, the common feelings and common destiny of human beings."
John Stuart Mill, Autobiography.

204

NOTES OS WORDSWORTH.

WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802.

This sonnet was first published in 1807.

"This M'as written immediately after my return from France to
London, when I could not but be struck, as here described, with the
vanity and parade of our own country, especially in great towns and
cities, as contrasted with the quiet, and I may say the desolation, that
the revolution had produced in France. This must be borne in mind,
or else the reader may think that in this and the succeeding sonnets I
have cxagjjjrated the mischiif engendered and fostered among us by
undisturbed wealth." Wordsworth's note.

1. "The 'Friend' of 1. 1 was Coleridge." Dowden,

4-5. mean handiwork of craftsman, cook, or groom. We care only
for outward display — ornament and dress, feasts and banquets and
fashionable equip^e.

5-6. Society will frown upon us unless our lives are marked by
such outward display.

8-9. No grandeur . . . us. Cf. Wordsworth's When I Have
Borne in Memory, 11. 2-4 :

ennobling thouj^hts depart
When men change sworda for ledprers and desert
The student's bower for gold.

9-10. Rapine . . . adore. So great a value do we place upon
worldly riches that we no longer shrink from dishonest methods of
obtaining money, greed of gain and extravagance in expenditure.

Cf. Coleridge, Fears in Solitude :

We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth ;
Contemptuous of all honorable rule,
Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life
For gold, as at a market !

12. the good old cause. Former conditions of life and character.

Cf. Burke. "The ancient and inbred integrity, piety, good nature
and good humor of the English people. "

1.3. our fearful innocence. Apprehensive at the approach of evil.
Fearful is here used in its root sense, full of fem\ rather than its
ordinary sense, inspiring fear.

Cf. the lines from Charles Wesley's hymn :

TO SLEEP.

205

Ah i give me, Lord, the tender heart
That trembles at the approach of sin ;
A godly fear of sin impart,
Implant and root it deep within. *

14. breathing: household laws. The ♦ pure religion ' of the house-
hold is reflected in the conduct of its members. The morals of the
state depend in tura upon the purity of family life.

TO SLEEP.
Written in 1806 ; published in 1807.

This sonnet is one of three on the same subject, written by
Wordsworth.

Sleep has always been a favorite theme with the poets, and many
notable passages might be quoted in illustration. The most famous of
all is no doubt the familiar descriptive passage in Macbeth :

Methought I heard a voice cry •' Sleep no more !
Macbeth does murther sleep "—the innocent sleep.
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath.
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.

1-5. The monotonous nature of the sounds and images which the
mind dwells upon, acts as a sedative and induces sleep.
6-7. Cf. Tennyson, The Princess, vii :

Till notice of a change in the dark world
Was lispt about the Acacias, and a bird,
That early woke to feed her little ones.
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light.

8. melancholy cry. " So to the sleepless man sounds the note of the
once • blithe new-comer. ' " Webb.

10. Cf. Henry IV., Part Second, iii, 1 :

Sleep, gentle sleep,

Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee.
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness ?

11. So. That is, sleepless.

13-14. Cf. Tennyson, In Memoriam, Ixxi, for the opposite character-
ization :

Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance
And madness.

i^i

i. ^

II 11

f ^1

II ,

206 NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

" In December, 1820, Wordsworth visited Cambridge, and certainly
wrote one sonnet on that occasion ; perhaps the three suggested by
King's College Chapel belong to that date ; they were published among
the ecclesiastical sonnets in 1822. " Dowden.

1. the royal Saint. King's College was founded in 1446 by King
Henry VI. , who laid the corner-stone in that year. The Chapel was left
unfinished at his death, but the work was continued by Henry VII., and
completed by Henry VIII.

2. ill-match'd aims. In planning ' this immense and glorious work '
for 'a band of white-robed scholars only.'

the Architect. "The designer of the structure is unknown; it is
conjectured from the personal supervision and alterations made by him,
at Eton, that Henry himself was the architect." George.

3. A scanty band. Numbering in all only seventy. •

5. Deuteronomy xvi, 17 : "Every man shall give as he is able, accord-
ing to the blessing of the Lord thy God which he hath given thee."

6-7. the lore . . . more. The careful calculation of the exact
amount that will suffice.

8. for the sense. To give pleasure to the eye.

9. These lofty pillars. "King's College Chapel is a pre-eminent
example of the Perpendicular or Florid style of architecture. Floor
alone excepted, the whole is one mass of panelling. The roof is com-
posed entirely of arches of the most airy construction, covered with
exquisite fan-like tracery. Decoration runs riot everywhere, and the
sense aches again at the beauty, and splendor, and variety that every-
where meet the gaze." Webb.

10. Self>poised. " The lofty pillars form part of the walls, and the
arched roof is thrown from wall to wall, unsupported by any inter-
mediate columns." Ibid.

11-12. where music . . . die. Cf. the succeeding sonnet on the
same chapel, 11. 11-14 :

But from the arms of silence, list ! O list I
The music hursteth into second life ;
The notes luxuriate, every stone is Icissed
By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife ;
Heart-thrilling strains that cast before the eye
Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy 1

M 1. X V ^.

'.L, ,(/k ^^^-<^

certainly
gested by
ed among

by King
)1 was left
VII., and

)us work '

wn ; it is
B by him,

i, accord-
ee."

he exact

-eminent
B. Floor
t is coin-
red with
and the
it every -

I.)

and the
ay inter-

b on the

I I

-•

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■ . ■ ■-

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^1^^

Suiniivl T. Colciidtjc.

TO FACE PAGE 207

NOTKS ON (H)LKUTDGE.

BIOGUAPIIY.

Samuel Taylor Coloridge was born in the Vicarage of Ottery, St.
Mnry, Devouahire, Oct. 21, 1772— the youngest of a family of ton
children. His fatlier, Rov. John Coleridge, head nuwter of the
Free (Jramniar School and vicar of the parish, was, it appears, a
simple and eccentric, though, withal, scholarly clergyman — 'a man of
more mark than tnost rural incumbents.' His mother seems to have
been a wotiiun of little education or imagination, though of pronounced
prejudices, and stnmgly ambitious for the welfare of her family. It is
noticeable that it is to bis father that the po(>t in after life looks back
with a scnso of indebtedness for early training and inspirati<m. In his
early boyhood he proved markedly precocious, and at an early age
showed a fondness for solitude and meditation, rather than for the
ordinary sports of childhood. The death of his father, however, ia
1781, interfered with the orderly course of hia education, and a year
later the future poet-phil()soi)her was entered as a pupil in the great
Charity School of Christ's Hospital, London.

The nine years which he spent in Christ's Hospital, though not on the
whole a happy {Miriod in his life, were not without im))ortant influence
on his later career. From this period of school life date, among other
things, the beginning of a life-long friendship with his fellow-pupil and
fellow-sufferer, Charles Lamb, and more important still, his adoption of
the principles of the new movement already making itself felt in the
literary world. For if the headmaster of the school, the Rev. James
Bowycr, was too ardent a believer in the use of the rod, he had this
redeeming feature, that he inspired the mind of one of his j)Upi]8, at
least, with a strong sense of the necessity of new ainm and ideals in the
world of letters at large.

In February, 1791, he entered Jesus College, Cambridge, just one
month after Wordsworth had left the University. He proved, on the
whole, an indifferent etudent, but on the other hand his sympathies
went out largely towards the Revolutionary movement in France, and
about the same period also he adopted as his religious creed the priu-

207

208

NOTES ON COLERIDGE.

ciples of the Unitarian Church. His unpractical character soon involved
him in debt, and in the period of despondency that followed, he secretly
h.-ft college, reached London, and after a few days of aimless wandering,
eidisted in the dragoons under the assumed uaiTie of Silas Oomberbach.
Kelieved iinally by his friends fnmi the irksomeueas of this self-imposed
tie, he returned to Cumbridge, but did not complete his course.

On a visit to Oxford in 1791, he met there Robert Southey, an
iiiider-graduato of congenial tastes, though, as the se(iuel proved, of
widely different character and habits of life. One of the first results of
this new friendship was a chimerical plan of the two friends, both of
whom were dissatislied with tlie conditions of existing society, to found
an ideal conimunity in America, on the banks of the Susquehanna.
Other enthusiastic friends, to the number of twenty-six, were soon
persuaded to join the enterprise, and as a preliminary to the under-
taking, Coleridge and Southey were both married, the former to Miss
Sara Fricker, of Bristol, the latter to a younger sister. Then it was
that the impossibility of the project confronted them most forcibly.
N»)ne of the parties engaged in tlie enterprise had any money to prose-
cute the scheme. Pantisocracy, as the visionary project had originally
been named, was from that time forward, dead.

Henceforward for a number of years, the life of Coleridge consisted in
a sorit s of attempts to solve the problem of how to make money. The
Udtchman, a weekly journal which he inaugurated in March, 1796, was
discontinued after three months. His first volume of pcems, published
in the same year, failed to produce any impression. In his various roles
of lecturer, tutor, Unitarian preacher, and journalist, he was equally
unsuccessful, from a iinancial point of view at least. He at first took up
house at Cievedon, a small village near Bristol, but in 179(5 removed to
Nether Stowey, Somersetshire, in the neighborhood of the Quantock
Hills. Here, in 1797, he was joined by Wordsworth, whose friendship
he had already formed in the previous year. This year of companion-
slii]) witVj Wordsworth (1797-98) has been called the Annus Mirabili8 of
("oleridge's poetic career — the year of the Ode to France, the first part
ot Christabel, Kuhla Rhan, Fears in Solittule, and The Ancient Mariner.
The last named poem was Coleridge's most important contribution to
the Lyrical Ballads, published in 1798. In this same year, 1798,
Coleridge received an unexpected bequest in the form of a settlement of
£150 per annum, for life, from the two Wedgewood brothers, the
famous potters. This settlement, small though it was, was sufficient to
place the family of Coleridge beyond the possibility of immediate want

BIOGRAPHY.

209

aud Coleridge took advantage of the unoxpcctrd relief to accompany
Wordsworth and his siHter to (Joriimny. Having mastered the language
during a five months' sojourn at Uatzehur^', ho prociicded to flSttingen,
where he plunged at onoo into the study of n.etivphysics. He returnwl
to England in the summer of 1799, but luMiceforward the poetic
impulse was weak ; the inclination to mctaphyHios had finally taken
its place. Aside from the translation of Schilli;r'8 WaUendcln in 18U0,
the immediate outcome of his winter in Cjiermany, and the addition of
the second part of Chridnhel in the same year, his three remaining
poems of note, viz., Dejection, 1802; To WUiutm IVordsirortU, 1807,
and Youth and A(je, 1834, are in themselves merely the poet's threefold
lament for lost opportunities and declining powers.

After a year of successful journalistic work in London, he settled in
1800, with his family, at Greta Hull, near Keswick, in the Lake Dis-
trict, some twelve miles from firasinere, the home of Wordsworth.
Here he seems to have passed two fairly happy and contented years.
But with the year 1803 came a change. Undue exposure during a
pedestrian tour in Scotland in company Mith the Wordsworths, brought
on a severe attack of rlioumatisni, to which he was subject. To relieve
the poins, he had recourse to the Kendal Black Drop, which contained
a preparation of opiutn, and henceforward the drug, enfeebling mind
and body alike, became the very bane and curse of his existence. In
1804 ho set out for Malta in search of health ; but in vain. At the end
of a year, he gave up the position of })ublic secretary, which he had
accepted, and returned to England, delaying, however, unduly in Italy,
on the way. In addition to other misfortunes, we note about this time
also, an increase of doui tstic unhappincss, which linally led, some five
years later, to Coleridge's permanent separation from his wife and
family at Crcta Hall.

The next ten years of his life, from 1805 to 181.5, are years of unhap-
pincss, disappointment, struggle and failure — homeless, aimless years.
He turned his hand, at first, to journalistic hack-work, to lectures on
the fine arts, and in 1809 to the inauguration of a n(!W journal The
Friend : one after the other these enterprises were abandoned or discon-
tinued as unsuccessful. In 1811-1812, he delivered a serii;8 of brilliant
lectures on Shakespeare and Milton, })efore the London Philosophical
Society, and in 1813 his ])lay of O.sorio, written sixteen years before, was
received with favor at Drury Lane, But success was again followed
by failure, and the year 1814 found him once again broken in health and
despondent in soul. " It was a relapse to the condition of the winter
14

210

NOTES ON COLERIDGE.

1807-8, and it was due to the same cause — the drug, the drug, always
the accursed drug. " Tlie struggle, a hopeless one from tlie first, con-
tinued a year longer, and then, in tlie darkest hour, deliverance came.
Early in 1816, Coleridge put himself under the care of Dr. Gilluian,
Highgate, and took up his resilience under the doctor's mof. Here he
continued to reside for the remaiiung eighteen years of his life.

Removal to Highgate, however, did not entirely relieve him of the
financial strain to which lie had long been subjected, and he is forced
from time to time to have recourse to lecturing and journalistic work
as a means of independent subsistence. lu respect to his literary
career, these Highgite years are markei principally l)y the ]>ublication
of work in poetry and prose, {>reviously produced, rather tlian by any
fresh literary efforts. Christahcl was published in 18U), and was
followed in 1817 by Bmjraphia Literario, an account of his own
literary life and opinions, Sibylline Leaoes, a collection of his poetical
works, and Zapolya, a play. These publications for the most part
met with a storm of hostile criticism. Hi,* philosophical work. Aids to
Reflection, published in 1825, met, hoM"3V'^r. with a more favorable
reception. In the same year he received a pension o' £100 a year
from the private purse of George IV., which c()utjv^ued until the king's
death Jn 1830. It is from these Highgate daja, too, that the fame of
Coleridge .is a conv3rsationr.list principally dates. From the year
1820 onward, the tide of popularity began to turn slowlj', very slowly
indeed, in Coleridge's favor, and from that date Highgate became a
rallying point for many of the rising young men of literary pretensions
and aspirations. Some ideas of his powers of conversation may be
gathered from Table Talk, a record by H. N. Coleridge, his nephew
and the husband of his daughter Sara, of the famous conversations of
1822 to 1834.

The closing years of Coleridge'n life were not entirely without
happiness, and death when it came was not unexpected. ' On the 25th
of July, 1834, this sorely-tried, hmg-laboring, fate-marred, and self-
marred life passed tranquilly away.' "The grave had hardly closed
on him when the worul echoed with his praise. * Coleridge,' said Black-
wood, ' alone perhapa of all men that ever lived waa always a poet — in
all his moods, and they were many, inspired.'"

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

211

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

Publication. — The AncieM Mariner occupies the first fifty- two pages
of the first edition of the Lyrical Ballads, published in 1798. It re-
appeared in the sul)8equent editions of 1800, 1802, and 1805, with many
alterations of text and the omission of many of the extreme archaisms.
In 1817 it was puhlishtd in the Sibylline Leaves, with two important
additions, viz., the motto, from Burnet, and the marginal gloss,
besides some further alterations.

Origin and Sources. — During the two years of Coleridge's residence
at Nether Stowey, his conversation with Wordsworth "frequently
turned on the two cardinal points of poetry, the power of exciting the
sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature,
and tiie power of giving the interest of novelty by the modifying colors
of imagination." In one of these conversations the thought suggested
itself that a se^ipis of poems might be composed, in some of which the
incidents and agents might be, in part at least, supernatural, in others,
chosen from ordinary life. Wordswortli undertook " to excite a feeling
analagous to the supernatural, by awakenini' the mind's attention from
the lethargy of custom and directing it to the loveliness and wonders of
the W(>rld before uw," while Coleridge directed his efforts to transferring
from orr inward nature to persons and characters supernatural "a
human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these
shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the
moment, which constitutes poetic faitli." Thus originated the plan of
the Lyrical Ballads, for which Coleridge wrote Tlte Ancient Mariner
and began The Dark Ladie and Chrisiahel.

The immediate occasion of 71ie Ancmit Mariner if? thus explained by
Wordsworth: "Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and myself started from
Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon with a view to visit Linton and
the Valley of Stones near to it ; anil, as our united funds were very
small, we agreed to defray tlie expenses of tlie tour by writing a poem
to be sent to the Neio Monthly Manazhie. Accordingly, we set off and
proceeded along the Quantock Hills to Watchct, and in the liourse of
this walk was planned the \ioem of Tlif Ancient M'iriner, founded on a
dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend Mr. Cruiksliank (who fancied
he saw coming into port a skeleton ship >/itli spectre ligures on board).
Much the greatest; part of thv story was Mr. Coleridge's invention, but
certain parts I suggested ; for example, some crime was to be committed
which would bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards

212

NOTES ON COLERIDGE.

delighted to call him, the spectial persecution, as a consequence of
that crime and his own wanderings. I had been reading in Slielvocke's
Voyages, a day or two before, that while doubling Cape Horn they
frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of sea-fowl,
some extending tiieir wings twelve or thirteen feet. ' Suppose,' said I,
'you represent him as having killed one of these birds on entering the
South Sea, and that the tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them
to avenge the crime.' The incident was thought fit for the purpose, and
adopted accordingly. I also suggested the navigation of the ship by the
(lead men, but do not recollect that I had anything more to do with the
scheme of the poem. The gloss with which it was subsequently accom-
panied was not thought of by either of us at the time, at least not a hint
of it was given to me, and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous after-
thought. We began the composition together on that to me memorable
evening. I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of the poem,

in particular —

And listened like a three j'ears' child
The Mariner had hia will.

These trifling contributions all but one, which Mr. C. has with unneces-
sary scrupulosity recorded, slipped out of his mind, as well they might.
As we endeavored to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same evening)
our respective manners ju'oved so widely different that it would have
been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from an
undertaking upon which I could oidy have been a clog. . . . The
Ancient Mariner grew and grew till it oecame too important for our
first object, which was limited to our expectation of five pounds."

Many other ideas were added to this I'rst simple suggestion, and
nothing better illustrates Coleridge's omnivorous reading and widely
assimilative mind than his skilful weaving into one complete and
rounded whole of so many suggestions from such a variety of sources.
From the Witches' Spell, Act I, si-, iii, Macbeth, he seems to have
obtained a hint of the " night-mare Life-in-Death " :

Sleep shall neither night or day
Haii^ uiioii his ji»>iit-h<Hise lid ;
He shall live a man forbid ;
Weary seven niyfhts, nine times nine
Shall he dwindle, peak and pine.

Wordsworth suggeslcd the plan of reanimating the dead men to work
the sliij). Similar and perhaps more delinite suggestions came to him
from a rude Danish ballad, A Wonderful Ballad of Seafariny Men, and

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

213

york
iiini
aud

from the epistle of Bishop Paulinus of Nola to Macarius, 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
marginal references in many note-books — from varions sources, — from
Captain James' Strnnf/e Voi/cuje into the South Sen, Cook's Voyages,
Hakluyt's Voifar/cs, and such out-of-the-way reading as the visions of
Burnet and Purclias's PVtjrims. The subse(iuent wanderings of the
mariner, his mental restlessness, his irresistible desire to impart his
experiences, were obviously suggested by the legend of tlie " Wander-
ing Jew." Several details were suggested by Words wortli, wlio also
wrote a few lines, but the greater part of the jjoom is Coleridge's
invention in tluit highebt s«.nse of originality which consists not in
inventing but in using in a masterly way what is already available.

The Teaching of the Poem. —In a passage in Tab'e Talk, Oolerid^js
himself disc' , ; the idea that The Ancient Mariner v.as inteu.ied
primarily to C'...i ey a moral. "Coleridge's intention was, it seoms,"
says Mr. Herbert P)ates, ' ' morely to compose a thrilling poem of the
supernatural, founded on his friend's strange dream of a ship full of
dead men. The leading idea must have been the mystery of the ocean
spaces where anything was possible ; aud the presence of those beings
invisible, inhabitants of every element. And it is through these
stronger motives that we hear, like a quiet flute in the turmoil of an
orchestra, the tj^ader teaching : ' He prayeth best who loveth best.' "

The Marginal Oloss. — The gloss not only adds to the quaintness and
archaic c. vracter of the poem, but connects The Ancient Mariner with.
the philosophy of Coleridge ; emphasizing therein the psychological
interest, its curious soul-lore.

The Setting. — The story of the Wedding Guest, which forma a setting
for the story proper of 77/fi Awient Mariner, serves several distinct
purposes in the poem. It serves, in the first place, to withdraw the
attention of the reader from all such questions as to tiir^e, place, and
fact, as would natui-ally present themselves in the beginning of such a
narration, and makes ib possible for the action to proceed directly and
by strides into those regions of the unknown and mysterious, where
alone such experiences would be considered possible. The impressions
of the Wedding Guest, in the second place, serve as a medium by wiiich
we are enabled to see, far more effectively than was possible by any
direct narration, the effect of the intense suffering, and the intensity of
the spiritual coutiict — 'the woful agony' through which the soul of

•i-»— ,*»-"F*'7

214

VOTKS ON COLERIDGE.

;1 'i'

! 'i

the Mariner has already paaaed. In the third place, not only does it
aid in securing the unity of tlio poem, but it also forms in itself a strik-
ing background for the story proper. In the struggle of the Wedding
Ouest we see before us once aj;;iiu the conflict of the worldly and the
spiritual through which the Mariner has already ])assed, and, further-
more, in the myatory of the strange spiritual strength of the Mariner,
we have presented to us an element of the mysterious, greater even V.han
the weird occurrences of the story itself.

The Siipernadiral. — From Coleridge's own account of the purpose
of The AiK'ioit Mariner, we learn that the object of the introduction of
the supernatural is to give pleasure to the reader, not by the mere
presentation of the supernatural of itself, but rather by the delinea-
tion of the feelings and emotions to which it gave rise. Hence in The
Ancient Mariner, the spiritual experiences of the mariner and his com-
panions in crime are of much more importance than the accompanying
framework of supernatural incident. But in order that we may truly
enter into these feelings and emotions, it is necessary, as Coleridge is
careful to add, that we suppose them real. And such an impression of
reality the poet at once makes possible by the removal of the scene of
action beyond the bounds of the known and familiar into the ' silent
sea,' into which we are 'the first that ever burst.' " Thenceforth we
cease to have any direct relations with the veritiable. Natural law has
been suspended ; standards of probability have ceased to exist. Marvel
after marvel is acce})ted by lis, as by the wedding guest, with the
unquestioning faith of ' a three years' child ! ' "

The Crime and its Retribution. — The motive of the story of The
Ancient Mariner is the crime which the mariner commits, and the
interest of the narrative centres largely about the ext(!nt and method
of retribution meted out to the participants in the crime. The mari-
ner's offence consists, in the first place, in the killing of the albatross,
a bird of good omen, not in self-defence or as a matter of necessity ;
but out of sheer malevolence and disregard for the sacredness of even
the lowest forms of animal life. The punishment which follows con-
sists not merely in the physical and mental torture to which the
i.nariner is subjected ; but in a lifelong expiati<m of Iph crime, a veritable
live-in-deatli, an agony of soul which returns at a certain hour, sc that
his heart burns within him.

But does not the penance seem to be too severe for the crime ? Is
not the shooting of the albatrosa a comparatively trivial offence to be
productive of such terrible results? The mariner is punished, not

THK ANCIENT MARINES.

215

merely for the shooting of the albatross, but for that underlying hard-
ness of heart which made such a deed possible. His immediate sufTor-
ings are relieved only when his conditions of soul change, when ho is,
as it were, converted, and love for 'man, and bird, land beast,' becomes
the ruling principle of his life. Henceforward, that part of his penance
which imposes upon him the necessity of telling the wtory of his own
crime and its punisbmont, becomes to him a duty, a natural and
inevitable result of his cii.-mge of heart. The 'agony ' is, no doubt, the
remembrance of, and keen remorse for, his past crime, which leads him
to be solicitous about the hard-hearted and careless whom he meets
with in his Wiinderings from time to time.

The sailors also jjiirticipate in the crime of the mariner. They are
ecpially hard-lu^artcd ; for, instead of at once condemning the crime,
for selfish reasons th(!y at first condone the oflfence, and afterwards, for
equally selfish reasons, denounce the mariner. As, however, they have
not had an actual share in the criminal deed, they are punished in a less
degree ; for it cannot be denieil that the inunediate termination of their
sufferings by death is preferable to the lingering agony, the life-iu-
death, which the more terrible fate of tl»e mariner has reserved for
him. That death would have been a welcome relief to the mariner is
evi'lenced by his own testimony :

Seven days, seven n!;,'5KH I saw that curse,
And yet,, I could not, die.

And, as it is, the death of the sailors, while it is a punishment for their
individual crime, must also have added materially to the burden of
guilt which rested on the mariner's soul.

Nature, in the Poem. — The A iirimt Mariner deals with those
common and general aspects of nature and of the sea with which
Coleridge in childhood and early manhood iiad become definitely
acquainted. In his treatment of these general aspects, however, it is
his avowed aim "to excite the sympnthy <:>f the rea«ler by a faithful
adherence to the truth of nature " and *' to give the interest of
novelty by the modifying colors of the iniatrnation." Over tlie simple
familiar phenomena he throws, theref'>re. the light of poetic imagin-
ation, "the light that r,t ver was on s--* or land," raises them thus
above the commonplace, and gives them a, peculiar jM»etic charm. His
faithful adherence to the truth of nature he secures mainly by a
peculiar minuteness of detail and accuracy as to delicate shades of form
and color — of which poi!)t stanza xxvii will serve as »n appropriate
illustration. His descripcious of tropical mkI polar scenes show to whftt

li;

216

NOTES ON COLERIDGE.

extent his imagination was able to assimilate and to reproduce in
realistic fashion the facts for wliich he must have been indebted to his
wide and various reading.

Poetic Form. — The Ancient Mariner is a successful adaptation of the
Medifeval Ballad to suit the conditions of the nineteenth century
literary world. It retains, of necessity, many of the qualities of the
ballad proper, — rapidity and directness of action, simplicity of plot,
character, and motive, the elemental view of nature, and in part the
abruptness of style characteristic of middle age productions. But, on
the other hand, it is noticeable that the supernaturalism of the poem is
of a finer and more delicate nature than tliat of the older romantic
legends and ballads, and that the poet has introduced into the poem a
delicate psychological interest M'hioh would have been entirely out of
place in the mediteval type. In the matter of style also, his work is
found to be adapted to modern conditions, for, instead of the rough and
ready versification, inaccurate metre, and oftentimes l>roken and in-
harmonious lines of the older ballad literature, he has taken pains
to make The Ancient Mariner an almost perfect example of flawless
verse.

The usual ballad measure — the quatrain, composed of alternate
iambic IcVrameter and trimeter lines — is employed : but it will be
noticed that, for the purpose of securing vaiiety'of efiect, the poet
takes various liberties with the measure, in length of line or of stanza,
in riiynie, and in variety of foot.

TJie Motto. — The following is a translation of the Latin Motto i)re-
fixecl to the poem : —

"I readily believe that there are more invisible beings in the universe
than visil)le. But who will explain to us the nature of all these, the
rank, relationships, distirgnishing characteristics and functions of each?
Wliat is it tljey do? Where is it they dwell? Human thought ever
circles around the knowledge of these mysteries, never touching the
centre. Meanwhile it is, I confess, oft-timos well pleasing to behold
sketched upon the mind, as upon a tablet, a picture of the greater and
better world ; so shall the spirit, wonted to tlie petty concerns of daily
life, not narrow itstif overmuch, nor sink utterly into trivialities. But
meanwhile we must diligently seek for trutli, aiul maintain a temperate
judgment, if we would distinguish certainty from uncertainty, day from
night." T. Burnet, Archoiul. Phil., p. 68 (Trans. George).

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

217

Part I.

Itime. — "Rime" here means poem. Cf. Chaucer's The Jiym of Sir
Thopas. This spelling (Anglo-Saxon, rini) is <he correct one. The
ordinary form rhi/me is iluc to a confusion with the word rhythm.

1. ancient simply moans old. In conversation Coleridge would
speak of the mariner as the old navigator. Note the vivid presint in
these lines.

2. one of three. What numbers are met with most frequently in
the poem? Why?

3. By thy long gray beard. A Turkish oath.
glittering suggests intensity of feeling and spiritual power.

11. loon. A base fellow. Cf. Macbeth v, 3, "Thou cream-faced
loon."

12. Hftsoons. At once ; immediately.

14-5. Insight into the soul's workings the result of a great spiritual
crisis, gave him a strange power of fascination. Cf. Coleridge's own
personal magnetism.

15-6. Contributed by Wordsworth.

21. The joyous morning of life.

22-4. drop. Used in a nautical sense — to move down the coast.

32. bassoon. A ueep-toned musical instrument,

36. The merry minstrelsy. A body of minstrels.

41. Compare Arnold's linrihij Chapel : " Then on the height comes the
storm." The very energy of youth leads to excesses.

Gloss. Drawn by a storm. Perhaps "driven" is meant.

55. drifts. Mist and snow driven before the wind. Cf. 11. 51 and 64.
Clifts, an old form of cZ/^i'— perhaps due to a confusion with clefts.

56. sheen. Brightness, splendor. Cognate with show; not coji-
neeted with the verb shiiie.

57. ker. lAtersiWy, know : hence, dufingmsh, desn'y.

58. all between. All around — between the ship and the open sea.
57-62. Moral isolation. Spiritual coldness and discord.

62. swound. Swoon.

63. i\.lbatross. A large aquatic bird with great breadth of wings and
extraordinary powers of flight, often met with at great distance from

218

NOTES OTJ COLERIDGE.

i ii

ii If
I I.

land oflF the Cape of Good Hope. The bird symbolizes a better intima*
tion, speaking to the benumbed soul ; see note on 11. 57-62.

64. Thorough. An archaic form of through — still retained in the
word thoroiKjh/are.

69. thunder-fit. A noise like thunder, Cf. 1. 393 for the same word,
^t, used in a different sense.

71. The ship, which had been going south, having passed through the
polar region, is now going nortliward. Cf. also the Gloss.

74. Came in answer to the mariner's call.

75. shroud. "One of the supporting ropes that run from the mast-
head to the side of the ship."

76. vespers. Evenings. (Lat. venper, tlie evening star. ) The word
generally signifies even tioixj.

nine. Odd numbers are generally associated with the mystical and
supernatural. Three, live, seven and nine are the prevailing numbers
in the poem

Part II.

91. Note the sailors' superstitions regarding the killing of birds.

92. 'em. An archaism. Not connected with them, Init derived from
A.S. him, dative plural of he, heo, het. Middle ICnglish hem,

97. like God's own head. Connected in sense with sitn.

98. uprist. Strictly speaking, a present tense form. A variant of
xipriseth. Here used as a weak past of uprise.

104. Coleridge altered this line in 1817 to "The furrow streamed oflf
free" but restored the original reading in 1S2S,

108. A lower state of moral degradation follows.

127. reel and rout. With a rapid, irregular, whirling motion.

128. death-fires. Phosphorescent lights seen sometimes in grave-
yards and by superstitious people believed to portend death, known also
as death lights, corpse candles, dead men's candles, and fetch-Jujhts.

129. A witch's oils. The use of colored fires to add to the mystery
of the scene was a common device of necromancers.

Gloss. Flavins Josephus (A. D. 37-97), a Jewish historian. Author
of "History of the Jewish Wars " and "Jewish Antiquities." Gov-
ernor of Galilee about A.D. 66.

i»:i'

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

219

Michael Psellus (1020-1110), born in ('(mstantinople. A Greek
philosopher, author of many treatises on dcnionology, philosophy and
science.

131. assured. Were made sure of what they had already suspected.

133. Nine fathom. The actual depth is of little importance. Nine
is a mystical niunl)er.

137-8. Discuss the poetic value of the comparison.

141-2. Possibly suggested by the Piff/rim's Progress. The mariner is
now haunted by the remembrance of his act.

Part III.

152. I wist. Used in the sense of "f thought." "It seemed to me."
Wiat is the past tense form of the defective verb, to wit.

155. dodged. Not undignified in Coleridge's day.
sprite. A doublet of spirit.

156. A ship tacks when, in changing its course, it turns its head
towards the wind ; it veer's when it turns from the wind.

157. Cf. Lamentations v, 10: "Our skin was black like an oven
because of the terrible famine." Likewise Lamentations iv, 8.

1G4. Gramercyl An exclamation of pleasure or surprise. (Fr.

grand merci.)

169. Without a breeze. The maritime superstition regarding the
existence of a Phantom Ship, whose movements were independent of
wind or tide, has been frequently used as poetic material by other
poets. The most common form of the superstition gives to the phantom
vessel the name of The Flying Dutchman with which every one is
familiar.

170. steadies with upright keel. Keeps steadily on her course
without any wind to lay her over on one side.

184. gossameres. Filmy cf>bwebs, to be seen in the air on fine
summer evenings. Supposed to be derived from goose summer, from the
downy appearance of the threads. According to the old legend these
are the remnants of the Virgin Mary's sliroud that fell from her as she
was translated.

188. a Death. The use of the indefinite article indicates that the
mariner did not on first glance realize that ' the fleshless man ' was
actually Death himself. He considered it only a skeleton symbolizing

220

NOTICS ON OOLKUIDOK.

Ponth. Ill (ho next liiit^ lii> fully rouli/.oH who Mit) woimiirH inntn
roiilly ia. ••

lJ)0-*2. *' l{«'tl li|m iiiitl goMon liiiir nm tM-rfjiiiily iiof. in (licinHnlvon
r('i»(llin^. It. is only win ii wti join to tlicni .s//'// iihllr na h'/iidsi/ that
the pii'tni*' li«>i'onuH Innrihlu, — Ihn nn»io honiblo for tho coutiUHt."
Ball's.

ThcHc (h<ttiilH of color uio in k«>r])ing with tho ohuractor of tho woman,
UH iinplictl in thu naino Lifu-in-Doath.

I'.i.'l. The Night-mare Life-in-Death. A'i(//i/-iiinr(: — A dronni ut
night, lU'oonipaniod hy pioHsni'o on tho hicast. Tln^ original hoiihu of tho
woiil iiiarc ia ' cruA/itr/ It has no connoction witli tho wonl marc, u
ho ISO.

Taken in oonjunction with tho 8tan/a following, those luunoH imply
that tlio life t»f the nmrinor honoofoiwanl is to Ix? one long night-niare,
H oontinnation ni{ tho auony of (loat<h throughont the lomainder of life.

IDS. whistles thrice. Hy the snporatitions sailor, whistling is
reganlod as ominous of evil.

109-200. These linos, depicting the instantaneous deaeont of tropical
night, have boon much admired. Cf. /'JiuuiifvHiiv, 1. 978. "Over the
joyous feast the 8U«hlon darkness descended. "

Gloss. The Coiirfa of' (fit' Sun. — Tho tropics.

20.'i. looked sideways up. The natural attitude of fear.

204-5. lOxtreme joy or fear affects the regular action of tho heart.

207. his lamp. A small lamp used to illuminate the compass.

209. clomb. nind)od. An archaism.

bar. " Eilge of the Sea. Often it shows, at moon-rise, as a bright
bar." Bates.

212. the star-dogged Moon. " It is a common superstition among
sailors that something is going to happen when stars dog the moon." —
C\)leridgc. As a matter of fact stars never appear within the lower tip
of the horned moon.

223. Tt is noticeable that each of tho first six divisions of the poem
ends with some reference to the crime. The poet does not allow us to
become engrossed with the marvellous and supernatural, tho machinery
of retribution, without at the same time persistently reminding us of
tho simple causes which set it in motion.

TIIK ANC^nCNT MAItlNKR.

221

pAitr IV.

224. As A roHult of what ho Imn jimt hoard (II. 220-2'2a) tho Wedding
UuuHt foiu'H tliat (ho AiKiiont Mariiu^- jh a Hpirit uIho. (('f. (ihmH.) Tho
porHoniil uppuaratiou of tho Mui-iiitti- (II. 225-221)) tuiuU to coiiiiriu him in
hia fonr.

226-7. Thoso liiioH aro WonlHworth'H.

227. ribbed. "SoaHatid, at low tido, \h inarkod l>y ripploH, loft 1>y
tho rooodin^ wavos. " HatcH.

230. so beautiful. In (3oni])ai'iHon with tho hHiiu/ thiiKjH (I. 238) and
with Itiu own mid in (KJoiii/ (I. 2.'{r»).

24f). or ever. Or— l»of<tro (A.S. yKr, oro). In oldor lit(!raturo tho
fonns or and r/r woro fio(iU(!ntly ooinhiiiod to form tln! rxproHHion or
trr, Tho confiiHion of en: with e'er gavo riwo to tho oxpruHuion or r.vcr.

244-7. Cf. namlel iii, 3 :

I'ray ciin I not,
Though inoliniilioii )>u an Himrp an will :
My HlnwiKnr kmUI defeaiH my Htronif Intent.

254. reek. To Bmoko, to stoam ; to givo f(»rtli an unplnaHaiit Hmnll.

204. Kvcn tho movem(!nt of tho moon and fltarH incroaHOM, hy (!on-
tniHt, the horror <tf his poHition on tho motionloHH ship. Cf. the (ilowa.

207-8. The wliito moonlxs'iniH, Kproad like April hoar-frost, gavo an
appcaranco of fcoldncHs to tlio ocean which waa in mocking contrast to
tho rcalHultrincsH of tho night.

270. charmed. So diil'oront from ita ordinary appearance that it
Boemod to bo under tho influence of a apoll or charm.

277-81. " Their color apjtoara more clearly in the n(,ill and awful red
of tho ship's oluulow. " liatca.

282-91. " Here ia tho dramatic centre of tlie story." (Jeorge.

•'That one sol f-cen trod in crude egoism should be xniriflod and con-
verted through a now sympathy with sufToring and sorrow, is a common
piece of morality ; this purification through sympathy with joy, is a
piece of finer and higher doctrine. " Dowden.

Part V.

297. silly. "The wonl has much changed its meaning. It meant
'timely' ; then lucky, happy, blessed, innocent, simple, foolish." Skeat.
Hci'O it means empty, useless.

298. so — that is, silly, empty.
302. dank. Damp, moist, humid.

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222

NOTES ON COLERIDGE.

306. so light. On account of the physical weakness resulting from
his long prostration.

308. blessed. In contrast with the physical and spiritual torture to
which he had been subjected.

312. sere. Dry, parched, withered ; generally applied to leaves.

;ll3-5. An electrical storm.

317. The stars were wan in contrast to the fire-flags sheen. The
motion of i\iQ fire-flaijs made the stars appear to dance.

.317. sedge. A grass-like or rush-like lierb, generally fouud on the
marshy edges of shallow lakes and streams.

325. jag. Prong, point or projection.

329. These incongruous details add to the weirdness of the situation.

337. 'gan. Oin is an independent verb, not an abbreviation for
begin. Hence the aposti'ophe should not be used. Begin is formed
from this older verl) gin.

348. corses. A variant of corpse (Lat. corpus, a body).

350. Visitors from the other world depart at dawn or at cockcrow.

352-3. It is the spirits, and not the mariners, who sing.

354-7. A poetical way of saying that high and rapid notes were
followed by slow and subdued strains.

362. jargoning. **Fr. Jargonncr — to speak fustian, jangle, chatter.
The word is old and appears witli tlie sense of tlxe cliatteriiig of birds in
the 1.3th century. Skeat."

365-6. A song so sweet that all nature is silent to listen.

367-8. Cf. 11. 374 and 381. Account for the noise made by the sails.

381-2. The ship having reached the equator, the Polar spirit can
go no farther, but returns southward, after having been accorded
"penance long and heavy for the Ancient Mariner." See the Gloss.

Bates comments as follows: "Here there is an inconsistency. The
Gloss, to stanza xxv says : ' The ship sails northward, even till it reaches
the Line.' Here the spirit carries the ship as far as the Line. How
can he, if it be already there ? Either the poet forgot the former stanza,
or felt that poetic geography may take licenses. "

S87-S. The struggle of the angelic band with the Polar spirit. The
latter is revengeful, and being loth to release the mariner, draws the
ship back. The angelic spirits, pitying the mariner, urge the ship
forward.

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

223

ting from
rorture to
aves.

?en. The
d on the

fiituation.

ation for
3 formed

icrow.

)tes were

, chatter,
f birds in

the sails.

pirit can
accorded
le Gloss.

cy. The
t reaches
e. How
sr stanza,

rit. The
raws the
the ship

390. The ship is released from the control of the Polar spirit.

394. I hare not to declare. I do not know, and hence cannot say.

395. my living^ life. My consciousness.

396. in my soul discerned. Although in a trance (1. 395) he is able
to comprehenil fully the conversation of the two spirits. The expres-
sion suggests that the spirit voices are finer and more subtle than the
voices of human beings.

406. It has been suggested that the two spirits are "intended to
represent justice and mercy — the one speaking angrily, the other
soothingly."

407. honey-dew. A sweet substance exuded by insects and found
in minute drops on the leaves of plants.

408. The mariner becomes acquainted with the nature of the agree-
ment between the polar spirit and the angelic band.

Part VI.

414. Still. Silent, motionless.

424. A vacuum is created in front : the air rushing in from behind to
fill it, carries the ship forward.

426-7. It is to be inferred that the spirits to whose conversation the
mariner listens, are on their way to some celestial gathering, and fear
that they will be late in arriving uidess they go at a faster rate than the
vessel.

432. After the disappearance of the spectre-bark in part iii, the
whole action virtually proceeds in the moonlight. To the finer mental
torture of Life-in-Death the softer light of the moon adds a weiidness
unknown to the more turbulent scenes of the earlier half of the story.

435. charnel-dungeon. A vault in which dead bodies are deposited.
Charnel and carnal are botli derived from Lat. euro — flesh.

444-451. Having once looked • far forth ' over the ocean, he is afraid
to turn his eyes again to the ship. See line 485.

445. else. Formerly.

448-451. "Coleridge," says Whipple, "gives in this passage poetic
expression to what is in all men, though unconfessed, a supernatural
fear in the heart, of something near us at which we dare not look." Cf.
the Greek conception of Medusa, the Gorgon.

t !

224

NOTES ON COLERIDGE.

■ i!

< ii

452, ff. "As the voyage approaches its conclusion, ordinary instru-
mentalities appear once more. There is first the rising of the soft
familiar wind, * like a meadow gale in spring,' then the blessed vision of
the liglithouse top, the hill, the kirk, all those well-known realities
which grad lally relieve the absorbed excitement of the listener and
favor his slow return to ordinary daylight." Mrs. 01ii)hant.

454-5. It did not cause a ripple, or even dist(.!»"b the brightness of the
surface.

458. my fears. See 11. 444-451.

4(57. countree. An archaic form, counnou in ballads.

470-1, "Let this prove real. But if it be a dream let me dream
forever. "

472-9. "How pleasantly, how reassuringly, the whole nightmare
story is made to end among the clear fresh sounds and lights of the bay
where it began." Walter Pater.

473. it. The water. Strewn— outspread.

475. shadow. Reflected image.

482-3. He has not yet turned his eyes to the deck. He therefore sees
the reflected images of the seraph- band first.

489. rood. Cross.

41)0. seraph-man. The seraphs are angels of the highest order
employed by Jehovah as his messengers. The word is, according to
Skcat, connected with an Arabic word niiaiL.ig high or exalted, rather
than with the Hebrew seraph, to burn.

490-1. In his Excursions in Criticism, Wm. Watson comments unfav-
orably upon the retention of the supernatural element in the poem when
the scene of the action has shifted itself back again once more to the
known and familiar world.

494. signals. " Vessels at night summon a pilot by a flare, a flame
blazing from the deck lighting spars and sails." Bates.

497 No voice did they impart. To impart the voije, is simply a
ciroinnlocution for to speak.

498-9. Notice the prominence that has been given to silence, since the
expiation of the curse. Cf. 11. 453, 461, 479, 480, 498.

501. cheer. Hail.

504. The hermit represents the Christian charity ; the Pilot, practical
wisdom.

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

225

r instru-
the soft
vision of
realities
sner and

3S of the

le dream

ightmare
the bay

jfore sees

at order
irding to
(/, rather

ts unfav-
lem when
)re to tlie

!, a flame

simply a

since the

practical

512. shrieve. An archaic form of shrive.
give absolution of sin.

Part VII.

To hear confession and

514-22. These details give us some idea of the character of the Her-
mit's religion. It is sincere, but at the same time cheerful. He does
n(jt separate himself strictly from the world, but has evidently something
of the evangelistic spirit.

524. trow. Think, believe.

531-7. " The description seems a little disproportionate. Does it add
to our idea of leaves or sails?" — Bates. It certainly does add to the
idea of the uncanny impression which the appearance of the sail
produces,

635. ivy-tod. Ivy-bush. A dialect word.

552. The bodies of those who have been drowned, but not recovered,
are said to come to the surface after a week or nine days.

556-9. The mention of the whirl and the echo serves to make the idea
of the splitting of the bay and the dreadful sound much more vivid.

560-9. "With what consummate art we are left to imagine the
physical traces which the mariner's long agony has left behind it, by a
method far more terrible than any direct description, the eflfect, namely,
which the sight of him produces upon others." Traill.

575. crossed his brow. Made the sign of the cross upon his brow.
The sign of the cross was supposed to be a protection from the power of
the Evil One.

586. Suggests the traditional Wandering Jew of medifeval romance.

605-9. Prayer and fellowship are the two things which the mariner in
his loneliness had most desired.

612-5. "In The Ancient Mariner are the two great elements of the
tolk-tale, love of the marvellous, — the supernatural — and love of the
lower animals. " Black.

623. of sense forlorn. Explained by the preceding line.

625. sadder. On account of the nature of tlie story to which he
had listened. Wiser — recognizing that the spiritual in life is of more
importance than the pursuit of worldly pleasure.

« y

226

NOTES ON" COLERIDGE.

1 H

YOUTH AND AGE.

The three divisions of Youth and Age were composed at three, or
perhaps four, diflferent periods in the poet's life. In the opinion of Sara
Coleridge, the poet's daughter, " the first stanza from ' Verse, a breeze,*
to ' lived in't together,' was produced as late as 1824," and was " Fub-
sequently prefixed to the second stanza, ' Flowers are lovely,' which is
said to have been composed many years before. " The first five lines of
the third stanza were composed in 1827, and the remaining six possibly
as late as 1832, when they were incorporated in a sonnet entitled The
Old Man's Sigh. The whole poem as it appeared in its i) resent form
was first published in 18.34,

Youth and Age more than any other of Coleridge's poetic utterances
embodies his own personal feelings of regret at his declining powers and
at the unfulfilled promise of his youth. Even as early as 1802, thirty
years before the publication of Youth and Age, he had alreacly begun
to look back in depression and despondency of spirit to a youth whose
buoyancy and energy were already passing rapidly away :

There was a time when, though my path was rough,

This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :

For hope grew round me, lilie tlie twining vine.

And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.

But now afflictions bow me down to earth ;

Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth,

But oh ! each visitation

Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,

My shaping spirit of imagination.

Dejection.

At the beginning of 1807, by which time ne was already under the
control of the opium habit, he found himself roused once more to the
consciousness of time wasted and oj)portunities lost.

Ah 1 as I listened with a heart forlorn,

The pulses of my being beat anew ;

And even as life returns upon the drowned,

Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains —

Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe

Turbulent, with an ou^ory in the heart ;

And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of hope ;

And hope that scarce would know itself from fear ;

Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain,

And genius Griven, and knowledge won in vain,

YOUTH AND AGE.

227

And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild,
And all which patient toil had reared, and all,
Commune with thee had opened out— but Howers
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier,
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave !

To William Wordnoorth.

The tone of Youth and Atje, i\w pathetic lament, as it were of his old
age, is perhaps, on the whole, less painful than tliat of his early utter-
ances. It is the sadder, but more subdued and more musical expres-
sion of one who has become resigned to tlie inevitable, and whose
poetic fancy plays regretfully over the ruins of the past.

PoKTic I'ORM. — Youth and Agp is a simple personal lyric of grief and
regret, expressed iu irregular stanza form and with irregular rhyme.
The metre is iambic tetrameter, with, however, many variations in feet
for the purpose of variety of effect.

3. a-maying. In the pursuit of enjoyment, or pleasure. The
beginning of May was celebrated by the Romans by festivities in honor
of Flora, the goddess of flowers. In England, in later times, the first of
May (May-day) was observed as a general holiday, consecrated to Robin
Hood and the maid Marian. It was customary upon that day for the
villagers to set up May-poles and spend the day in archery, morris-
dancing and other amusements.

4. Poesy. Poetry. Poesy is the non- colloquial and poetic form
of the word.

Coleridge's poetical work was almost entirely produced before he had
reached his thirtieth year. The six years between 1794 and 1800 was
the period of his highest poetical activity.

8. This breathing house not built with hands. The body. The
expression is probably suggested by Scripture. In Ecclesiastes xii, 3,
the human body is compared to a house. Cf. also //. Corinthians v, 1,
" For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dis-
solved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands,
eternal in the heavens."

9. that does me grievous wrong. The physical pain consequent
upon disease, and the gratification oi his craving for opium have
prevented the free exercise of his mental powers.

10. aery. A doublet of U'rij. Aerij comes direct from the Latin aer.
Airy comes from the same root, through the French air.

11. In 11. 8-11 there is a confusion of metaphor. In 11. 10-11 the
body is compared to the flashing water of a rapid stream.

228

NOTES OX COLERinOE.

12-15. These lines are connected in sense with 11. 16-17, rather than
with what precedos. ^

12. those trim skiffs. Steamboats. Trim— having a neat, smart,
.apiiearance ; less olunisy than sailing vessels. Skiffs — cognate witli
fihtp. A skiff is s small light bout. The 8teaiiil)Oiit ajipears like a
skiff, ill comparison with the old-fashioned sailing vessel.

unknown of yore. During the last twenty-live years of the
eigliteontli century many experiments were made in the direction of
steam navigation. It was not, however, until tlie first decade of the
nineteenth century it was found possible to use steaml)oat3 for com-
mercial purposes. In ISOl Symington, in lOngland, built a steamboat
which was used as a canal tug, and in 1S08 a steamboat built by Fulton
plied regularly between New York and Boston.

13. At the date assigned by Sara Coleridge to the composition of this
stanza, viz., 1824, steamships had already, for some years, l)een used
for ocean navigattion. In 1819 the first steamship crossed the Atlantic
from New York to St. Petersburg, using sails, however, as well as
steam, and in 1825 a steamboat made the passage from England to
India.

16-17. It appears from various sources that, even in his best days,
Coleridge's constitution was never very strong. Moreover, as these
lines would indicate, he did not hesitate to put it to the severest of
tests. We are told by Oilman that when a pupil in Chiist's Hospital
"he swam across the New River in his clothes and remained in them.
Need we wonder to hear of jaundice and i-heumatic fever, and that 'full
half the time from seventeen to eighteen was passed in the sick ward.'"
During one of his excursions in the Hartz Mountains some years later,
we are told also that he walked forty miles in one day.

18. A periphrasis for love is lovely.

27. a fond conceit. A foolish notion or fancy. Both words are
used here with their older signification.

33. slips. Small locks ; clusters of hair.

34. alter'd size. As he is described in his youth as inclining to be
corpulent, it is probable that this expnission indicates that he is growing
thin.

33-6. He has all the characteristics of age — silvery locks, drooping
gait, and altered size ; bu^ none of the characteristics of youth — fresh
lips and bright eyes, "^''lie conclusion to be drawn, therefore, is that
he must be growing oL't.

YOUTH AND AGE.

229

37. A couch of the poet's philosophy, used to lieguile his own dejection.

39-43. Just as dew-drops with the morning light upon them resemble
gems, so 18 life in the period of youth made bright by the presence of
hope ; and as dew-drops at the approach of darkness resemble tears, so
18 hfe also, in the period of old age, darkened and saddened by the
absence of hope.

41. a warning. Reminding us by its continual weakness and pain
that death is ai)proachiiig,

45. In the weakness and frequent illness of old age, death at many
times appears to be a certainty.

Concerning the old age of Coleridge, as portrayed in the last stanza.
Hall Caine remarks :

"This great man was dying with the cle'xr consciousness that the world had denied
hun hiH <h,o. Long ago life had lost its charm of hope for him, and where no hope
Z* r'T"" ^''i? '^"' *^' '*'•■" ''""'P "' '^ ''"'' *"'^* "t'hts only the path that is
^ ; , .' rr '" '''^'" ''^^ ^""'^ ^'""""^ ""^'^'- "'^ «^^"«« «' ^vork without hope,

and talents that he was compelled to waste. But that time was gone by. The fiery
column that rose before his youth was the dark pillar that stoo<I behind his age He
was reconciled to his dismissal ; he told the jest vithout the smile " "» «

POETIC FORM.

-Veusifioation.

Poetry is the expression, in its most adequate form, of thought
touched with emotion. Tlie natural lauguage of emotion, if the feehng
be not too violent, has always a perceptible rhythm more or less regular.
And those whose appeal is to the passions but gratify and enlist a
natural instinct in themselves, and their readers or hearers, by falling
into a certain regulated and modulated, or rhythmical, flow of language.
Rhythm, in its widest sense applicable to any symmetry of parts, as the
arrangement of stones in a building, or movements in a dance, is, with
us, restricted to mean a harmonious succession of sounds, and to rhythm,
when made perfectly definite and regular by measuring off our words, we
give the name metre. Metre is in general a quality of poetry : rhythm
a quality of prose.

The metrical unit is the syllable, and the syllable may be viewed
in three principal ways : as regards its quality or comparative shrill-
ness or gravity ; as regards its quantily or length, and as regards
its accent or stress. A metrical arrangement might therefore be a
regular succession of shrill and grave sounds, of longs and shorts,
or of accented and unaccented syllables. As a matter of fact, though
a modifying influence in all poetry, quality or pitch has nowhere
been made the basis of versification. Latin and Greek versification was
based upon quantity ; English, and that of all other European languages,
upon accent or stress. It must not be forgotten, however, that both
quantity and quality are important modifying influences in English
verse, and that a line composed entirely of short syllables or entirely of
long syllables, or pitched in one uniform key, would be far from pleasing.

Accent is the stress thrown upon the pronunciation of a syllable.
Every English word of two or more syllables has at least one syllable
more loudly pronounced than the syllable or syllables next it. Some-
times two or more accents are distinctly heard, as in incompatibility.
In a series of monosyllables again, stress is laid on those most important
in sense . In English poetry the words are arranged so that accented
and unaccented syllables recur at regular intervals.

A foot is a syllable or succession of two or more syllables, one of which
must be accented. In the arrangement of the accented and unaccented

230

i '■

I'll

VERSIFICATION.

231

syllables of a font, a certain degree of variety is possible. For instance,
a foot may consist of two syllables only, an accented and an iinaucented,
and tiu;se may bo arranged in eitlier of two diil'orent ways. The
accented may precede the unaccented, as in tlie line :

" Ar't ia lon'(,', and ti'nie in fle'etiiiif."

The unit of measurement in this line is said to be trochnlc ; or, on the
other hand, the unaccented syllable may precede the accented, as iu the

line :

The flo'atintj clo'uds their sta'te shall le'iul,

Such a foot is said to be inmhic. But in the second place a foot may
consist of three syllables, one accented and two unaccented, and, as a
matter of course, these may bo arranged iu three different w '.ys. The
accented syllable may precede the unaccented, as iu the line ;

Sor'row and silence are str'ong and pa'tient endurance is Oo'dlike.

The standard foot in this line is said to be dacfi/Hc. The accented
syllable may, hovvever, occupy the second plac<*, being both preceded
and followed by an unstressed syllable, as in the line :

Dear ha'rp of my co'untry in si'lence I fo'und thee.

The unit of measurement in tliis line is known as an amphibrach or
tribrach. Lastly, the unaccented syllables may precede the accented,
as in the line :

And his co'horts were gleaming in pur' pie and go'ld.

The foot in this line is said to be annpcestic. To sitm up, allowing x to
stand for the accented and a for the unaccented, the five types of the
metrical foot may be indicated as follows : (!) the Trochaic, xa ; (2) the
Iambic, ax ; (.3) the Dactylic, xaa ; (4) the Amphibrachic, axa ; (5) the
Anapaestic, aax. Of these five measures the iambic is by far the most
common in English verse.

A line is a succession or combination of feet and may, of course, be
long or short, according to the numlier of feet which it contains. V^ery
short lines containing only two feet, and very long lines containing
seven or even eight feet may sometimes be found, but an ordinary
English verse does not generally contain less than three, or more than
six feet. A line containing three feet is said to be trimeter, a line of
four feet, tetrameter, a line of five feet, 'pentameter, and a line of six feet,
hexameter.

Quantity or the length of time we dwell on sound or syllable makes a
very perceptible difference in the flow of English verse. To illustrate,

' ;t

232

POETIC FOUM.

! V

Dr. fiuoflt, in his History of English rliythms quotes the foUowinij
p.'USHagi'H wheio th(! voisoh, otiiorwiso the a.mie, — tho same number of
Hylla)>K'!4 and in tliu main the sanio diupusition of acucntu — make very
(lilTurunt im])rcHBiuns on tho ear.

(a) Short vowels predominant :

Tho hiisj' rivtilct In hiiii.blo valley
SlipiK'th away in hnpjtiiicss; it ever
Ilurrietli on, a Holilude around, but
Heaven above it.

{h) Long vowels i)redominant :

The lonely tarn that sleeps upon tho mountain,
Ureathinif a holy calm around, drinks ever
Of tlie yreat jjresence, even in its sluniber
I)eei>ly rejoieitii,'.

Compare also Miltcm's L'Allajro with his // Pinsooso.

Quantity in English may vary indelinitdy. It depends on the length
of the vowels. The short vowels are a, e, i, o, u, as in /dl/ioiii, mcrrij,
pill, ]>oll, pull; the hmg vowels a, e, i, o, i;, as uxfttthtr, Mary, ped,
pall, jiuol. A short vowel is not made long by position, as in the
classical language's. A double consonant fi)llowing rather tends to
shorten a V(»wel, e.<j., .sntUc, sinitioi, chide, chidden.

Pauses. — Closely connected with quantity, as quickening or retarding
the movement of the line, are pnuses. In most English verse, a rest of
the voice occurs at the end of the line. When the sense also pauses
here the line is said to be end-slojd. When the sense does not pause
it is called I'uti-ou. On the u.^e or omission of this pause depends to a
considerable degree the effect of the verse as a whole. Besides the
natural pause at the end of the line, there is generally, especially in
pentameter and hexameter lines, a medial pause, less correctly called
the caesura. This pause was placed by the eighteenth century poets
monotonously at or near the middle of the line, but by a freer disposi-
tion later poets have obtained many varieties of cadence. When this
pause cuts a word in two, as in

The clime of the un | forgotten brave,

it is then properly called the caesura.

Quality, tlie comparative shrillness or gravity of the syllabic sound,
is a scarcely less important modifying influence than quantity. To
illustrate this, Pi'ofessor Nichol quotes the following stanzas from
Tennyson :

VKUSIFICATION.

233

The Hplrnrlour falls on castlo walls,
AimI Hnowy MiimmiN old in Htory ;

The loni; li^'ht MJiakuH aoroMS tho lakcfl,
And the wild cutuniot leaps in glory.

O hark, O ' ar ! how thin and oloar,

And thinnir, clearer, fartlier jcoing !
O swci't and far from cliff and sear.

The horns of eltiand faintly blowing.

The time is the same, tho accents the same ; l»nt in the former, the
full, low tones protloininate ; in the latter, the shrill high ones.

To this category also belong melody, imitative harmony, alliteration
and rhyme.

Melodif is gained l)y the employment of a large proportion of vowel'-
and liquids, and the omission of harsh consonants, an<l unmusical con.
hinationa. In ease of utteranfe md therefore in mehxly, tho vowels
come iirst, then tlie licpiids /, in, ii;f and r, and the ail)ilauts n, sh, z, zh ;
next the flat mutes h, ,, J, th (the) (j ; next tho aspirates j, th and h ;
and last, p, t, k.

luiitativa hnrmonj/, or onomatopoeia, is the attempt to produce a har-
mony of sound and sense. Some words in the language are plainly
imitative in origin, e.t/., cow, cvi'hao, buzz, dang, trfiizz, hang, jingle, etc.
But "the delicate percei)tions of the poet demand the gratification
more frequently than it is supplied by the ordinary rcKources of lan-
guage," and many examples may be obtained from our great poets in
which imitative sounds have been made to assist in a fit and suitable
expression of the thought. One can alm().«t hoar tho bubbling of the
cauldron, for example, in the witch's song in Macbeth :

For a charm of powrrftd tronl'le,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

All — Double, double, toil and trouble.
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Alliteration means the fashion of Ix ginning two or more of the words
in a line with the same letter, e.g. :

Deep in a (fun^'eon was the captive oast.
Deprived of rfay and held in .betters /ast.

Concealed alliteration is where the alliteration might escape notioo
either because, as in

Our dreadful inarches to tielightful fneasures.

234

POETIC FOPM.

the alliterative letters are by a double alliteration separated from one
another ; or becaus"', as in

The ^eaf,'iie Iod^i; rnllvr tlmnde>in'^' on tlie «'ef,

some of the alliterative letters are not in the initial but in the middle
syllables of the words.

Rhyme is a similarity of sounds in syllables. Syllables are said to
rhyme when they are identical from the vowel to the end. The con-
sonants preceding the vowels nnisfc dilfer, the vowels (sounds) and
succeeding cfmsonants mufit be identic.il. lliiyme adds to the pleasurable
element in verse. The ear is pleased with the regular recurrence of the
same vowel sounds at the end of two or more lines. It nuist be borne
in mind, however, that in addition to giving pleasure, the use of rhyme
serves two other distinct purposes, — it adds special emphasis to the
words containing the rhyming vowels, and at the same time serves to
bind the verse together. As a matter of course, it will be seen that the
rhyming vowel must be contained in the lust accented syllable in the
line. Her.ce'the iambic measure, in which the line ends regularly with
an accented syllable, is best suited to the use of rhyme. Should,
however, the lino end in an unaccented syllable, in which case the
rhyming vowel is contained in tlie preceding syllaVde, the rhyme is said
to be d thle, ov feminine. The words channd and jmnel, for example, in
the first stanza of The Warden of the Chiqae Ports, constitutes a
feminine rhyme.

Middle rhyme is a consonance occurring, as not infrequently, within
the line, the etFect of which is generally to (piicken the line :
Ami ice niasl-///'y/( came floatinyf by.

Sectional rhyme is where the middle rhyme occurs in one-half of the

line :

\n fight and .///';/( ^ iiiuh .ill their host was slain.

Inverse rhyme is the repetition of the same word or part of word

within the line :

The ]Mi)C'r loud and latnh'r hlcw
The dancers cinick and (luicker flew.

II. — English Metuk.s.

RnYMKD Mktre-s are either continuous when the rhymes follow at the
end of each line or in stanzas.

coNTiNuotra rhymkd metres.

Iambic measures,
(a) Quadrisyllable

To m'c the ro'se
No lo nger glo'ws.

ENGLISH METUES.

235

middle

(ft) Octosyllabic, or tetrameter :

The w'ar that for a spa'ce did fa'il
Now tre'bly thu'ndered o'li the y'ale.

Dam'n with faint pr'aisc, assen't with c'fvil le'er,
A'lid without sn'ccriiif,', te ach the ro'st to sn'eer.

(d) The Alexandrine or twelve-syllable Iambic :

That lik'e a wo'unded sn'ake drafj^s it's slow Icn'^'th alon'g.

(e) The fourteen-syllal)le iambic.

Betwix't Alci'des, kin'y of me'ii, and The'tis' g'odlike s'on.

Trochaic measures :

(a) The seven-syllal)le trochaic :

N'ot a at'ep is o'nt of tu'ne
A's the tides obey tiie moon.

(6) The fifteen syllable trocliiiio :

r the hei'r of all the a'tros in the fo'reniost fi'les of ti'me.

Dactylic measures :

(a) Two feet followed by a line with one dactyl ajul a long syllable

Ta'ke her vip te'nderly
Li'ft hur with L-a're.

(b) Two feet repeated, followed by one and a trochee :

Cannon to rig'htof them
Ca'nnon to lu'ft of thuni
Volleyed and thundered.

Merrily, nie'rrily, shall I live no'w.

{(l) Three and a trochee :

Kn'ow ye the la'nd where; the ey'press and ni'yrtle.

Anapa'stic measures :

(a) Three feet in alternately rhyming verse :

Not a piti'c in my ktovo is there se'en
But with ten'drilH of wo'odhine is hou'nd.

(6) Four feet :

'Tis the la'st rose of su'mnier left hl'ooming alo'ne.

236

POETIC FOKM.

AniphihracJis :
(a) Two alternating with one and an iambus •

The bla'i'k ])aii(ls | cniiie o'vur
Thti a'lya and | their fin'ow.

(6) Two succeasive :

Most fri'diilship | is fei'jjrninj,'
Most lo'vinjj I mere fo'lly |
(c) Four :

There ca'ine to | the bea'ch a | poor e'xile | of Erin.

STANZAS.

The variety of stanza arrangement in English verse is almost indefi-
nite. The most common stanza form is no doubt the quatrain or
{ballad stanza oi ionr lines with alternate rhymes. ^^ In tlie majority of
cases, however, the second and fourth lines of the quatrain will be
found to contain a foot less than the lirst and third.

The elegiac decasyllahic quatrain appears in CIray's Elegy :

The curfew tolls the knell of partinj^ day ;
The lowiiiff herd wind slowly o'er the lea ;
The ploughman homeward jtlods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to nie.

The seven-lined decasyllal)ic stanza or lihymo Royal, used by

Chaucer :

' My throte is cut unto my nekkc boon,'
Seyde this child, ' and as by wey of kynde
I sholde have dyed, ye, long tynic agoon,
But Jesu Crist, as ye in bookcs fynde,
Wil that his slory last and be in niyndo,
And for the worship of his nioder dere,
Yet may I singe " O Ahna," loude and clere.'

The Ottava Jiima of Byron's Don Juan :

If here and there some transient trait of pity

Was shown and some more noble heart broke through

Its bloody bond, and saved, perhaps, some pretty

Chikl,-or an aged, helpless man or two—

What's this in one annihilated city,

Where thousand lo/es and ties and duties grow?

Cockneys of London ! Muscadins of Paris !

Just ponder what a pious pastime war is.

The Spenserian Stanza, so called because it is used exclusively by
Spenser in his Faery Queen, is composed of nine lines, eight iambic penta-
meters, followed by a ninth, which is iamltic hexameter or Alexandrine.
The rhyme scheme is as follows : — ababbcbcc. The Spenserian stanza

ENGLISH METRES.

237

lost indefi-
uatrain or
nujority of
iu will be

used by

isively by
ibic penta-
ixandrine.
ui stanza

has been found especially suitable for the elaboration of a series of
finished pictures, and for description conil)ined with subdued emotion
and reflection.

The Sonnet is the most complex of English metrical forms and
requires the greatest skill and care in construction. It is composed
of fourteen lines, which fall naturally into two divisions, known as
the octave and the sestctte. The octave contains eight lines, two
quatrains with common rliyrnes as follows : — al>lja, abba. The sestette
contains six lines, in the rhyme schemes of which much liberty is
allowed. Somotiines only two rhymes are employed, as, for example,
iu To /Sleep, or Wcdmhinter Bridge ; but frequently three rhymes are
introduced, as, for example, iu the sonnet, EiKjland and Switzerland,
or the two sonnets on London, ISOJ. •

But, furtherm<»re, as the rhyme scheme thus divides the sonnet into
two parts, so also the thouglit of the sonnet falls regularly into two
corresponding divisions. The first eight lines contain the i^reamble or
introduction ; the last six contain, in concise form, the statement of the
main thought. The main tlioiight is generally stated in the first three
lines of the sestette, in which case the last three contain the conclusion
or rounding off of the whole.

The merits of the sonnet as a form of English verse may be brie'jy
summed up as follows : The length, fourteen lines, seems to be exactly
suited for the development, in a concise form, of a single poetic concep-
tion. In the second place, the sonnet, with its fixed length and fixed
rhyme-scheme, becomes, more than any other stanza form, a test of the
artistic qualities of the poet, and a measure of his skill. Hence it gives
to the reader a certain pleasure such as is derived from any work of art.
Lastly, the form of the sonnet is such as to produce a pleasing musical
efifect. The Octave is a crescendo, which reaches its height in the first
three lines of the sestette;. The last three lines constitute the cadence,
or dying away of the sound. It has been aptly compared to the music
of a wave ; the first eight lines the flow, the next three the breaking,
and the last three the ebb.

Unrhymed Metres.

Blank verse is the only unrhymed metre of much consequence in
English verse. Its normal form is Iambic Pentameter, but it is more
flexible than any of our other measures.

Choral measures, as in Milton's Sdimon Ar/onistea.

The English Hexameter, as in Longfellow's Evangeline.

238

POETIC FORM.

III. — Classification AccoRDiNa to Thought.

Considered with respect to subject-matter or thought, apart from
metrical form, all poetry will, generally speaking, be found to fall into
three main classes. Epic, Lyric and Dramatic. With tlie first two of
these alone, it is necessary that this brief sketch should deal at any
length.

1. The Epic.

Epic poetry deals with the events of the past rather than with the
immediate feelings of the poet himself. We lose sight of the poet
entirely in our interest in the events which he narrates or describes,
events which have actually happened, or are said to have happened.
Hence the legitimate material for epic poetry is gathered from the
great events in the nation's, or the world's, history, or from the legend-
ary and mythical action of the heroic past. Thus, for instance, the
Iliad, the great epic of Greek literature, deals entirely with ti^e legendary
history of the nation's struggle with Troy. The interest is entirely
national, an interest of incident and event, of national gloiy and final
conquest, and the personality of the writer or compiler is entirely for-
gotten in the interest of the events which he sings. But, besides the
great epic, which deals with the grander movements of the historic or
legendary past, several minor forms of epic poetry have arisen in later
times, which tvre, as a general thing, shorter, more easily handled, and
more suited to modern tastes and demands. These later forms of epic
poetry have been classiiied as follows : (1) legendary poems and
romances ; (2) allegorical poems ; (3) satirical poems ; (4) reflective
poems ; (5) descriptive and pastoral poems (including the idyll) ; (6)
the ballad. To the first of these classes, the historical legend, belongs
Evangeline, and to the last, the ballad, belongs The Wreck of the
Hesperiis. Of these various forms, that of the ballad must be con-
sidered in further detail.

The ballad is markedly a Middle Age substitute for the longer epic
forms, and as such, was usually sung by a minstrel before an audience
who cared little for anything but the bald narration of stirring incidents
and events. Hence the several characteiistics which mark the modern
ballad. It deals with the description of some stirring action ; it is
rude in form and language, and cares little for finer musical eflfects ; it
is direct, beginning at o^ce with the events of the story, and passing

CLASSIFICATION ACCORDING TO THOUGHT.

239

part from
to fall into
:st two of
eal at auy

a with the
the poet
describes,
happened,
from the
le legend-
;ance, the
legendary
3 entirely
and final
tirely for-
Bsides the
listoric or
n in later
died, and
as of epic
ems and
reflective

Jyii) ; (6)

i, belongs
^k of the
I be con-

iger epic
audience
incidents
3 modern
n ; it is
Fects ; it
I passing

rapidly from one striking incident to another, without stopping for the
introduction of detailed description or comment by the author.

2. The Lyric.

Lyric poetry deals almost entirely with the feelings of the poet,
rather than with the description of actual incidents and events. Hence
in the lytic, the personality of tlie poet himself is all-important, and the
subject which calls forth his thoughts aiid feelings occupies, in reality,
only a secondary place. Lyric poetry, furthermore, from the very
variety of moods to which it gives expression, calls into use a great
variety of metrical forms. Tlie expression, moreover, of personal
passion, grief, sorrow, joy demands a more rapid movement than the
mere description of events. Hence in lyric poetry, as a general thing,
the tetrameter and trimeter lines, as well as trochaic and anapaestic
measures, are frequently found. As the lyric covers the whole range of
personal feelings and passions, a large number of divisions might be
made. In the first place, we may classify lyric poetry according to the
nature of the subject or theme which inspires the writer. Our personal
emotions, for example, may he connected with love, religion, patriotism,
nature, society, pleasure, sorrow, etc. Or on the other hand, with
respect to the character of the emotion, I'^nglish lyrics have been
classified as (1) simple, (2) enthusiastic, (3) rcllective. To the second
class belongs the ode, and to the last class belongs the sonnet,
which has alreadj'^ been described in a previous section. The lyrics
of Longfellow are, for the most part, simple ; those of Wordsworth,
reflective.

3. The Drama.

In both the Epic and ' Lyric, the poet speaks directly of what he
has seen, heard or experi>'nced. In the Drama, on the other hand,
instead of himself narrating the events of the past or describing his
own personal emotions, he allows the characters of his story to speak
entirely for themselves. The Drama has, in addition to action and
emotion, character and plot, but in cvci-y case such character and plot
are revealed entir^dy by the utterances of tho speakers themselves. Of
course it is possible for a poet, as, for example, Byron, to endue one of
the chief personages in his drama witli his own personal characteristics ;
but in the truly great drama the personality of the poet is perhaps even
more truly concealed than in the Epic itself.

240

POETIC FORM.

IV. — Relatiox ok Form to Thought.

In poetry we seek to embody a thought, a fancy, or an emotion in
artistic form. But it is not sufficient that the thou{:;ht be poetic and
the form artistic ; the choice of artistic form must be suited to the
nature of the poetic thought. If, for example, Wordsworth had
attempted to embody the sentiment of the sonnet to Milton in the
poetic form which he uses in his atldress to the Green Linnet, we would
at once feel that the poetic effect was greatly weakened, if not entirely
destroyed. In the choice, therefore, of the poetic form in which to
embody poetic thought, the poet must exercise considerable judgment
and taste. He must obviously first of all take into consideration the
eflfect of his choice of metre, length of line, and stanza form, his use of
rhyme, the disposal of his pauses and his choice of diction, figures of
speech, etc. Each of these points must, accordingly, be separately
considered.

The effect of the use of rhyme has already been noticed, viz., (1) To
give additional importance to the rhyming words ; (2) To bind together
the sense in the rhymed lines. In the selections from Wordsworth, for
example, the poem To the Skylark, in the stanza form which the
quatrain is followed by a heroic couplet, might serve as a fair illustra-
tion of both of these effects. The unifying eflfecii of rhyme is more
noticeable, hoAvever, in the longer stanza forms, as, for example, the
sonnet 2'o a Distant Friend.

Upon the choice of metre depends largely the movement of the verse.
Thus, for example, the Trochee, Anapiest, or Amphibrach are suited
only for the expression of lightness, grace, and rapidity, and are com-
monly used in lyric poetry. The iambic measure, on the other hand,
on account of its even metrical flow, is well-fitted for the expression of
the ordinary poetic thought or fancy, and is, consequently, the most
common metre in use. The eflfect of a certain metre may, of course,
be modified by the more or less freciuent introduction of other varieties
of feet and by the use of feminine endings, which adct a certain soft-
ness and melody to the verse. Of this latter device, Longfellow makes
frequent use in his simpler lyrics. The length of line, however, has
also an equally important part in the production of variety of effect.
Thus, when the lighter measures are used we generally find short lines ;
with the iambic measure, on the other hand, we commonly find the
pentameter line.

In the consideration of the stanza it will be seen, likewise, that cer-
tain forms are better suited to the expression of particular sentiments

RELATION OF FORM TO THOUGHT.

1,1

241

than others. For example, the heroic couplet, with its plain and simple
movement, is well suited to narration, to didactic poetry— indeed, to all
classes of poetry whose chief aim is to convey information in a clear,
direct and pointed manner. The quatrain, by its very shortness and
capability of varied effects, is better suited than any other form to the
majority of lyrical utterances. The Spenserian stanza by its length,
and the sonorous effect which the Alexandrine gives to it, i.s best suited
to description ; and to reflection tinged with subdued passion. The
sonnet, on the other hand, by its iixity of form antl measured move-
ment, is unfitted for the expression of anything but the reflective and
meditative, or subdued and restrained feeling.

I:f

APPENDIX.

SELECTIONS FOR SUPPLEMENTARY READING.

^11 j.riiaiiij(

COLERIDGR

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

IN SEVEN PARTS.

"Facile credo, plnres ease Naturas invisibiles qnun risibiles in rernm
nniyersitate. Sea horum omnium familiam quia nobis enarrabit, et
gradua et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera? Quid agunt?
Qu» loca hal)itant ? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingeninm
humaaum, uunquam attigit. Juvat, iuterea, non diffiteor, quaudoque
in animo, tanquam in tabul&, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem
oontemplari ; ne mens assuefacta hodiernee vitae minutiis se contrahat
nimis, et tota aubaidat in pu^illas cogitatioiies. Sed veritati interea in-
vigilandum eat, modusque servandus, ut oerta ab inoertia, diem a noofeOt
diitinguamua." — T. Burnbt, Archceol. Phil. p. 68.

one.

PART I.

£arin"e! mUt. I* ^ ^^ ancient Mariner,
lan'ts'i'dd?.? ^ And he stoppeth one of three.
and'dSeth'*' " ^^ ^^y ^^^S S^7 beard and glittering eye,
Now wrherefore stopp'at thou me 1

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin ;
The guests are met, the feast is set :
May'st hear the merry din."

He holds him with his skinny hand,
" There was a ship," quoth he.
" Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon ! "
Eftsoons his hand drupt he.

The Wedding-
Guest is spell-
bound by the
eye of the old
seafaring man,

He holds him with his glittering eye —
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child :

tStr hta£S The Mariner hath his wilL

lo hear hi« tale.

OOLBRIDOI.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone :
He cannot choose but Imar ; *

And thus spako on that ancient man,
The brij,'l.t-eyed Mariner: —

" The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,

Merrily did we drop

Below the kirk, below the hill,

Below the lighthouse top.

The sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he I

The Mariner

tells how the

ship sailed

southward with » , , , i • i

•good wind and And tie shone brigiit, and on the rifirht

Wr weather, till ,„ ^ , • x fi

It reaohed the Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day.
Till over the mast at noon " —
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast^
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The Wedding. The bnde hath paced into the hall,

Guest heareth _ , . ,

the bridal Ked as & rose IS she ;

Mariner con- Nodding their heads before her goes

tinueth hia tale.

The merry minstrelsy.

The AVedding-Guest he beat his breast.
Yet he cannot choose but hear ;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

The ship drawn « And now the storm-blast came, and he

by a storm

towards the Was tyrannous and strong :
south pole. '' °

He struck with his o'er taking wings,

And chased us south along.

ed.

i|;

!i m

;^-t;

I'l-iiiii Dnn'.t llhislrniiniis to llii Aiiri' nl Mmlii' i:

'I'lii' iiT \v:is liiiv, the ii !• \viis tlii'i'i',

Till' ire WHS all iiriiiiiiil :
It I'laikiMl ami jimwli d, ami Vdnrnl .iihI linwli'd,

Liki' imisi's in a hwhiiiuI.

TO FACE PAGE 3. ANCIENT MARINER

Kr\

V 1

THE ANCIENT MARINEll.

With sloping musts and dipping prow, 45

As who pursued with yeii and blow

Still treads the shadow of his foe,

And forward bends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,

And southward a^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,

Sd ?Mea^f!,?' ^'^ *^^«"gh the drifts, the snowy olifts 55

sounds, where Did send a dismal sheen •

no living tiling xt l

wM to be seen. iN or shapes of men nor beasts we ken

The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there.
The ice was all around : go

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in ri s wound !

nil a great sea-
bird, oi.lled the
AlbatrosH, came
through the
Biiow-fog, and
was received
wii^^h great joy
and hospitality.

And I0 1 the

Albatross
proveth a bird
of good omen,
and followeth
the ship as it
returiieil north-
ward thioiiufh
fog and lloatiiig
ice.

At length did cross an Albatross :
Thorough the fog it came ;
As if it had been a Chiis.ian 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 helmiiman steered us through !

And a good suuih wind sprung up behind;

The Albatross did follow,

And every day, for food or play,

Came to the marineis' hollo I

<»9

r -.1 "-^7T, • — T f-i*-^'— r r- -

The anofept
Mariner inhos-

COLERIDGB.

In mist or clond, on mast or shroud^

It perched for vespers nine ;

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,

Glimmered the white moon-shine."

" God save thee, ancient Mariner,

ffpious buif ^^°* *^® ^®^^^ ^^^^ P^*^g"^ ^'hee thus !— 80

of good omtn. Why look'st thou so 1 "— " With my cross-bow

I shot the Albatross!"

PART II.

" The sun now rose upon the right ;

Out of the sea came he,

Still hid in mist, and on the left 85

Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind.

But no sweet bird did follow,

Nor any day for food or play

Came to the mariners' hollo ! 90

And I had done a hellish thing.

And it would work *em woe;

For all averred, 1 had killed the bird

That made the breeze to blow.

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 9&

That made the breeze to blow !

His shipmates

crj' out against
the ancient
Mariner, for
killing the bird
of good luclc.

But when the Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,

fog cleared oil, _,, i • o • i.

they justify the The glorious Sun uprist :
m.^e't1^em- "** Then all averred, I had killed the bird
SSinthr That brought the fog and mist. 100

onme. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,

That bring the fog and misk

3ke white.

» I— 80

"OSS-bow

hind.

100

The Calm.

Imv iill^'i- iliiy, cliiy .irirr iliiv,

\Vi' stin'k. iicii- liiiiitli imi- iiiiitiiiii ;
A^ iillr :i^ ;i iiiiiiilril ^liip

riiiiii a |i,iiiiici| uiiMii.

TO FACE PAGE 3, ANCIENT MARINER

THE ANCIENT MARINBR.

The fair breeze

continues; the
shi]) enters the
Pacific Ocean,
and sails north-
ward, even till it

reaohe«theLine. Into that silent sea.

The furrow followed free ;

We were the first that ever burst

106

The ship hath
lioen suddenly
beoalmao.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,

'Twas sad as sad could be ;

And we did speak only to break

The silence of the sea I no

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon.
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor mc ion ;
Ab idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,

And the Alba-
trote begfins to

be avenged. And all tha boards did shrink ;

Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot : O Christ !
That ever this should be I
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.

115

120

125

* .-•. u ^ . , About, about, in reel and rout

A spirit had fol-

lowed them; Ihe death-tires danced at night ;

one of the in- _,, o j

visible inhabi- ine water, like a witch's oils,

tants of this r» . , , , ,

planet, neitiwr ■DOmt green and blue and white.

130

1^^

depwrted aoal*
nor angels ;
concerning
whom the
learned Jew,
Josephus, and
the Platonio
Constant inopo-
l<tan, Michael
I'sellus, may be
consiilted.
They are very
numerous, and
there ^a no cli-
mate or element
without one or
more.

COLEHIDaB.

And some in dreams assured were
Of the spirit that plagued us so ;
Nine fathom deep he had followed oa
From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root ;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.

135

The shipmates, ^]^ i ^yg]i ardav ! what evil looks

m their sore •^

distress would jj^d T from old and young !

fam throw the -^ °

whole gTiiit on Instead of the Cross, the Albatross

the ancient

Mariner; in sign About mv neck Was hung.

whereof they ^ "

hansr the dead

eea-blrd round t. » T.m ttt

hUnMk. PART III.

\<c " There passed a weary time. Eaoh throftl
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time ! a weary time !
How glazed each weary eye !
When looking westward, I beheld

140

145

The ancient
Mariner behold

eth a sign in the A something in the sky.

element afar off. ''

At first it seemed a little speck,

And then it seemed a mist • 150

It moved and moved, and took at laat

A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist I

And still it neared and neared :

And as if it dodged a water-sprite, 155

It plunged, and tacked, and veered.

At its nearer With thfoats unslaked, with black lips baked,

api^roach, it .^ i i i i .«

seenieth him to We could nor laugh noF wail ;

135

140

145

160

165

ed,

beaihip; and

at a dear ran-
som he (rceth
his speech from
the bonds ot
thirst.

*HS AMOISHT MARIHBB.

Through utter drought all dumb we stood I
I bit my arm, 1 sucked the blood,
And cried, A sail ! a sail 1

160

AtltAcI Joy.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

Agape they heard me call :

Gramercy I they for joy did grin.

And all at once their breath drew in, 165

As they were drinking all.

(I cried) she tacks no more 1

And.horror fol- See ! see

lows; for can it „.,, ^ ,

be b shi}) that xlitner to work us weal :

comes onward xtt-i.i.

without wind Without a breeze, without a tide^

She steadies with upright keel 1 170

The western wave was all a-flam«^

The day was well-nigh done 1

Almost upon the western wave

Rested the broad bright sun ;

When that strange shape drove suddenly 175

Betwixt us and the sun.

It seemeth him And straight the sun was flecked with bara.

buttheskele- -tt > -^ir .^ , "w*o,

ton of a fchip. (Heaven s Mother send us grace !)

As if through a dungeon-grata he peered

With broad and burning face. 180

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears !
Are those hei sails that glance in the Sun,
Like rest^oss gossameres ?

tin l?b"Js r Are those her ribs through which the Sun 186
T^tJuiM!^' Did peer, as through a grate 1
wSmrSiu. And is that Woman aU her orawf

C0L£RIDOE,

death -mat*,

and no other
on board tht
skeleton ship.
Like vessel, like
eriwi

Is that a Death ? 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 ;is leprosy,
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.

190

Death and Life- The naked hulk alongside came,

In-Deathhave » j xi. x • x- j*

diced for the And the twain were casting dice ;

ship's crew, and ,. mu • j i t» t» hi

she (the latter) Ihe game IS done ! I ve won, Ive won I

winnelh the /-\ j.i. i_ j i_» ^i ^^i •

ancient Marin- Cjuoth shc, and whistles thrice.
er.

No twiliffht
within the
oourts of the

The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out :
At one stride comes the dark ;
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,
0£f shot the spectre-bark.

195

200

At the rising of We listened and looked sideways np I

th« moon. t^ ^ i ^ ,

Fear 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 '^astern bar

The horned Moon, with one bright star 210

Within the nether tip.

One after
•nother.

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh.
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.

216

THB AKOIBNT MARINIR.

drop"d&*" *'<>«' times fifty living men,
dead. ^^j j heard nor sigh nor groan)

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.
D^th b^"n« Tho souls did from their bodies fly,-
a'nSteiir* ^W Aed to bliss or woe !

And every soul, it passed me by,
like the whizz of my cross-bow I "

220

Th« Waddfiy.
g^Mt tearetn
that a apirit ia
talking to him.

But tha ancient

Mariner as-
sureth him of
his bodily life,
and proceedeth
to relate his
horrible pen-
anoe.

Ho despiseth
the creature! of
theoalm.

And envieth
that they sliould
lire, and so
nuuiiy li* dead.

PART IV.

** I fear thee, ancient Mariner I

I fear thy skinny hand !

And thou art long, and lank, and brown,

As is the ribbed sea-sand. ^

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,

And thy skinny hand so brown." —

" Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest !

This body dropt not down.

Alone, alone, all all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea !
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful 1

And they all dead did lie :

And a thousand thousand Siimj things

Lived on ; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away ;
I looked upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.

225

830

135

240

. i.!ii^#*^* ^^^fo ""fs of thta stanaa. I am indebted to Mr. Wordsworth. It was on
ft ddlghtful wailc from Nether Stowey to Dulverton, with him and his sister intha
autumn of 1797 that this poem was planned, and in part composed " '

OOLBRIDOB.

I looked to hoaven, and tried to praj
But or ever a prayer had gasht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
Mj heart as dry as dust.

246

I closed my lids, and kept them oloae^

And the balls like pulses beat ;

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, 250

Lay like a load on my weary •ye^

And the dead were at my feet.

Bal (he oune
Uveth for him
In th« ey« of
Um dMa men.

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.

255

In hk loneliness
and fixedness
he yearneth to-
wardBthe
Journeyinf
moon, and (he
■tars tha( still
■oJourn,ye(8(ill
move onward ;
and everywhere
the blue sky be-
longs to them,
and ia their
appointed rest,
and their native
country and
their own
nalural homes,
which they enter
unannounoed,
as lords that are
certainly ex-
pected, and yet
there ia a silent
Joy a( (heir
MrivaL

An orphan's curse would drag to hell

A spirit from on high ;

But oh ! more horrible than that

Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 260

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse.

And yet i could not die.

The moving moon went up the sky,

And nowhere did abide :

Softly she was going up, 265

And a star or two beside—

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main,

Like April hoar-frost spread ;

But where the ship's huge shadow lay,

The charmed water burnt alway 270

A still and awful red.

THK A50IKNT MARINEB.

'ifeMw^hi bl Boyond the shadow of the ship,

< reatu*^i5„ ^ watched the water-snakes :

.reat clou They iiioved in tracks of shining whit^

And when thoy reared, the elfish light

Fell oflFin hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship

I watched their rich attire :

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,

They coiled and swam ; and every track

Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things ! no tongue

Their beauty might declare :

A sprinor of love gushed from my heart*

And T blessed them unaware !

Sure my kind saint took pity on me,

And I blessed them unaware.

The speubejin. The selfsame moment I could pray ;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell ofi; and sank
like lead into the sea.

Their beMity
and Iheir
happineaa.

He blesseth
them in hit
heart.

270

280

385

,■( V

990

PART V.

" O sleep 1 it is ii genti« thing,

Beloved from pole to pole !

To Mary Queen the praise be given I

She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 295

That slid into ray soul.

Ry sraoe of the The si^y buckets on the deck,
the ancient ' That had SO long remained,

Mariner is re- , , a .1 . ji «,. ,

freshed with 1 dreamt that they were filled with dew ,

And when I awoke, it rained. 3QQ

rain.

COLi.iCUXilB.

My lips \N<'ie wot, my throat was cold.
My garments all were dank ;
Sure I had drunken in my dronras,
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.

Be heareth And soon I heard a roaring wind :

■onnds and •,■,.■,

Meth strange It did not como anear ;

motions in the But with its sound it shook the sails,

•ky and the ele- »,, . . , . ,

aaeni. That Were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life 1 ' -.> '^'
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about I
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.

305

310

316

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 feU with never a jag, V-*"' '^26

A river steep and wide.

The bodies of The loud wind never reached the ship,

2?tai5i?itedr Yet now the ship moved on I

and the ehip ^j^^^;^ the lightning and the moon

The dead men gave a groan.

330

305

310

315

id: 320

326

330

r .r- ■-_,;.^^~,, ^^■_^-

,4/^6/- the Calm.

Ariuiiiil, iiriiiilKl. Ilrw \-.\v\\ swri't snuinl.

'riirli ilaitcil t<i till' »uii ;
Slowly !lli' soiiiiils caiiic liiiik ,i:;;nii,

Nil" iiiixcil. iiiiw mil' liy nn,-.

TO FACE PAGE 13, ANCIENT M RINER

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

but not hv the
9oulsQf the
men, nor by de>
mons of earth
or middle air,
but by a blessed
troop of angelic
spirits, sent
down by the in-
vocation of the
guardian saint.

They groaned, they stirred, they all uproab,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ;
It had been strange, even in a dream.
To have seen those dead men ri^,e.

The helmsman steered ; the ship moved on ; 335

Yet never a breeze up-blo\v,

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes.

Where they were wont to do ;

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools —

We were a ghastly crew. 340

The body of my brother's son
Stood by me, knee to knee :
The body and T pulled at one rope,
But he said nought to me "

" I fear thee, ancient INTnrinor ! " 345

" JJe calm thou Wedding-Giieat 1
'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 iheir arms, 350
And cluster'd round tlio mast :
Sweet sounds rose slowiy through tJieir mouths,
And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the sun ;
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the sky-lark sing ;
Sometimes all little birds that are,

:\->!)

360

coLKinnaB,

The loneaome
■piiit from the
Bouth pole
carries on the
ship tui far as the
line, in obedi-
ence to the an-
gelic troop, but
■till requireth
»engew"*,;,

How they seemed to fill the sea nnd air
With their sweet jargoniug !

And now 'twas like all instruments,

Now like a lonely flute ;

And now it is an angel's song, S66

That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on

A pleasant noise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook

In the leafv month of June, 370

Tliat to the sleeping woods all night

Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on.

Yet never a breeze did broathe :

Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 875

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 tmie,

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,

iShe made a siidden bound : 390

366

370

S75

380

885

The Polar

Spirit's fellow-
deinoim, the in-
visible iiihai)i-
Unts of the ele-
ment, take part
in his wrong ;
and two of tliem
relate, one to
the other, that
penauoe long
and heavy for
the ancient
Marinet- '■ nt»>
bear »c-nf /''<•. .1
tc ci'.., ''ci.
Spir'T ..

ward.

THK ANCIUNT MABINRfi.

It flung the blood into ray head,
And 1 fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit 1 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 thia the man 1

By Him who died on cross,

With his cruel bow he laid full low iOO

The harmless Albatross.

The spirit who bideth by himself
In the land of mist and snow,
He loved the bird that loved the man
"Who shot him with his bow." 406

The other was a softer voice,

As soft as honey -^dow :

Quoth he, "The man hath penance done,

And /aiiance more will do."

PART VI

FIRST VOICB.

"But 121] me, tell me! speak again, 410

Thy soft response renewing —

What mikes that ship drive on so fast 'I

""Yhat is the Ocean doing?"

SECOND VOICE.

'* Mill as a slave before his lord,
Th»' Octau hath no blast ;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the moon is cast

i 'I

The Mariner
hath been OMft
into a trance;
for the angelio
power causeth
the vessel to
drive northward
faster than
human Ufe
could eadure.

OOLKRIDOB.

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.

FIRST VOICK.

" But why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind ? "

420

"The air is cut away beic
And closes from behind.

Ply, brother, tiy! more liigh, moi-e high !
, Or we shall be belated :
For slow and slow that ship will go,
When the Mariner's trance is abated.

425

The super- I woke, and we were sailing on

natural motion . °

is retarded; the As m a gentle weauher :

BSftrincrftw&kcs

and his penance 'Twas night, Calm uight, the moon was hiffh •
begins anew. mi j i ■ . , *

Ihe dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck.
For a chamel-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 t'tom theirs.
Nor turn them up o pray.

Tiie eurae in And now this spell was snapt : once more
Onally expiated -r • i .1

I Viewed tlie ocean green.

And looked far forth, yet little saw

Of what had else been seen —

430

435

A
M

440

445

THE ANOIBNT MABINBB.

Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round, walks oa,

And turns no more his head ;

Because he knows a frightful fiend 450

Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me^

Nor sound nor motion made :

Its path was not upon the sea,

In ripple or in shade. 455

It raised my hair, it 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, 460

Yet she sailed softly too :
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze —
On me alone it blew.

And the ancient Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed

Mariner behold- "' *'

eth his native The lighthouse top T see | 465

Is this the hill 1 is this the kirk 1
Is this mine own countree 1

We drifted o'er <.he harbour-bar.

And I with sobs did pray —

* O let me be awake, my (Jod I 470

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. 475

COLKFUnOE.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no leas,
That stands above the rock :
Ihe moonlight steeped in silentneas
The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent lights 480

Till rising from the same,

Jp^irite feale the ^"^^ ^^^^J shapes, that shadows were,
dead bodies. Iq crimson colours came.

ffi^rnlJnn. ;^ ^^**^« ^^«**^«« ^^m the prow
ot light. Those crimson shadows were :

I turned my eyes upon the deck-

Oh Christ ! what saw I there 1

485

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 1 the silence sank
Like music on my heart.

But soon T heard the dash of oars, 600

I heard the Pilot's cheer ;

My head was turned perforce away,

And I saw a boat appear.

The
the 1

appi
8))ip
won

THR ANCIENT MARINRR.

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,
I heard them coming fast :
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third — I heard his voice :

It is the Hermit good !

He singeth loud his godly hymns

That he makes in the wood.

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away

The Albatross's blood.

PART VII.

The Hermit Of This Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears I
He loves to talk with marineres
That come from a far countree

He kneels at mom, and noon, and eve —

He hath a cushion plump :

It is the moss that wholly hides

The rottef^ old oakstump.

The skiff-boat nearcd : I heard them talk,

" Why, this is strange, I trow !

Where are those lights so many and fair,

That signal made but now ? "

605

510

I'" -'

515

620

525

approiicheththt "
sJiip with
wonder. "

Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said —
" And they answered not our cheer !
The plauks look warped ! and see those sails,
How thin they are and sere I 630

I never saw aught like to them,
Unless perchance it were.

BBS

COLKIMrUJB.

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag

My forest-brook along ;

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 538

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 reply)

I am a-feared " — " Push on, push on 1 " 540

Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirred ',
The boat came close beneath the ship,
, And straii^ht a sound was heard. 545

The ahip and- Under the water it rumbled on,

denly ginketh.

Still louder and more dread :

It reached the ship, it split the bay ;

The ship went down like lead.

The ancient Stunned by tbat loud and dreadful sound, 550

Mariner is saved

In tiie Pilot's Which sky and ocean smote,
boat.

Like one that hath bten seven days drowned

My body lay afloat;

But swift as dreams, myyelf 1 found

Within the Pilot's boat. 555

Upon the whirl where sank the ship.
The boat spun round and round ;
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound.

I moved my lips the Pilot shrieked
And fell down in a fit;

560

THF ANCIENT MABIN::B.

The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
And prayed whore he did ^it.

I took the oars : the Pilot's boy,

Who now doth crazy gu,

Laughed loud and long, and all the whiie

Hiy oyes went to and fro.

" Ha ! ha ! " quoth he, "full plain I see

The DeWl knows how to row."

And now, all in my own countree^

I stood on the firm land !

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,

And scarcely he could stand.

666

570

•• O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man I "

The ancient

Mariner earn- - -» — -

the HeStf ' '^^^' Hermit crossed his brow.

tftZ'^XL. " ^^^ ^"^'^^'" q^°<^^^ h«' "I Wd thee say.
of life fai's on \\ hat manner of man art thou ! **

576

And ever and
anon through
out his future
life ail agony
const raineth
him to travel
from land to
land;

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched

With a woful agony,

Which forced me to begin my tale ;

And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns :
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me buma.

I pass, like night, from land to land ;
I have strange power of speech ;
The moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me ;
To him my tale T toach

580

585

590

■iillliii

COLKHinaB.

What loud uproar bursts from that door !

The wedding-guests are there: ^

But in the garden-bower the bride

And bride-maids singing are :

And hark the little vesper bell, 696

Which biddeth me to prayer !

O Wedding-guest ! this soul hath boon

Alone on a wide, wide sea ;

So lonely 'twas, that God himself

Scarce seemed there to be. 600

O sweeter than the marriage fenst,
*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 friends,

And youths and maidens gay !

andtoteaoh, by Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 610

his own ex- mi i ttt it /->•

ample, love and To thee, thou Wedding-Guest !

things that God He prayeth well who loveth well

eth. Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best

All things both great and small ; 616

For the dear God who loveth us,

He made and loveth all"

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,

TBB ANOIINT MABINBB.

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Gueat 620

Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went hke one that hath been stumiad,

And is of sense forlorn :

A 8a<ider and a wiser man,

He rose the morrow mom. 625

SELECTION FROM COLERIDGE.

2 —YOUTH AND AGE.

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee —
Both were mine ! Life went a raaying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,

When I was young ! 6

When I was young 1 — Ah, woful when I
Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then I
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands 10 '

How lightly then it flash'd along : —
Like those trim skiffs, unV^iown of yore^
On winding lakes and rivers wide.
That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide I 15

Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ;
Friendship is a sheltering tree ;
1 the joys, that came down shower-like^ 20

Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,

Ere I was old !
Ere I was old 1 Ah woful Ere,
AN'^hich tells me. Youth's no longer here !
O Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 25

Tis known that Thou and I were one,

OOLBRIDOB.

Ill think it but a fond conceit —
It camot be, thfl»t Thou art gone !
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toU'd :^
And thou wert aye a masker bold !
What strange disguise hast now put on
To make believe that Thou art gone t
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this alter'd size :
But Springtide blossoms on thy lips.
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes .'
Life is but Thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve !
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve

When we are old :
— That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest
That may not rudely be dismist.
Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while^
And tells the jest without the smile.

'"ji" ■"■■' !■ I I "'!'!5 -J^

3.—MICHAEL.

A PASTORAL POEM.

If from the public way you turn your stepa
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must st,-.ggle ; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage ! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
Ko habitation can be seen ; but they
Who journey hither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and Irites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.

MICHAEL.

rt is, in tmth, an utter solitude ;

Nor oiiould I have made mention of this dell

But for one object which you mi^ht pnss l)y, 15

Might see and notice not. Beside the brook

Appears a sti-aggling heap of unhewn stones ;

And to that place a story appertains

Which, tlunigh it be ungarnished with events.

Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside 20

Or for the suunner shade. It was the first

Of those domestic tales that spake to me

Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men

Whom I already loved ; — not, verily.

For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 25

Where was their occupation atid a))ode.

And hence this tale, while I was yet a b(>y

Careless of books, yet having felt the power

Of Nature, by the gentle agency

Of natural objects led me on to feel 30

For passions that were not my own, and think

(At random and imperfectly indeed)

On man, the heart of man, and Innnan life.

Therefore, although it be a history

Homely and rude, I "•" 111 relate the same 35

For the delight of a few natdral hearts ;

And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake

Of youthful poets, who among thes<; hills

Will be my second self when I am gone.

Upon the forest-side in Grasmero Yale 40

There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name ;
An old man, stout of heart and strong of limb.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength ' his mind was keen,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 45

woKDsvroii'rir.

And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt

And watchful more than oi'dinary men.

Heiice had he learned the meaning of all winds,

Of blasts of every tone ; and oftentimes,

When others heeded not, lie heard the tSouth 50

Make subterraneous music, like the noise

Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.

The Shepherd, at .c-ich warning, of his flock

Bethought him, and he to himself would say,

*' The winds are now devising v ,)ik for me ! " 65

And, truly, at all times, the storm — that drives

The trayeller to a shelter — summoned him

Up to the mountains : he had been alone

Amid the heart of many thousand mists

That came to him and left him on the heights. 60

So lived he till his eightieth year was past.

And grossly that man errs who should suppose

That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,

Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.

Fields where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 65

The common air ; the hills which he so oft

Had climbed with vigorous steps, which had impressed

So many incidents upon his mind

Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ;

Which, like a book, preserved the memory 70

Of the dumb animals whtnn he had saved,

Had fed or sheltered, I'nkiiig to such acts

The certainty of honoural)lo gain —

Those fields, those hills (what could they less 1), had laid

Strong hold on his affections ; were to him 75

A pleasurable feeling of blind love,

The pleasure which there is in life itself.

His days had not been passed in singleness.
His helpmate was a comely matron, old —

MICHAEL.

Though younger than himself full twenty years. 80

She was a woman of a stirring life, '

Whose heart was in her house. Two wheels she had

Of anti<{ue form — this large for spinning wool,

That small for Hax ; and if one wheel had rest,

It was because the other was at work. 85

The Pair had but one inmate in their house,

An only Child, who had been born to them

When Michael, telling o'er his years, began

To deem that he was old — in shepherd's phrase,

With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 90

With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm.

The one of an inestimable worth,

Made all their household. I may truly say,

That they were as a proverb in the vale

For endless industry. Wlien day was gone, 95

And from their occupations out-of-doors

The Son and Father were come home, even then

Their labour did not cease ; unless when all

Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there,

Each with a mess ^2 pottage and skimmed milk, 100

Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes,

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal

Was ended, Luke (for so the son was named)

And his old Father both betook themselves

To such convenient w^ork as might eriploy 105

Their hands by the fireside : perhaps to card

Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair

Some injury done to sickle, liail, or scythe.

Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,
That in our ancient uncouth country style
Did with a huge projection overbrow

110

AVOHDSWORTII.

Lfirge space beneatli, as duly as the liglit

Of day grew dim the Housewife liuug a himp —

An aged utensil, which had performed 115

Service beyond all others of its kind.

Early at evening did it burn, and late,

Surviving comrade of uncouiited hours,

Which, going by from year to year, had found,

And left the couple neither gay, perhaps, 120

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,

Living a life of eager industry.

And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth 3'eur,

There by the light of this old lamp they sat,

Father and Son, while late into the night 125

The Housewife plied her own peculiar work.

Milking the cottage through the silent hours

Munnur as with the sound of summer flies.

This light was famous in its neighbourhood.

And was a public symbol of the life 130

That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,

Their cottage on a plot of rising ground

Stood single, with large prospect, north and south.

High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,

And westward to the village near the lake ; 1 35

And from this constant light, so regular

And so far seen, the house itself, by all

Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,

JJoth old and young, was named The Evening Star.

Thus living on through such a length of years, 140
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear —
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
Blind spirit which is in the blood of all — 145

MICHAEL.

Tlian that a cliild iiioro tliaii all otlicr i^ifls

Brings hope witli it, and forward-looking thoughts,

And stirrings of imiuietudo, Avhon tliey

By tendency of nature needs must fail.

Exceeding was the love he })are to him.

His heart and his heart's joy. For oft(>ntinies

Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,

Had done him female service, not alone

For pastime and delight, as is the use

Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced

To acts of tei.'lcrness ; and he had rock(!d

His cradle with a woman's uentle hand.

150

If);-)

And, in a later time, ere yet the ]>oy
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love —
Albeit of a stern, iml^ending mind — 160

To have the Young-one in his sight, when he
Had work by his own door, or when he sat
With sheep before him on his shepherd's stool.
Beneath that large old oak which near their door
Stood, and from its enormous breadth of shade IGH

Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun.
Thence in our rustic dialect was called
The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears.
There, while they two were sitting in the shade
With others round them, earn(\st all and blithe, 170
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestoN\ed
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scared them, while they lay still Iseneath the shears. 175

And when, by Heaven's good grace, the Ixty grew up

A healthy lad, and carried in his clieek

Two steady roses that were five years old,
12

WORDSWORTH.

Then Michael from a winter coppice cut

With his own hand a sapling, which he liooped 180

With iron, making it throughout in all

Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staif,

And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt

He as a watchman oftentimes was placed

At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 185

And, to his office prematurely called,

There stood the urchin, as you will divine,

Something between a hindrance and a help ;

And for this cause not always, I believe,

Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 190

Though naught was left undone which staff, or voice,

Or looks, or threatening gestures could perform.

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
Against the mountain blasts, and to the heights.
Not fearing toil, nor length of w^eary ways, 195

He with his Father daily went, and they
Were as companions, why should I relate
That objects which tlj^ Shepherd loved before
Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there came
Feelings and emanations — things which were 200

Light to the sun and luusic to the wind ;
And that the old man's heart seemed born again !

Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up ;
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year.
He was his comfort and his daily hope. 205

While in this sort tlie simple household lived
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
Distressful tidings. Lojig before the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In surety for his brother's son, a man 210

MICHAEL.

Of an industrious life and ample means ;

But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly

Had prest upon him ; and old Michael now

Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture —

A grievous penalty, but little less 215

Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim

At the first hearing, for a moment took

More hope out of his life than he supposed

That any old man ever could have lost.

As soon as he had gathered so much strength 220

That he could look his trouble in the face,

It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell

A portion of his patrimonial fields.

Such was his first resolve ; he thought again,

And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he, 225

Two evenings after he had heard the news,

" I have been toiling more than seventy years,

And in the open sunshine of God's love

Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours

Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 230

That I could not lie quiet in my grave.

Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself

Has scarcely been more diligent than I ;

And I have lived to be a fool at last

To my own family. An evil man 235

That was, and made an evil choice, if he

"Were false to us ; and if he were not false,

There are ten thousand to whom loss like this

Had been no sorrow. I forgive him ; — but

'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 240

When I began, my purpose was to speak

Of remedies, and of a cheerful hope.

Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land

Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ;

WORDSWORTH.

He sliall possess it, froo jis is the wind 245

That passes over it. We liave, thou kiiow'st,

Another kinsman ; he will be our friend

In this distress. Ho is a prosperous man,

Thriving in trade ; and Luke to him shall go,

And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 250

He quickly" will repair this loss, and then

May come again to us. If here he stay.

What can be done ] Where every one is poor,

What can be gained V At this the old man paused.

And Isabel sat silent, for her mind • 255

Was busy looking back into past times.

There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself.

He was a parish-boy ; at the church-door

They made a gathering for him- shillings, pence.

And half-pennies — wherewith the neighbours bought

A basket, which they filled with peddler's wares ; 261

And, Avith this basket on his arm, the lad

Went up to London, found a master there.

Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy

To go and overlook his merchandise 265

Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich.

And left estates and moneys to the poor,

An(i, at his birthplace, built a chapel floored

With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.

These thoughts, and many others of like sort 270

Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,

And her face brightened. The old man was glad,

And thus resumed : " Well, Isabel ! this scheme,

These two days, has been meat and drink to me.

Far more than we have lost is left us yet, 275

We have enough — I wish, indeed, that I

Were younger, — but this hope is a good hope.

— Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best

MICHAEL.

Buy for him more, aiul let us send him forth

To-morrow, or the next day, or to-niglit : 280

— If lie could go, the Boy should go to-night."

Hero Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth

With a light heart. The housewife for five days

Was restless morn and night, and all day long

Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 2(Sr>

Things needful for the journey of her son.

But Isabel was glad when Sunday came

To stop her in her work : for wiien she lay

By IMichael's side, she through the two last nights

Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep ; 290

And when they rose at morning she could see

That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon

She said to Luke, while they two by themselves

Were sitting at the door, " Thou nmst not go :

We have no f ler child but thee to lose, 295

None to remember — do not go away ;

For if thou leave thy father, he will die."

The Youth made answer with a jocund voice;

And Isabel, when she had told her fears.

Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 300

Did she bring forth, and all together sat

Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

With daylight Isabel resumed her work ;
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in spi'ing : at length 305

The expected letter from their kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ;
To which requests were added that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 310

The letter was read over : Isabel

WORDSWORTH.

Went fortli to sliow it to the neighbours roun<l ;

Nor was there at tliat time on Enghsh hind

A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel

Had to lier house returned, the old man said, 315

" He shall depart to-morrow." To this word

The housewife answered, talking much of things

Which, if at such short notice he should go.

Would surely be forgotten. But at length

She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 320

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Uhyll
In that deep valley, Michael had designed
To build a sheepfold ; and, before he heard
The tidings of his melancholy loss.
For this same purpose he had gathered up 325

A lieap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked ;
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped.
And thus the old man spake to him : " IVly son, 330
To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart
I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth.
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part 335

Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should speak
Of things thou canst not know of. After thou
First camest into the world — as oft befalls
To new-born infants — thou didst sleep away 340

Two days, and blessings from thy father's tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by daj?" passed on,
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds

MICIIAKL.

Than when T heard tlieo l)y our own fueside 345

First uttering, without words, a natural turn- ;

When tliou, a feeding bn])e, didst in thy joy

Hing at thy mother's breast. JNIonth followed month,

And in the open fields my life was passed

And on the mountains ; else I think that thou 350

Iladst been brought up upon thy fathers kiu.'es.

But we were })layniates, Luke : among these hills,

As well thou knowest, in us the old and young

Have played together, nor with me didst thou

Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 355

Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words

He soljbed aloud. The old man graspe<l his hand.

And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see

That these are things of which I need not speak.

— Even to the utmost I have been to thee 3G0

A kind and a good father. And herein

I but repay a gift which I myself

Received at others' hands ; for, though now old

Beyond the common life of man, I still

Remember theui who loved me in my youth. 365

Both of the^n sleep together. Here they lived.

As all their foi efathei's had done, and when

At length their time was come, they were not loath

To give their bodies to the family mould.

I wished that thou should>-:fc live the life they lived. 370

But 'tis a long time to look back, my son.

And see so little gain from threescore years.

These fields were burdened when they came to me.

Till I was forty years of age, not more

Than half of my inheritance was mine. 375

I toiled and toiled. God ])lessed me in my work.

And till these three weeks past the land was free.

— It looks as if it never could endure

WOHnSWOUTIf.

Anotlu-r muster. JIcjincii f<»r;^'iv<Mn(', Lukd, ^

If I ju(l^(^ ill f(»i' tht'c, but, it sccins good 380

'J'liafc tlioii sIiouKlsfc go." At this tlio old inuii paused.

Then, iMjiutiiig to tho stonos noai* ^vlliL'll they sto(»(l,

Thus, after a .short silence, lie resumed :

'* Tiiis was a work for us ; and now, my son,

It is a work for me. But lay one stone — .'585

II(U'e, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own han<ls.

Nay, boy, be of good hope ; wo both may live

To see a better day. At eighty-four

I still am strong and hale ;— do thou thy part ;

T will do mine. — I will begin again 390

With many tasks that were i-esigned to thee.

Up to the heights and in among the storms

Will I without thee go again, and do

All works which I was wont to do alone

B(!fore I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee, boy ! 395

Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast

With many hopes. It should be so — Yes — yes —

T knew that thou couldst never have a wish

To leave me, Luke ; thou hast been bound to me

Only b}"- links of love. When thou art gone, 400

What will be left to us ! — But I forget

My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone

As I re(i[uested ; and hereafter, Luke,

When thou art gone away, should evil men

Be thy v. mpanions, think of me, my son, 405

And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts,

And God will strengthen thee. Amid all fear

And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou

IVFayst bear in mind the life thy fathers lived,

Who, being innocent, did for that cause 410

Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well —

When thou returnest, thou in this place wilt see

MICHAEL.

A work which is not here — a covenant
'Twill be bi^twccii tis. I hit whatever fate
Befall thee, I shall lovo thee to the last,
And bear thy memory with mo to the grave."

4 If)

The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down
And, as his father had re<]uested, laid
The first stone of the sheepfold. At the sight
The old man's grief broke from him ; to his heart 420
He pressed his son, he kissed him and wept ;
And to the house together they returned.
— Hushed was that house in peace, or seeming peace,
Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn the Boy
Began his journey ; and when he had reached 425

The puMic way, he put on a bold face ;
And '1] he neighbours, as he passed their doors,
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That followed him till he was out of sight.

A good report did from their kinsman come, 430

Of Luke and his well-doing ; and the Boy
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news.
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout
" The prettiest letters that were ever seen."
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 435

So, many months passed on ; and once again
The Shepherd went about his daily work
With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now
Sometimes, when he could find a leisure hour.
He to that valley took his way, and there 440

Wrought at the sheepfold. Meantime Luke liegan
To slacken in his duty ; and, at length
He in the dissolute city gave himself

AVORDSWOKTH.

To evil courses ; igiioiuiiiy and shame
Fell on him, .so that he wan (h"iven at last
To seek a hiding-place beyonJ the seas.

There is a comfort in tlic strenijjth of love ;
'Twill make a thing endurable which else
AVould overset the l)rain or break the heart.
I liave conversed with more than one who well
licmember the old manj and what he was
Years after he had heard this heavy news.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went, and still looked up towards the sun,
And listened to the wind ; and, as before.
Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,
And for the land his small inheritance.
And to that hollow dell from time to time
Did he repair to bulla the fold of which
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet
The pity which was then in every heart
For the old man ; and 'tis believed by all
That many and nuiny a day he thither went
And never lifted up a single scone.

There, by the sheepfold, sometimes was he seen,
Sitting alone, with that his faitiiful dog,
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years, from time to tune,

445

450

455

460

465

470

He at the building of this sheepfold wrought.

And left the work unfinished when he died.

Three years, or little more, did Isabel

Survive her liusband. At her death the estate

Was sold, and weiit into a stranger's hand.

The cottage which was named The Evening Star 475

Is gone ; the ploughshare has boen through the ground

445

MICHAEL.

On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought

In ail the neighbourhood ; yet the oak is left

That grew beside their door ; and the remains

Of the unfinished sheepfold may be seen 480

Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.

150

155

(

TIIK SOLITARY RKAPER.

4— THE SOLITARY REAPER.

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass,
Reaping and singing 1)3^ herself ;

Stop here, or gently pass !
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain ;
Oh, listen ! for the Vale i»rofound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt

Among Arabian sands :
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In springtime from the cuckoo-bird.
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings ?—
Perhaps the plaintive numl)ers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles loim airo :

Or is it some more humble lay

Familiar matter of to-day ?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

Ti ,'-, has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sane
As if her song could have no ending ;

I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bendinjr :

I listened till I had my fill ;

And when I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore

Long after it was heard no more.

THE PREACHER.

5.— THE PREACHER.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And scill where many a garden llower grows wikl ;
There, where a few torn shruVjs the place discloae,
The village preacher's modest inaxisiuii loae. ' " " - - -
A man lie was to all the country dear, 5

And passing ric'- with forty pounds a year ;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place ;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power.

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 10

Far other aims his heart had Icarut to prize.
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train ;
He chid their wanderings but relieved tlieir pain :
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending-.8wept liis ugcd breast ;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindreil there, and had his claims allowed j
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away, 20

Wept e'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done.
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 26

His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and ftdt for all ;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries.
To tempt his new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay.
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control

MATILDA AND l!KI>.Mu\0,

Despair and anrniish fled tho stni'^t'linf snnl ;
Comfort came down the tifmliliny wrctcli to raise
And his last faltering accents whis2)ered ^jraisc.

At clr.irch, v/itli meek and ii!,;i(Tected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place ;
Truth from his lii)s prevailed with doulde sway,
And fools who came to sc.'olF, remained to pray.
The service past, aiouiKl the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ;
E'en children followed with endearing wile
And plucked his goAvn to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him and tlieir cares di.stressed ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given.
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway lea\es the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

— Goldsmith ( The Deserted Village),

6.— MATILDA AND REDMOND.

XI.

The tear down childhood's cheek that Hows,
Is like tho dewdrop on the rose ;
When next the summer breeze conies by,
And waves the bush, the flower is dry.
Won by their care the orplian -child
Soon on his new protector smiled,
With dimpled cheek and eye so fair,
Through his thick curls of ilaxen hair.
But blithest laugli'd tliat cheek and eye,
When Rokeliy's little maid was nigh ;
'TwMs his, with elder brother's pride,
Matilda's tottering steps to guide ;
His native lays in Irish tongue,
To soothe her infant car he sung,

MATILDA AND RKDMOND,

And primrose twined with Jaisy fair,
To form a chaplet for her nair.
By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand,
The children still were hand in hand,
And good Sir Kichard smiling eyed
The early knot so kindly tied.

XII.

Bu* summer months bring wilding shoot

From bud to bloom, from bloom to fruit ;

And years draw on our human span.

Prom child to boy, from boy to man ;

And soon in K()kel)y's woods is seen,

A gallant boy in hunter's green.

He loves to wake the felon boar,

In his dark haunt on Greta's shore,

And loves, against the deer so dun,

To draw the shaft, or lift the gun,

Yet more he loves, in autumn prime.

The hazel's spreading boughs to c'imb.

And down its cluster'd stores to hail,

Where young Matilda holds her veil ;

And she, whose veil receives the shower,

Is alter'd too, and knows her power ;

Assumes a monitress's pride.

Her Redmond's dangerous sports to chide ;

Yet listens still to hear him tell

How the grim wild-boar fought and fell,

How at his fall the bugle rung,

Till rock and greenwood answer flung ;

Then blesses her, that man can find

A pastime of such savage kind !

XITI.

But Redmond knew to weave his tale
So well with praise of wood and dale.
And knew so well each point to trace.
Gives living interest to the chase.
And knew so well o'er all to throw
His spirit's wild romantic glow,

ELLKV DOU(JLAS.

That, while she blamed, and wliile she fear'd,

She lovod each venturous tale slie heard.

Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain

To bower and hall their steps restrain,

Together they explored the page 65

Of glowing bard or gifted sage :

Oft, placed the evning fire beside,

The minstrel art alternate tried,

While gladsome harp and lively lay

Bade winter night Hit fast aw.iv ; 60

Thus, from their childhood, blending still

Their sport, their study, and their skill,

An union of the soul they prove,

But must not think that it was love.

But though they dared not, envious Fame 65

Soon dared to give that union name ;

And when so often, side by side,

From year to year the pair she eyed,

She sometimes blamed the good old knight

As dull of ear and dim of sight, 70

Sometimes his purpose would declare,

That young O'Neale should wed his heir.

— Scott (Rokehy).

7.— ELLEN DOUGLAS.

XVII.

But scarce again his horn he wound,

Wlien lo ! forth starting at the sound.

From underneath an aged oak,

That slanted from the islet rock,

A damsel guider of its way,

A little skiff shot to the bay,

That round the promontory steep

Led its deep line in graceful sweep,

Eddying in almost viewless wave.

The weeping willow twig to lave.

And kiss, with whispering sound and alow.

The beach of pebbles bright as snow.

The boat had touch'd this silver strand,

ELLEN DOUGLAS.

Just as the hunter left his stand,

And stood conceal'd amid tlie brake,

To view this Lady of the liake.

The maiden paused, us if again

She thought to catch the distant strain.

M/'ith head upraised, and look intent,

And eye and ear attentive bent,

And locks flung back, and li}.s apart,

Like monument of Grecian art.

In listening mood, she seem'd to stand.

The guardian naiad of the strand.

xviir.
And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A nymph, a naiad, or a grace,
Of finer form, or lovelier face !
What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,—
The sportive toil, which, sl»ort and light, '
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
Served too in hastier swell to show
Short glimpses of a l)reiist of suow :
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measured mood had train'd her pace,—
A foot more light, a step more true.
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew ;
E'en the slight harebell raised its head.
Elastic from her airy tread :
What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue,—
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear !

XIX.

A chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid ;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,
Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing ;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair,

EM.KV DOUr.LAS.

Mantled a j)laiil with modest care,

And never brooch the folds cond)ined

Above a heart more good and kind.

Her kindness and her worth to spy,

You need but gaze on Ellen's eye ; 65

Not Katrine, in her mirror blue

Gives back the shaggy banks more true,

Than every free-born glance confess'd

The guileless movements of her breast ;

Whether joy danced in her dark eye, 60

Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,

Or filial love was glowing there.

Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,

Or tale of injury call'd forth

The indignant spirit of the North. 65

One only passion unrevenl'd,

With maiden pride the maid conceal'd,

Yet not less purely felt the flame ; —

need I tell that passion's name !

XX.

Impatient of the silent horn, 70

Now on the gale her voice was borne ; —

" Father ! " she cried ; the rocks around

Loved to prolong the gentle sound.

Awhile she paused, no answer came, —

** Malcolm, was thine the blast ? " the name 75

Less resolutely utter'd fell.

The echoes could not catch the swell.

*' A stranger I," the Huntsman said,

Advancing from the hazel shade.

The maid, alarni'd, with hasty oar, 80

Push'd her light shallop from the shore.

And when a space was gain'd between.

Closer she drew her bosom's screen ;

(So forth the startled swan would swing,

So turn to prune his ruffled wing.) 86

Then safe, thougli flutter'd and amazed,

She paused, and on the stranger gazed.

Not his the form, nor his the eye,

That youthful maidens wont to fly.

— Scott (Lady of the Lake).

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

8.— TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY

OS TURNINO ONE POWV VVtTH THE PLOtTOH, IV APRIL, 1786.

Wee, modest, criinsoii-tiiipod flower,
Thou's met iiie in an evil li.Mir ;
For I maun crush amang tiie stoure

Thy slender stem.
To spare thee now is past my i)ower, 5

Thou bonnie gem.

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie Lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'maug tlie dewy weet,

Wi' spreckled breast, 10

When upward-springing, blithe, to greet

The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north

Upon thy early, humble birth ;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 16

Amid the storm.
Scarce reared above the parent earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,

High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield, 20

But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble Held,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 25

Thy snawy b jsom sun- ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In iiumble guise ;
But now the share upteara thy bed,

And low thou lies ! 30

Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet floweret of the rural shade I
By love's simplicity betrayed.

And guileless trust ;

fSBssm

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.

Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of Riini)le l)ai-d,

On life's rougli ouean luckless starred !

Unskilful he to note tiio card

Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales l)low hard,

And whelm him o'er I

Such fate to suffering worth is given.
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven

To misery's brink.
Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven,

He, ruined, sink !
Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate.
That fate is thine— no distant date ;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom ;
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight

Shall be thy doom I

— Burns.

9.— ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness paina

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk :
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot.
But being too happy in thy happiness, —
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen-green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

0, for a draught of vintage ! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green.

Dance, and Proven9al song, and sun-burnt mirth !

for a beaker full of the waim South,

ODE TO A NKillTlNOALE.

4r)

Full of the true, the blnshful Hippocrene,
Witli beaded hul)ble8 winking at the brim
And purple-stained nouth ;

That I might di ik, and loiivu the world unaecn,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim :

Fade far away, disscdve, and quite forget

Wliat tliou among the h aves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 23

AVhere youth grows pule, and spectre-thin, and dies ;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And lea<lf'ii-eyed despairs ;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes.

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee,

Not charivited by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless M'ings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards :
Already with thee ! tender is the night, 35

And haply the Queen- Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ;
But here there is no light
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding ni. .ssy ways. 40

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs.
But, in embalmt^d darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 45

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ;
And mid-May's eldest child
The coming musk-i^ose, full c»f dewy-wine.

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 50

Darkling I listen ; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,

-!"Bl!--"!)»^ai

SONNET XCVIII.

Call'd him soft names in many a mus^d rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath ;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, ' 55

To cease upon the midnight M'ith no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy !

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain

To thy high recjuiem become a sod. GO

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird !

iSo hungry generations tread thee down ;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown :
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 05

Through the sad luart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self !
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she ia famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 73

Past tlfe near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades :
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ?
Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? 80

— Keats.

10.— SONNET XCVIII.

From you have I been absent in the spring.
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of diflFerent flowers in odors or in hue,

ti •

TO A SKYLARK.

Could make me any gummer's story tell,

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew :

Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ;

They were but sweet, but figures of delight,

Drawn after you : you pattern of all those.

Yet soem'd it winter still, and, you away,

As with your shadow I with these did play.

— Shakesppiin'

11. -TO A SKYLARK.

Up with me ! up with me into the clouds !

For thy song, Lark, is strong ;
Up with me, up with me into the clouds I

Singing, singing,
With clouds and sky about thee ringing,

Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind !

I have walked through wildernesses dreary,

And to-day my heart is weary ;

Had I now the wings of a Faery,

Up to thee would I fly.

Ther j's madness about thee, and joy divine

In tliat song of thine ;

Lift me, guide me high and high

To thy banqueting.place in the sky.

Joyous as morning,
Thou art laughing and scorning ;
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark ! thou would'st be loth
To be such a traveller as 1.
Happy, happy Liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain River
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both !

TO TIIR MUSKS.

-I

Alas ! my jonrnoy. runirod and imovon,

Tlirough priokly niotM-s or dusty ways must, wim

Rut hearing tlioo, or otlurs of thy kind,

As full of gladn»>ss and as fn'o of luavi-ii,

I, with V'.y fato ooiitnitod, will plod <»n.

Aud hoj)o for liighor laptuivs. when l,if(>'s day i

is doiio.

12.-CASTKK OK iNDOl.KNrK II. ;<.

I care not, I'ortuno, what you uw diiiy ;

Y<m oiumot nd» mo of irvo Nature's jjrai-c ;

Yt)\i cannot shut tlur windoWM of tlu> sky,

Tlirough whii'h Aurora »hows lior hrightcning fact' ;

Win cannot bar my constant feet to traro

The woods and lawns, l»y liviiig stivani at ovo ;

Let health my nerves nn<'. finer fihres hrace,

Aiid 1 their toys to tho g'eat childnn leave ;

Of fancy, nason, virtue. :ii>.<i<^l't, can nie Itoreave.

■ r/iDDipnoii,

13.— TO THK MlISi':S,

VVhetl/er on Ida's shaily brow,

Or in the eliandteis of the lOast,
Tho chamhers of the sun, that now

From ancient melody have ceased ;

Whether in heaven ye wander fair,

Or the green corniM's of tho earth,
Or the ldu(^ regions of the air.

Where the niciodions winds have birth ;

Whether on crystal rocks yo rovo.
Beneath the bosom of the sea,

W-andering in many a coral grove, —
li'air nii.«?, forsaking poetry ;

}|ow have you left the ancient lovo
That ))ards of (dd enjoy'd in you !

The languid strings do scarctdy move.
The sound is forced, tho notes are few.

W. niakc.

ur/riMA TiriJLK.

14. -DAYS.

Duii^htoi'H of 'I'iiiKi, tJi<> liypocrihio Dayn,

Miifll<!il titid tliiiiil), likn \n\,ifUH>\, <loi'viH)ioH,

AikI iiian^liiii^ Hiii^Iti in an mdlfMH lilr,

Hriii;^ i!i)Ml'.!niH nn<i faj^otH in ilioir liandH.

'I'o <wu;li tlii-y oilnr gifU ari.iir liiM will,

|{n!<i<l, liin^doiriH, HtatH, and nky that IioMh tli«<iu all,

I, in iny pl«^a(!lii'id ^aitUtn, watMihnd tlm |)()in|>,

Kor^ot my nioniin^ wiHli<H, liiiHtily

'I'ook a U-.w \ii'v\m an<l apploH, and Mm' |)ay

'I'iiiikmI and d«i|iar'l<id Hd* lit/. I, iuo iato,

UndtM' Insr Holtmin lillot h.iw tint Hoorn.

— Kinfmon,

15. N 1(1 1 IT.

I am III! that waIkH with tlm tondor and ^rowiii^ night ;
I uuli Id tho ttai'tli and Hoa, half hold l)y tin; niglit.

I'roHH v,\(tHt\ liani-lidHonii'd niglit ! I'iohh rlrmc, niagmtic noiiriHhin;{

niglit !
Night of Hdiith wIikIh ! night of tlin larg«;, ft^w Htnrn 1
Htill, nodding night I mad, nak<id, Hiiinnn^r night !

tSinilf, O voliiptiioiiH, coed l)ri;atli'd lartli !
Kartli of tin; Hliiinlicring and liijiiid tn-iiH !

Kaith of dc|tait<'d HuiiHi-t ! raitli of tln) nioiiniainH, miHty toppod I
Marih <if tho vitroouH pour of tin: full niooii, jiiHt tingrd with hliio !
Martli rf HliiiK! and dark, mottling tho iido of tho r v<r ! 10

Karth of tho limpid gn^y of cIoikIh, luightor ami idoaror for my

Hako !

Far-HWoopiag, < Ihow'd oartli ! lioii applo-hloMMorn'd oarth !

Siiiilo, f(»r your lovor ooinoH !

— Whilman.

Ki. ni/riMA TH(Jf,K.

With favoring windH, o'or iiunlit miaii,
Wo Mallei' for tlio llo.HporidoH,
Tho land whoro goldon apploH gro\r ;
Jiiit that, uh I that woh long agu.

TO THE CUCKOO.

How far, since then, the ocean ntreams
Have swept us from tliat land of dreams,
The land of fiction and of truth,
The lost Atlantis of our youth !

Whither, oh, whither ? are not these
The tempest-haunted Hebrides,
Where sea-gulls scream, and breakers roar.
And wreck and seaweed line the shore ?

Ultima Thule ! utmost Isle !
Here in thy harbors for a while
We lower our sails ; awhile we res;t
From the unending, endless quest.

■4

-Lomifellow.

' 17.— TO THE CUCKOO.

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove !

Thou messenger of Spring !
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice ve hear ;

Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year ?

The school-boy, wandering through the wood

To pull the primrose gay.
Starts thy curious voice to hear -

And imitates thy lay.

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear ;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song

Ko winter in thy year.

-J. Logan.

wmm

STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN.

18. -DEATH THE LEVELLER.

The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things ;
There is no armor againso fate ;
Death lays his icy hand on kings ;
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And nlant fresh laurels where they kill ;
But iheir strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow ;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ;
Upon Death's purple altar now.
See where the victor-victim bleeds !
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb ;-
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

— Shirley.

19.— STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN.

Strange tits of passion have I known ;

And I will dare to tell,
But in the lover's ear alone.

What once to me befell.

When she I loved was strong and gay.

And like a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way

Beneath the evening moon.

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,

All over the wide lea :
My horse trudged on, and we drew uigh lo

Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard plot ;

And as we climbed the hill,
Towards the roof of Lucy's cot

The moon descended still. 15

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,

Kind nature's gentlest boon !
And all the while my eyes I kept

On the descending moon.

My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 20

He raised, and never stopped ;
When down behind the cottage roof,

At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide

Into a lover's head ! —
•' O, mercy ! " to myself I cried,

•' If Lucy should be dead ! "

— WunLwortk.

20. -SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTKODDEN WAYS.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove ;
A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone 5

Half hidden from the eye !
— Fair as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be ; jq

But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The diflFerence to me !

— Wordsworth.

'J.)

I TRAVELLED AM()N(J UNKNOWN MEN.

21.— A SLUMHEIl DID MY SI'IUIT SKAL.

A slumber did my spirit seal ;

I had iio human fears :
She seem'd a thing that cf.uld not feel

The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force ;

She neither hears nor sees,
Roll'd round in earth's diufaal course

With rocks, and stones, and trees.

— Wordnwortk.

•J.)

22.-I TRAVELL'D AMONU UNKNOWN MEN.

I travel! 'd among unknown men

In land.s beyond the sea ;
Nor, PJngland ! did f know till then

What love I itore to thee-

'Tis |)a8t, that melancholy dream I

Nor will f quit thy shore
A second time ; for still I seem

To love thee more antl more.

Among tfiy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire ;
And she I cherish'd tnrn'd her wheel

Heside an English tire.

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd

The bowers where Lucy jilav d ;
And thine too is the ia«t green Held

That Lucy's eyes anrvey'd.

— WordirtDorth.