lUUUUIuniiUllmUinuuflllllliiiimiiiiiiiniiiiHiiuiniiiuuiinnHiiiiiuiii^ INTERB BOOKS BY WAITMAN BARB Famous Poems Explained Cloth, 237 pages. $1.00 postpaid Going to College cloth, 104 pages. 50 cents postpaid Great Poems Interpreted Cloth, 368 pages. $1.25 postpaid HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE NEW YORK CITY GREAT POEMS INTERPRETED WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES OF THE AUTHORS REPRESENTED BY WAITMAN BARBE, A. M., Litt. D. PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN WEST VIRGINIA UNIVERSITY 5 PUBLISHERS HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE 1-33-35 WEST FIFTEENTH STREET, NEW YORK CITY Copyright, 1914, by Hinds, Noble & Bldredge SAiSTA liAliiiARA PREFACE The wide and increasing use which teachers and stu- dents are making of Famous Poems Explained seems to call for a second volume of the same general char- acter, but dealing for the most part with poems more difficult to understand. It is hoped that the present volume will be found useful in high schools and colleges, and in teachers' reading circles. Every student of English and American literature is indebted to a multitude of other students; whether or not the present writer has made diligent investigation on his own account, the following pages will show. Most of these studies were made in the Bodleian Li- brary at Oxford University, and for the courteous as- sistance of the officers of that institution, thanks are here expressed. W. B. West Virginia University, January, 1914. CONTENTS TITLE AUTHOR PACK Corinna's Going a-Maying Robert Hcrrick 7 Lycidas John Milton 19 Alexander's Feast John Drydcn 37 The Bard Thomas Gray 51 Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard. . .Thomas Gray 05 The Deserted Village Oliver Goldsmith 79 To Mary William Coicpcr 95 Highland Mary Robert Burns 103 Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey William Wordsworth 109 Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood Williatn Wordsivorth 129 Rome (From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage) . .Lord Byron 145 Days Ralph Waldo Emerson 153 The Problem Ralph Waldo Emerson 157 Ode to the West Wind Percy Bysshe Shelley 167 The Cloud Percy Bysshe Shelley 179 Ode to a Nightingale John Keats 189 Ode on a Grecian Urn John Keats 201 The Sermon of Saint Francis Henry W^adsivorth Longfellow 211 Hymn of the Moravian Nuns Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 217 Ulysses Lord Tennyson 225 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington Lord Tennyson 235 The Lady of Shalott Lord Tennyson 255 Merlin and the Gleam Lord Tennyson 269 Andrea del Sarto Robert Browning 2S1 The Lost Leader Robert Broivning 299 Philomela Matthew Arnold 307 The Deacon's Masterpiece ; or, The Wonderful One- Hoss Shay Oliver Wendell Holmes 313 Rhoecus James Russell Lowell 321 The Shepherd of King Admetus. . . .James Russell Lowell 329 The Blessed Damozel Dante Gabriel Rossetti 335 A Group of Sonnets — TFi7/iawi Shakespeare, John Milton, William Wordsicorth, John Keats, Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 347 Biographical Notes. 357 3 Corinna*s Going a- Maying CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING The joy of this life was Robert Herrick's habitual theme. His special province was the joy of country life. Corimia's Going a-Maying is not only an exquisite and enticing piece of writing, but it is the best expression in literature of one of the most interesting phases of English social life ; and the poem yields its full meaning only to those who know what May-Day meant during a period of at least four centuries. Home's Every Day Book says: "This was the great rural festival of our forefathers. Their hearts responded merrily to the cheerfulness of the season. At the dawn of May morning the lads and lassies left their towns and villages, and repairing to the woodlands by sound of music, they gathered the 'may,' or blossomed branches of the trees, and bound them with wreaths of flowers ; then returning to their homes by sunrise they decorated the lattices and doors with the sweet-smelling spoil of their joyous journey, and spent the remaining hours in sports and pastimes." Elsewhere the same authority says; "In the 16th century it was still customary for the middle and humble classes to go forth at an early hour of the morning in order to gather flowers and hawthorn branches, which they brought home about sunrise, with accompaniments of horn and tabour and all possible signs of joy and merriment. With these spoils they would decorate every door and window in the village. By a natural 7 8 CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING transition of ideas, tliey gave to the haAvthorn blossom the name of May; they called this ceremony 'the bring- ing home the May'; they spoke of the expedition to the woods as 'going a-]\laying'. The fairest maid of the vil- lage was crowned with flowers as the 'Queen of the May'; the lads and lassies met, danced and sang to- gether. . . . In a somewhat earlier age ladies and gentlemen Avere accustomed to join in the Maj'ing festivi- ties. Even the king and queen condescended to mingle on this occasion with their subjects." In The Court of Love, formerly attributed to Chaucer, we read that early on }iIay-Day "forth goeth all the court, both most and least, to fetch the flowers fresh." In the reign of Henry VIII the heads of the corporation of London "went out into the high grounds of Kent to gather the May, the King and his Queen, Catherine of Aragon, coming from their palace of Greenwich and meeting these respected dignitaries on Shooter's Hill." Henry Bourne in Antiquities of the Common People, published 1725, says: "The after part of May-Day is chiefly spent in dancing round a tall Poll, which is called a May Poll ; which being placed in a convenient part of the village stands there as it were consecrated to the Goddess of Flowers, wdthout the least violation offered to it, in the whole circle of the year. ' ' The good Philip Stubbes did not approve of these frivolities, but his description of them, in his Anatomy of Abuses, 1583, is interesting: "Their chiefest Jewell they bring from thence is their Male poole, whiche they bring home with greate veneration, as thus. They have twentie or fourtie yoke of oxen, every oxe havyug a CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING 9 sweete nosegaie of flowers tyed on the tippe of his homes, and these oxen drawe home this Maie poole, whiche is covered all over with flowers and hearbes, bounde rounde aboute with stringes from the toppe to the bot- tome, and sometyme painted with variable colours, with two or three hundred men, women, and children follow- yng it, with greate devotion. And thus beyng reared up, with handkerchiefs and flagges streaming on the toppe, they strawe the grounde aboute, binde greene boughes aboute it, sett up Sommer Bowers and Arbours hard by it. And then fall they to banquet and feast, to leape and daunce aboute it, as the Heathen people did at the dedication of their Idolles, whereof , this is the perfect patterne, or rather the thyng itself." An anonymous writer early in the 17th century says : "In the month of May, namely on May-Day in the morn- ing, every man, except impediment, would walke into the sweete meddowes and green woods, there to re Joyce their spirits with the beauty and savour of sweet flowers, and with the harmonic of birds praising God in their kinde. . . . The citizens of London, of all estates, had their severall Mayings, and did fetch in May-poles ; with divers warlike shewes, with good archers, morrice- dancers, and other devises for pastime all the day long ; and towards the evening they had stage-plaies, and bone-fires in the streets." In Shakespeare 's King Henry VIII there is this refer- ence to the universality of the May-Day custom : Pray, sir, be patient ; 'tis as much impossible (Unless we sweep them from the door with cannons) To scatter 'em as 'tis to make 'em sleep On May-Day morning ; which will never be. 10 CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING When the Puritans came into power they suppressed all festivities, i\Iay-Day along with the rest. On April 6, 1644, Parliament ordered : "The lords and commons do further order and or- dain, that all and singular may-poles, that are or shall be erected, shall be taken down, and removed by the constables, boss-holders, tithing-men, petty constables, and churchwardens of the parishes, where the same be, and that no ]\Iay-pole be hereafter set up within this kingdom of England or dominion of "Wales; the said officers to be fined five shillings weekly till the said ]\Iay- pole be taken down. ' ' But with the restoration of Charles II came the restor- ation of ]\Iay-poles and ]\Iay-Day festivities. On the first May-Day after the Restoration a May-pole was set up in the Strand with great ceremony and rejoicing; "little children did much rejoice, and ancient people did clap their hands saying, golden days began to appear." Thereafter for a hundred years no other social cus- tom of rural England was so full of the joyous spirit as the celebration of May-Day. But the custom gradually died out, and has not been observed for perhaps a hun- dred years, except in a very few places. The Gentle- man's Magazine for 1822 says: "]\Iay-poles are still erected but the May-games are utterly lost." One fea- ture of these games, however, the Morris-dance, still lingers to this day in a few sections of rural England. R. Chambers, in The Book of Bays, published at Ed- inburgh, 1863, says: "One of the London parishes takes its distinctive name from the May-Pole which in olden times overtopped its steeple. The Parish is that of St. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING 11 Andrew Undershaft .... Stow, who is buried in this church, tells us that in his time the shaft was set up 'every year, on May-day in the morning' by the exulting Londoners 'in the midst of the street before the south door of the said church ; which shaft, when it was set up and fixed in the ground, was higher than the church steeple. ' During the rest of the year the pole was hung upon iron hooks above the door of the neighboring houses, and immediately beneath the projecting pent- houses which kept the rain from their doors. It was destroyed in a fit of Puritanism in the third year of Edward VI after a sermon preached at St. Paul's Cross against May games, when the inhabitants of these houses 'sawed it in pieces, everie man taking for his share as much as had layne over his doore and stall, the length of the house, and they of the alley divided amongst them so much as had layne over their alley gate ' . . . . Scattered in some of the more remote Eng- lish villages are a few of the old IMay-poles. One still does duty as a supporter of a weathercock in the church- yard at Pendleton, Manchester; others might be cited serving more ignoble uses than they were originally in- tended for. The custom of dressing them with May garlands, and dancing around them, has departed from utilitarian England, and the jollity of old country cus- toms given way to the ceaseless labouring monotony of commercial town life." Robert Herrick lived in the 17th century (1591-1674) when English country life was full of simple, natural, unrestrained enjoyment, and was not the dull sodden thing it has come to be in our time. He was the vicar 12 CORINNA'S GOING A-MATING of a little country cliiircli, and many of kis poems con- tain references to some of the forms of the church. May-Day customs are mentioned by Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Dryden and many of the other early poets, but Ilerrick's poem is the supreme expression of their spirit as it blassomed with the flowers through the centuries. corinna's going a-maying Get up, get up for shame ! The blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unsliorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted eolours through the air ! Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see 5 The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east Above an hour since ; j^et you not drost — Nay! not so much as out of bed, "When all the birds have matins said, 10 And sung their thankful hymn : 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in — Whenas a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen 15 To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green, the god unsliorn — (line 2) — Apollo, the sun. Aurora (."?) — the goddess of moniiniu'. hoired touard Ihc cast (7) — this is one of many references in Herrick's poems to rellfrious ceremonies. matins (10) — morning songs of praise. tchenas (13) — whereas; while. May (14) — blossoms of the hawthorn ; hence the tree itself: so call- ed because it blooms in the month of May. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING 13 And Sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: 20 Besides, the childhood of the day has kept Against you come, some orient pearls unwept : Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night : And Titan on the eastern hill 25 Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying : Few beads are best, when once we go a-]\Iaying. Come, my Corinna, come ! and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park 30 Made green, and trimmed with trees : See how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch : each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, 35 As if here were those eooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey The proclamation made for May : 40 Flora (17) — The goddess of flowers. Her festival was celebrated at the beginning of May. Orient pearls unwept (22) — dew-drops. Titan (25) — here means the sun. leads (28) — prayers. each field turns a street (30) — becomes like a street full of young people. 14 CORINNA'S GOING A-MATING And sin no more, as we have done, by stajnng : But, my Corinna, come; let's go a-Maying. There's not a budding boy or girl, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come 45 Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream : And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth. And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth : 50 Many a green -gown has been given : IMany a kiss, both odd and even : Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye. Love 's firmament : Many a jest told of the keys betraying 55 This night, and locks picked : — Yet we're not a-Maying. Come ! let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the hai-mless folly of the time ! We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. 60 Our life is short: and our days run As fast away as does the sun : And as a vapour, or a drop of rain Once lost, can ne'er be found again; So when or you or I are made 65 A fable, song, or fleeting shade, cakes and cream (47) — the universal custom was to eat cakes and cream on May-Day morning. lejt to dream (48) — ceased dreaming. prcen-rjown (51) — tumble on the grass. both odd and even (52) —a game of chance. CORINNA'S GOING A-MATING 15 All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come! let's go a-Maying. 70 — Robert Herrick. An interesting May-Day custom survives at Magdalen College, Ox- ford. Every May-Day morning at five o'clock, a Latin hymn to the Holy Trinity is sung on the summit of the college tower by the college choir in their surplices. The choir is considered the finest in England. The custom has obtained for several centuries. Felix E. Schelling says (Seventeenth Century Lyrics) : "There are some of us who feel that we could no more spare the dainty grace and beauty of Corinna^s Going a-Maying than we could en- dure to lose a book of Paradise Lost!" F. T. Palgrave, in the Golden Treasury says : "A lyric more faultless and sweet than this cannot be found in any literature. Keeping with profound instinctive art within the limits of the key chosen, Herrick has reached a perfection very rare at any period of literature in the tones of playfulness, natural description, pas- sion, and seriousness, which introduce and follow each other like the motives in a sonata by Weber or Beethoven, throughout this little masterpiece of music without notes." Spenser, in The Shepherd's Calendar, 1579-80, says: Is not thilke the mcry moneth of May, When love-lads masken in fresh aray? How falles it, then, we no merrier bene, Ylike as others, girt in gawdy greene? Our bloncket liveryes bene all to sadde For thilke same season, when all is ycladd With pleasaunce : the grawnd with grasse, the Woods With greene leaves, the bushes with bloosming buds. Yougthes folke now flocken in every where, To gather May bus-kets and smelling brere : And home they hasten the postes to dight, And all the Kirke pillours eare day light, With Hawthorne buds and swete Eglantine, And girlonds of roses, and Sopps in wine. Such merimake holy Saints doth queme, [please] But we here sitten as drownd in a dreme. Lycidas IT LYCIDAS 19 LYCIDAS Those who think that poetry should be the spontan- eous expression of personal feeling, simple and direct, do not take kindly to Milton's Lycidas; but those who enjoy a work of art, finished to perfection, richly inlaid with rare gems from every clime, and profusely over- wrought with exquisite traceries, find in this poem a source of perpetual delight. So many are its riches, it must be read again and again before they are fully comprehended. At first they dazzle but do not satisfy. Every gem must be studied in itself as well as in its setting. Lycidas is an elegy for Edward King, one of Milton's college friends at Cambridge, who lost his life in a shipwreck in the Irish Channel August 10, 1637. King was a young man of much promise, a writer of poetry, and a student for the Church of England ministry. Shortly after his unfortunate death Cambridge Uni- versity decided to publish a collection of memorial verses as a tribute to his memory. At that time such publica- tions were quite common, and it is not to be expected that they were all expressions of deep personal grief. The Cambridge volume, or rather two volumes, appeared the following year and contained, along with thirty-five other tributes to King, Milton's Lycidas. The poem is in the pastoral style : it is a pastoral elegy. A pastoral, strictly speaking, is a poem about shepherds and deals with country life in an artificial way. "Lycidas" is the name given in this poem to Edward King. It is a com- 20 LYCIDAS mon name in old pastoral poetry for a shepherd, and this is why Milton uses it. The poet represents himself also as a shepherd, lamenting the untimely death of an- other shepherd (King) whom he loved and who had been his companion. This lament takes the manner of the old classic pastorals and is not at all in the style of a modern English cry of grief. All sorts of personages and characters are introduced, and classic allusions abound in nearly every line. For the purpose of analy- sis I have divided the poem into nine sections, though it is not ordinarily so printed. Section 1 {lines 1-36) is introductory. He addresses the laurel, the myrtle, and the ivy, — emblems of poetry, love, and learning — and explains to them why he is going to write "once more." It had been three years since he had written a poem (Comus), and he writes now only because of the sad occasion, the death of his friend Lycidas (King). Then he implores the Muses, "the Sisters of the sacred well," to begin the dirge, for in the same way he hopes that when his own time shall come some "gentle Muse," or poet, will lament for him. Surely he has good cause to mourn for Lyeidas, for they were children together, shepherds together, fed the same flocks, and played the "oaten flute" together, ■while fauns and satyrs danced; and Damaetas approved their song. Damaetas is a name in old pastoral poetry for the master of the shepherds. It may possibly refer here to Dr. Chappell, a tutor at Cambridge in Milton's time. The elegy proper begins with Section 2 (lines 37-49). All nature mourns: woods, caves, willows, hazel-copses. The death of Lycidas is to them as the canker to the LTCIDAS 21 rose, the taint-worm to the herds, or frost to flowers. Notice that the objects of nature introduced are such as a shepherd would be familiar with. In Section 3 {li7ies 50-64) he upbraids the Nymphs for not protecting Lycidas from drowning. He accuses them of not being where they should have been, on the top of Mona (the isle of Anglesey in the Irish Channel) or on the steep nearby where ' ' the famous Druids lie, ' ' or where the Deva (the river Dee) flows into the Channel. These are all near where King was drowned. Then the poet remembers that even if they had been there they could have done nothing, for even the Muse herself (referring to Calliope, the Muse of epic poetry) was not able to save her own son Orpheus when he was torn to pieces and his head was thro"RTi into the Hebros river and carried to the island of Lesbos. If the Muse was not able to save her own son, surely the Nymphs would not have been able to save Lycidas even if they had been present. Section 4 (lines 64-84) is a digression. Here Milton interrupts his lament for Lycidas and inserts a passage on fame. The reference here is to himself. "He pro- claims his convictions concerning the high office of poot, which his contemporaries regarded so lightly, the dignity of learning and study, and the worth of true fame," (W. A. Verity). What profit is there, he asks, in taking unceasing care and writing serious poetry ? Would it not be better to write the popular love-poetry of the period — to sport with the shepherdesses Amaryllis and Neara, as Herrick, Lovelace, Suckling and other poets of the time were doing? Fame may serve as a spur to labor and 22 LYCIDAS hard study and the scorn of delights, but just when fame is about to be attained Fate or Death clips the thread of life. But Phoebus Apollo, the Greek god of song, checks him in this thought and tells him that true fame is not an earthly thing: it exists only through the final approval of Jove, and the reward is in Heaven. Death cuts short life but not true fame. In Section 5 (lines 85-103) he takes up the main theme again and apologizes to the Muse of pastoral poetry for the digression. The fountain of Arethusa typifies Greek pastoral verse and the river Mincius, Latin pastoral verse. He tells the Muse that the strain he has just been listening to, the voice of Apollo about true fame, was a higher mood. Then his tune on the pastoral pipe (''oaten reed") proceeds. He listens to Triton, the herald of the sea, summoning in behalf of 'Neptune, the god of the sea, a court of inquiry. He asks the winds and the waves what hard misfortune had doomed Lycidas to a watery grave: but they do not know. Hippotades (Aeolus, the god of the winds) answers for them, that the air was calm and that Panope (one of the sea Nymphs) was playing with her sisters on the smooth sea. There was no storm: it was the fault of the poorly-built ship in which Lycidas sailed. In Section 6 (Ihies 103-131) the chief mourners are introduced. First comes Camus, the spirit of the river Cam and therefore of Cambridge University, "footing slow," for the Cam is a sluggish stream. "The sanguine flower inscribed with woe" is the hyacinth. "Hyaein- thus, son of a Spartan king, was killed by Zephyrus and fi'om his blood sprang the flower named after him, on LYCIDAS 23 the petals of which could be traced ai, ai, 'alas! alas!' " Last comes St. Peter, representing not particularly the Roman church but the eh arch as a whole. Camus repre- sents learning and St. Peter religion, both mourning for Lycidas. In this section occurs a very severe and a very famous censure of the Church of England. ]\Iilton him- self at one time intended to take "holy orders," that is, become a clergyman, but the condition of the church disgusted him. Contemporary documents show that many of the clergy were ignorant, indifferent, and drunken. Moreover Archbishop Laud, a despotic and meddlesome bigot, was treating the Nonconformists, or those who did not believe in the Established Church, with the greatest severity and was at that time prepar- ing a liturgy which was to arouse all Scotland to rebel- lion. There had been no Parliament for eight years and no check of any kind was put on his actions. These facts must be remembered before the terrible arraign- ment of the Anglican Church in lines 113-130 can be understood. A study of English history in the time of Milton will wonderfully illuminate this passage. "The grim wolf with the privy paw" is either the Papal party or the Romanizing section of the Established Church, or both. Exactly what is meant by the ** two-handed en- gine" is not clear, except that it is retribution in some terrible form — some two-handed sword of justice which was to fall upon the Church of England. The axe is to be laid to the root of the tree. It should be borne in mind that Milton's deepest eonviction was that there should be no such thing as an Established Church or state-paid clergy. 24 LTCIDAS In Ruskin's Sesame and Lilies (paragraphs 20-25 of the lecture on "King's Treasures") will be found an in- teresting discussion of this passage. (See notes.) Section 7 {lines 132-165) resumes the pastoral strain. Once more he recalls the pastoral Muse. Alpheus, a river of Peloponnesus, symbolizes the pastoral poetry of the Greeks; the dread voice to which Milton has been listening in the preceding section had checked the course of his pastoral musings. Now he invokes the Muse to bid the vales and streams and hills to strew the hearse of Lycidas with their choicest flowers : primrose, jessamine, pink, violet, muskrose, woodbine, cowslip, amaranth, and daffodil. He eases his grief with this thought, though he remembers, alas, that there is no hearse, the body has not been recovered : perchance it is being borne to the Heb- rides, or to where the Cornish giant Bellerus lies, or to where the "vision" or spirit of St. ]\Iichael looks toward Namancos and Bayonne in old Castile. The "guarded mount" is St. Michael's off Penzance, and the "angel" to whom the poet appeals to melt with pity and look homeward is St. Michael. Then he appeals to the dolph- in {see note) to guide the luckless Lycidas home. Section 8 {lines 165-185) is the concluding passage of the elegy proper. In it the mourning shepherd tells the other shepherds to weep no more, for Lycidas is in- deed not dead : he has gained eternal life through Christ, through "Him that walked the waves." He is in the kingdom of the blest ; all the saints above minister to him and wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Then, ad- dressing Lycidas, he says that henceforth his spirit shall be the good genius that shall guard the shore where the LYCIDAS 25 ship went down. Mr. Verity says, "This introduction of a Pagan belief immediately after the reference to the Scriptural idea of the 'communion of the saints,' and the Scriptural language, is another instance of that blending of the classics and Christianity which is so marked a feature of Lycidas." Section 9 is an epilogue, in which Milton, still calling himself a shepherd and an "uncouth swain," says that having finished his lament, and the evening having come on, he arose and gathered his shepherd's mantle about him; tomorrow he will set out for "fresh woods, and pastures new". ANALYSIS Mr. W. Bell (notes in "The Golden Treasury") gives the following analysis : I. The pastoral proper (the poet sings as shepherd) : 1. Occasion of the poem, lines 1-14. 2. Invocation of the Muses, 15-22. 3. Poet's personal relations with Lycidas, 23-36. 4. Strain of sorrow and indignation ; the loss great and inex- plicable : — (1) Poet's own sense of loss, 37-49. (2) The guardian Nymphs could not prevent it, 50-57. (3) The Muse herself could not prevent it, though he was her true son, 58-63. (First rise to a higher mood: the true poet and the nature of his reward), 64-84. (4) Neptune was not to blame for the loss, 85-102. (5) Camus, representing Cambridge, bewails his loss, 103-107. (0) St. Peter, the guardian of the Church, sorely misses Lycidas as a true son, 108-112. (Second rise to a higher mood : The false sons of the Church and their coming ruin), 113-131. (7) All nature may well mourn his loss, 132-151. (8) Sorrow loses itself in "false surmise," and hope arises, 152-164. 26 LYCIDAS 5. Strain of joy and hope : Lycidas is not dead, 165-185. 'II. The EJpilogue (the poet reviews the shepherd's song), 186-193. LYCIDAS "In this Monody the author bewails a learned Friend, unfortu- nately drown'd in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637 ; and by occasion foretells the ruine of our corrupted Clergie then in their height." Yet once more, ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5 Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear. Compels me to disturb your season due ; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 10 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin, then. Sisters of the sacred well, 15 That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain and coy excuse; So may some gentle IMuse, With lucky words favour my destined urn, 20 Sisters of the sacred well, etc. (lines 15-16) — the "Sisters" are the nine muses, the "well" Is the fountain on Mt. Helicon, and the "seat of JoTe" is the altar there, dedicated to Jove. LTCIDAS 27 And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade and rill : Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 25 Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the graj^-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 30 Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute ; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long, 35 And Old Damaetas lov^d to hear our song. 2 But, the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return ! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 40 And all their echoes mourn. The willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, 45 Or taint-worm to the weaning herds that graze, Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear, batfenintj (29) — fattening. oatin flute (33) — symbol of pastoral music. 28 LYCIDAS "When first the white-thorn blows : Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50 Closed 'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 55 Ay me, I fondly dream ! Had ye been there — for what could that have done ? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore. The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal Nature did lament, 60 When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream w^as sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? 4 Alas ! what boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd 's trade, 65 And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, Druids (53) — Celtic priests. Deva (55) — The river Dee; King sailed from Chester on the Dee. When, hy the rout that made the hideous roar. (Gl) — Orpheus so offended the women of Thrace by his inconsolable grief for Eury- dice that In one of their orgies they tore him to pieces. The frag- ments were collected by tho Muses and buried nt the foot of Olympus; but the head having been thrown into the Ilebrus was carried away to the Island of Lesbos. LYCIDAS 29 To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 70 (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon When we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze. Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, 75 And slits the thin-spun life. **But not the praise", Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: ' * Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, 80 But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed. ' ' 5 fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, 85 Smooth-sliding ]\Iincius, croAvned with vocal reeds. That strain I heard was of a higher mood : But now my oat proceeds. And listens to the herald of the sea. That came in Neptune 's plea : 90 He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? And questioned every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory. the hUnd Fury (75) — here means Atropos, one of the Fates, who clipped the thread of life. 30 LTCIDAS They knew not of his story : 95 And sage Ilippotadcs their answer brings: That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed, The air was cahn, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 100 Built in the eclipse, and rigged "wnth curses dark. That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 6 Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105 Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. "Ah! who hath reft" (quoth he) "my dearest pledge?" Last came, and last did go. The Pilot of the Galilean Lake ; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 110 (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) ; lie shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : "How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! 115 Of other care they little reckoning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold Two masfiy Tceys he bore (110) — "Afid I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven." Matthew 16 : 19. The pictures of St. Peter nlways represent him with two keys. vvtrcfl Tories (112) — A mitre is a bishop's head-dress. Blind mouths (119) — "Mouths" here stands for "gluttons," making a powerful phrase. LYCIDAS 31 A sheep-hook, or have learnt anght else the least 120 That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them ? What need they ? They are sped ; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 125 But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and notliing said; But that two-handed engine at the door 130 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells, and flowrets of a thousand hues. 135 Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 140 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, sped (122) — provided for. lean and flashy (123) — Poor and insipid. scrannel (124) — harsh, screeching. rank mist (126) — false doctrine. draw (126) — breathe. Sicilian Muse (133) — The muse of pastoral poetry. sirart star (138) — The Dog Star. rathe (142) — Early. 32 LYCIDAS The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white piuk, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, 145 The musk rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears ; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed. And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 150 To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise ; Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where 'er thy bones are hurled ; 155 Whether oeyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide, Vist'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied. Sleep 'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 160 Where the great Vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold: Look homeward. Angel, now, and melt with ruth; And, ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 8 Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, 165 For Lycidas, j^our sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; sad embroidery (118) — See Section 6, line lOG. monstrous world (IHS) — World of monsters, the ocean. the great Vision (161) — Apparitions of St. Michael had been seen, according to tradition, on St. Michael's Mount. ye dolphins (104) — Referring to the familiar classical story that a dolphin once saved the life of the Greek musician Arion. LYCIDAS 33 So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 170 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : So Lycidas sank low but mounted hig*h, Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 175 And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops and sweet societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, 180 And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds w^eep no more ; Henceforth thou art the Grenius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. 185 9 Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still Morn went out with sandals gray ; He touched the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 190 And now was dropt into the western bay ; At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. — John Milton. unexpressive (176) — Inexpressible. stops of various quills (188) — Vnrious moods and meters. Doric (189) — The pastorsl or Doric style. 34 LYCIDAS Commenting on the words "creep," and "intrude," and "climb," Ruskin says : "No other words would or could serve the turn, and no more could be added. For they exhaustively comprehend the three classes, correspondent to the three characters of men who dis- honestly seek ecclesiastical power. First, those who 'creep' into the fold ; who do not care for ofTice nor name but for secret influence, and do all things occultly and cunningly, consenting to any servility of oflice or conduct, so only that they may intimately discern, and unawares direct, the minds of men. Then those who 'intrude' (thrust that is) themselves into the fold, who by natural insolence of heart, and stout eloquence of tongue, and fearlessly perseverant self-assertion, obtain hearing and authority with the common crowd. Lastly, those who 'climb,' who by labor and learning, both stout and sound, but selfishly exerted in the cause of their own ambi- tion, gain high dignities and authorities." Concerning the use of the phrase "blind mouths" he says : "Those two monosyllables express the precisely accurate contraries of like character in the two great ofEces of the Church, those of bishop and pastor. A bishop means a person who sees. A pastor means one who feeds. The most unbishoply character a man can have is there- fore to be blind. The most unpastoral is, instead of feeding, to want to be fed — to be a Mouth. Take the two reverses together, and you have 'blind-mouths.' " It is evident of course that to understand Lycidas the reader must be well informed in classic mytliology. Alexander's Feast ALEXANDER'S FEAST 37 ALEXANDER'S FEAST or. The Power of Music; an Ode in honour of St, Cecilia's Day. Joihn Dryden's best-known poem, and one of the great- est of English Odes, is Alexander's Feast. It was writ- ten in a single night, when Dryden had reached the age of sixty-six. Lord Bolingbroke called upon him one morning, and Drj^den said to him : "I have been up all night; my musical friends made me promise to write tliem an ode for their feast of St. Cecilia, and I was so struck with the subject which occurred to me that I could not leave it till I had completed it; here it is, finished at one sitting." His "musical friends" were the members of the St. Cecilia Society of London who annually, on the 22nd of November, celebrated St. Ce- cilia's Day. Songs had been written for these occasions by Oldham, Nahum Tate and other poets; in 1687 Dry- den had written his Song for St. Cecilia's Day. Pope wrote a song for the society in 1708 ; but much the finest of all is Alexander's Feast. ■St, Cecilia, the patron saint of music, especially of church music, was a member of a noble Roman family. She was commanded to sacrifice to idols, refused to do so, and was condemned to death, A. D. 230. She was buried by Pope Urban in the catacombs of Calixtus. In 820 Pope Paschal had her body — which was found "fresh and perfect as when it Avas first laid in the tomb, and clad in rich garments mixed with gold, with linen 38 ALEXANDER'S FEAST cloths stained with blood rolled up at her feet" — re- moved to the Church of St. Cecilia, which had originally been her house. Beneath the high altar there is a statue of St. Cecilia, representing her body as found in the catacombs. She is regarded as the inventor of the organ, and in the Roman Catholic church her festival-day, November 22, is celebrated with splendid music. Raph- ael's painting of St. Cecilia seated at a musical instru- ment while an angel hovers near, dropping flowers, is familiar to everybody; as Dryden says, ''she drew an angel down." Dryden 's poem not only represents the power of music but it portrays an event, fairly well established, in the life of Alexander the Great : the burning of the splen- did city of Persepolis at the request of the celebrated Greek wit and beauty, Thais. Plutarch thus tells the story : "When he was about to set forth from this place [Persepolis] against Darius, he joined with his companions in a merry-making and drinking bout. . . . The most celebrated of them [the women present] was Thais, a girl of Attica ... As the license of the drinking bout progressed she was carried so far, either by way of offering Alexander a graceful compliment or of bantering him, as to express a sentiment which, while not unworthy of the spirit of her fatherland, was surely somewhat lofty for her own condition. For she said ... it would give her still greater pleasure, if to crown the celebration she might burn the house of the Xerxes who once reduced Athens to ashes, and might with her own hands set the fire under the eyes of the King ; so the saying might go forth among men that the little woman with Alexander took sorer ven- geance on the Persians in behalf of Greece than all the great gen- erals who fought by sea or land. Iler words weTc received with such tumults of applause, and .so earnestly seconded by the persua- sions and zeal of the King's associates, that he was drawn into it himself; and leaping up from his seat with a chaplet of flowers on his head and a lighted torch in his hand led the way, while the ALEXANDER'S FEAST 39 rest followed him in a drunken rout, with bacchanalian cries, about the corridors of the palace." The old historian Quintus Curtius gives the following account of the incident: "Thais, being heated with wine, told him [Alexander] he could not do anything that would more oblige all the Greeks than if he burnt the pahice of the kings of Persia; that they expected this by way of reprisal for those towns of theirs the Barbarians had destroyed. Some of the company (who were also loaded with wine) applauded the proposal: and the king not only heard it with patience, but eager to put it in execution, said, 'Why do we not revenge Greece? Why do we delay setting fire to the town?' They were all heated with wine, and in that drunken condition immedi- ately rose to burn that city they had spared when armed. The king showed them the example, and was the first to set fire to the palace, after which his guests, servants and concubines did the same. . . . This was the end of the noblest city of the east." Concerning the influence on Alexander of the musi- cian Timotheus, whom Dryden makes the moving spirit of the scene, Quintus Curtius says: "He was very much taken with Timotheus, who was very famous in that profession, for this man, accommodating his art to Alexan- der's humour, did once so ravish him by Phrygian airs that he seemed all in a transport, and actuated as it were by some inspira- tion, hastened to his arms as if the enemy had been just at hand." The scene in Dryden 's poem is strikingly drawn. It is a typical oriental feast or festival; the conqueror is seated on a gorgeous throne, and by his side is Thais, his favorite; about him are his heroes, crowned with roses and myrtles, as was the custom. Timotheus, the most famous musician of his time, is conspicuous among the music-makers. This is the Timotheus of Whom it is said that he charged double fees to all pupils who had been taught music by other teachers. 40 ALEXANDER'S FEAST The great musician begins, as was the universal custom on sudh occasions, by singing a song in praise of the person in whose honor the feast was given. "The song began from Jove," — that is, the song began by relating the legend that Jove was the father of Alexander, having appeared to Olympias, Alexander's mother, in the form of a serpent, and that the conquerer was therefore him- self a god. Alexander had some time before this con- sulted the oracle of Amnion in the Libyan Desert and the oracle had saluted him as a son of Zeus or Jove ; ' ' and he returned with the conviction that he was indeed a god." For challenging Alexander's divinity Callis- thenes, a nephew of Aristotle, was tortured and put to death. In fact, his father was Philip of Macedon and his mother Ol^mipias, daughter of Neoptolemus, king of Epirus, but his marvelous military feats had made the superstitious think he was more than human. And so the listening crowd shouts, "A present deity!" and "the vaulted roofs rebound." Alexander assumes the attitude and manners of a god, and "seems to shake the spheres" with his might and power. It is a gorgeous, splendid and barbaric oriental picture which Dryden presents. In stanza three, Timotheus takes another theme for his song, the praise of Bacchus, the god of wine. ]\Iean- while the effects of the wine itself as well as those of the music are very evident. These effects on Alexander are mentioned in stanza four. In his imagination he fights his battles over again, routing his foes and slaying the slain. He grows so vain that he defies heaven and eartli. ALEXANDER'S FEAST 41 Timotheus, seeing this, changes his tune and cheeks the Conqueror's pride. He sings a song of pity for Darius, lung of Persia, fallen from his high estate, whom Alexander seems to have had some genuine sympathy for. Next to pity is love, and so Alexander is in the proper frame of mind for Timotheus to sing to him of love, which he does in stanza five, in soft sweet Lydian meas- ures. War, honor, fighting, these things are not to be compared with love. The crowds seem to like this song best of all, and so Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. Meanwhile the conqueror of the world was con- quered by wine and music and love. The climax is presented in stanza six. The master musician undertakes to rouse the king from his drunken stupor with a song of revenge. He makes the ghosts of the slain Grecian soldiers appear in the festal-hall in the form of Furies with snakes hissing in their hair, and calling for fiery vengeance on the Persian houses. The princes applaud, Thais leads the way, the king seizes a torch, and the palaces of Persepolis are burned to the ground. "In a fit of drunkenness, at the instigation of Thais, he set fire to Persepolis, the wonder of the world, and reduced it to a heap of ashes. ' * Thus, long ago, Timotheus with flute and lyre and song was able to raise a mortal to the skies in his own imagination, but when St. Cecilia invented the organ slie was able to draw even the angels about !her. 42 ALEXANDER'S FEAST ALEXANDER'S FEAST 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike soh: Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne ; 5 His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows wdth roses and with myrtles bound, (So should desert in arms be crowned;) The lovely Thais, by his side. Sate like a blooming eastern bride 10 In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. 15 Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, "With flying fingers touched the lyre : The trembling notes ascend the sky. for Persia icon (line 1) — Persia was won by Alexander In the great battle of Arbela, October, 331 B. C, but several other battles were fought afterward. Darius bad between half a million and a million men ; Alexander bad fifty thousand. Darius lost at least three hundred thousand. ALEXANDER'S FEAST 43 The heavenly joys inspire. 20 The song began from Jove Who left his blissful seats above, (Such is the power of mighty love,) A dragon's fiery form belied the god: Sublime on radiant spires he rode 25 When he to fair Olympia pressed, And while he sought her snowy breast ; Then round her slender waist he curled, And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The 'listening crowd admire the lofty sound, 30 "A present deity!" they shout around: "A present deity!" the vaulted roofs rebound: With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god, 35 Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres. 3 The praise of Bacchus -then the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young; The jolly god in triumph comes ; 40 Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums ; Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face ; Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes ; belied the god (2-1) — counterfeited Jove. Olinnpia (26) — Alexander's mother's name was Olympias. assumes the God (35) — Assumes the manner of a god. 44 ALEXANDER'S FEAST Bacchus, ever fair and young, 45 Drinking joys did first ordain; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldiers pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, 50 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 4 Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise, 55 IKs glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; And, while he heaven and earth defied. Changed his hand, and checked his pride. He chose a mournful muse Soft pity to infuse : 60 He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate fought his battles o'er again (53) — His chief battles -were Arbola, 331 B. C. ; IsKus, 333 ; Franicus, 334 ; all against Darius the Tcr- filan ; and the sack of Thebes and the siege of Troy. The master (55) — Timotheus. The words "his" and "he" in the next three lines refer to Alexander, except In the phrase — "changed his hand," where it refers to the musician, who changed his tune. Darius (CI) — Darius III, King of Persia, a monarch of mild and amiable character. Fie was several times defeated by Alexander. He was murdered by the satrap of Bactria and his body was sent to Persepolis by Alexander to be buried with the other monarchs of Persia. ALEXANDER'S FEAST 45 And weltering in his blood; 65 Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth exposed he lies "With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate 70 Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of chance below ; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. The mighty master smiled to see 75 That love was in the next degree ; 'Twas but a kindred sound to move, For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 80 "War," he sung, "is toil and trouble*, Honour but an empty bubble, Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and stall destroying: If the world be worth thy winning, 85 Think, oh think it worth enjoying : Lovely Thais sits beside thee. Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause ; The mighty master (75) — Timotheus. Lydian ttieasures (79) — "The designation of one of the modes in ancient Greek music, characterized as soft and effeminate" — The Ox- ford Dictionary. Stanza 5, in which this phrase occurs, is soft, liquid, "Lydian." Notice the feminine or double rhymes. 46 ALEXANDER'S FEAST So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 90 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care. And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again ; 95 At length with love and wine at once oppressed The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 6 Now strike the golden lyre again : A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder 100 And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark ! the horrid sound Has raised up his head : As awaked from the dead And amazed, he stares around. 105 "Revenge, revenge," Timotheus cries, "See the Furies arise: See the snakes that they rear. How they hiss in their hair. And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! 110 Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand ! Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain And unburied remain Tiis pain (91) — bis passion of love. 8CC. the Furies arinc, (107) — Desoribod in mytliolosy as liaving tliolr bodies covered witli black, serpents twined in their hair, and blood dripping from their eyes. ALEXANDER'S FEAST 47 Inglorious on the plain: 115 Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew, Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods. ' ' 120 The princes applaud with a furious joy ; And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; Thais led the way To lig'ht him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 125 7 Thus long ago. Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, Wliile organs j^et were mute Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, 130 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 135 And added length to solemn sounds, "With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown ; Uke another Helen fired another Troy. (125) — Helen, wife of Menelans, King of Sparta, eloped with Paris, son of Priam, King of Troy. Menelaus to avenge his wrong, induced the allied armies of Greece to attack Troy, and after a siege of ten years the city was taken and burnt to the ground. the vocal Jramc (133) — the organ. 48 ALEXANDER'S FEAST He raised a mortal to the skies; 140 She drew an angel down. — John Dryden. He raised a mortal to the shies (140) — by the power of music he raised big hearers from earth to heaven, a familiar figure of speech. She drew an angel doicn (141) — refers to the legend that an angel left the cbolr8 above to listen to the more entrancing music of St. Cecilia. Professor Gayley (English Poetry, Its Principles and Progress) draws attention to the fact that the rhyme-scheme changes with each new thought thus (stanza 1) a, a, b, b, a, Alexander and his feast; (stanza 2) c, c, c, the peers; (stanza 3) d, d, d, Thais; (stanza 4) e, f, f, Alexander and Thais. Similar changes occur in subsequent stanzas. "While reading the poem, the student should note, for each stanza, three things: (1) the kind of music Timotheus is playing; (2) the effect of the music on Alexander; and (3) the way in which the poet, by word-sounds and metrical effects, pictures objectively the sound of the music, and subjectively and more subtly the resulting mood of the great conqueror." (Gayley.) Observe the frequent metrical changes — iambic, trochaic, anapestic — the varying length of line, as well as the rhyme-schemes and the onomatapoetic effects, used with such mar- velous skill by Dryden in this ode. It offers excellent opportunity for the study of poetic technique. See Browning's Saul for the power of music in a noble cause. The Bard 49 THE BARD 51 THE BARD "These two odes The Progress of Poesy and The Bard espe- cially tbe latter, are the most imaginative poetry Gray ever pro- duced, and were distinctly in advance of the age. They were above the popular conception of poetry, and their obscurity was increased by their allusiveness. . . . Their obscurity was ridiculed, and they were freely parodied." — William Lyon Phelps. The Bard is still above the popular conception of poetry, and its obscurity is still a stumbling-block. That it is a great poem, and highly imaginative, there can be no doubt ; and a careful interpretation will remove all or most of its obscurities. The poem is based on a tra- dition that Edward the First of England (1272-1307), when he conquered Wales, ordered all the bards to be put to death, to prevent their stirring up the patriotism of the Welsh people with their songs and minstrelsy. Green, in his History of the English People, says that the massacre of the bards is a mere fable, but he gives an interesting account of the influence of these ancient Welsh poets in arousing the national feeling. In Book III, Chapter 4, he says : "At the hour of its lowest degradation the silence of Wales was suddenly broken by a crowd of singers. The song of the twelfth century burst forth, not from one bard or another, but from the nation at large. . . . The spirit of the earlier bards, their joy in battle, their love of freedom, broke out anew in ode after ode, in songs extravagant, monotonous, often prosaic, but fused into poetry by the intense fire of patriotism which glowed within them. Every fight, every hero, had its verse. The names of the older singers, of Taliesin, Aneurin and Llywarch Hen, were revived in bold forgeries to animate the national resistance and to prophesy victory. . . . Once in the pass Consilt a cry arose that the king was slain, Henry of Essex flung down the royal standard, and the king's desperate efforts could hardly save his army from utter 52 THE BARD rout. The bitter satire of the Welsh singers bade hira knight his hor«e, since its speed had alone saved him from capture. . . . The hopes of Wales rose higher and higher with each triumph of the lord of Snowdon [Llewellyn]. His court was crowded with bardic singers. Poet after poet sang of 'the Devastator of England.' Lesser bards strung together Llewellyn's victories in rough jingle of rhyme, and hounded him on to the slaughter. A fierce thirst for blood runs through the abrupt, passionate verses of the court singers. The supposed verses of Taliesin expressed the undying hope of a restoration of the Cymry [Welsh]." In Carte 's History of England, published in 1750, Vol- ume II (in the Bodleian Library, Oxford) occurs the following : "The only set of men among the Welsh, that had reason to com- plain of Edward's severity, were the bards who used to put those of the ancient Britons in mind of the valiant deeds of their ances- tors : he ordered them all to be hanged, as inciters of the people to sedition." Following is the thread of the story in the poem : As the army of Edward march through a deep valley in Wales they are stopped by the appearance of a ven- erable bard who stands on a high cliff and pronounces a curse upon the king and his army ; the ghosts of a band of bards slain at Edward's command appear on a more remote mountain and lake up the curse, combining with it a prophecy of misfortune to Edward's descendants; the ghostly bards vanish, and the first bard takes up the theme once more, foretells the coming of true British sovereigns and still greater poets to celebrate virtue and valor, and to condemn vice and tyranny ; his song being ended, the bard leaps headlong from the mountain into the river ihat rolls at its feet. The poem begins with the bard's curse upon the king, followed by a description of the scene and its influence THE BARD 53 upon the king and his army. At line 33 the bard again begins speaking; he laments the death of his fellow- singers, Iloel, Llewellyn, Cadwallo, Urien, Modred, dear lost companions of his tuneful art, but says that they do not sleep, for at that moment their ghosts appear on another cliff. At line 49 this * ' grisly band ' ' begin speak- ing and continue for fifty lines or through lines 49 to 100 inclusive. In these fifty lines the ghostly band "weave tlie winding-sheet of Edward's race," that is, they predict the disasters that are to befall him and his descendants. They tell how Edward the Second is to be butchered in Berkeley Castle {liiies 53-56) ; how Isabel of France, Edward the Second 's adulterous Queen "the she- wolf e of France," is to be a curse to him and to the country (lines 57-58) ; how her son Edward the Third is to scourge her own country, France {lines 59- 62) ; how that mighty victor Edward the Third, is to die abandoned by his children and courtiers, his son "the sable warrior," the Black Prince, being dead {lines 63-70) ; how 'his successor, Kichard the Second, "the ris- ing morn," is to begin his reign in magnificence {lines 71-76), but is to close his life by being starved to death {lines 76-82) ; how the ruinous 'civil wars of York and Lancaster — the Wars of the Roses — are to bring havoc in their course, with many secret murders in the Tower of London, including that of Henry the Sixth, "the meek usurper" of line 90, in spite of his "Father's (Henry the Fifth) fame," and his Queen's heroic struggle to save him {lines 83-94) : and how Eleanor, the Queen of Edward the First, is to lose her life, "the half of Ed- ward's heart," by sucking the poison from a dagger- 54 THE BARD wound in her husband's side, thus saving his life {lines 97-99). Here the band of ghostly bards disappear, and the bard on the nearer cliff, after imploring them not to leave him thus alone, takes up the prophecy and sees on Mount Snowdon's height as it were the scroll of the future un- rolled in visions of glory. He no longer bewails the fact that King Arthur has not returned from fairy-land as predicted and commonly believed, for he sees in the House of Tudor a line of true British kings, they being of Welsh blood (lines 100-110). Queen Elizabeth, who was descended from a "Welsh chief and therefore of the true British line, is the central figure of the vision in lines 111-124. In lines 125-134 the bard sees future great poets of England — Shakespeare moves "in buskined measure," Milton's voice is heard from ''blooming Eden," and the warblings of the succession of poets after Milton's time "in long futurity" strike his prophetic ear. Lines 135-142 are addressed to King Edward — and then the bard leaps from the rock and disappears in the roaring tide. The Bard is a "regular", or Pindaric, ode in imita- tion of the famous odes of Pindar. A Pindaric ode consists of a strophe, an antistrophe, and an epode — or turn, counter-turn, and stand — the first of thorn sup- posed to be sung by the chorus as they moved up one side of the orchestra, the second as they moved down, and the third as they stood. Sometimes the epode is placed between the strophe and the antistrophe. The rhyme-scheme of the strophe is the same as that of the THE BARD 65 antistroplie, but the epode has a different rhyme-scheme. The strophe and the antistrophe are iambic; the epode, trochaic. The lines vary in number of feet but the strophe and antistrophe observe one metrical scheme and the epode another. Each stanza may contain from seven or eiglit verses (lines) to as many as thirty or thirty-five, and thus the rhyme-scheme is sometimes very complex. THE BARD A PINDARIC ODE 1 Strophe *'Euin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait, Though f ann 'd by Conquest 's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's tivisted mail, 5 Nor e 'en thy virtues. Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" Such were the sounds, that o 'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter 'd wild dismay, 10 As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Gloster stood aghast in speechless trance ; "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch 'd his quivering lance. Camhria (line 8) — Wales. 56 THE BARD Antistrophe On a rock whose haughty brow 15 Frowns o 'er old Conway 's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air) 20 And with a Master 's hand, and Prophet 's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre : "Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! 'er thee, King ! their hundred arms they wave, 25 Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel 's harp, or soft Llewellyn 's lay. Epode "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main; 30 Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed; Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 35 Smear 'd with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ; The famish 'd eas'le screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, loone Ms ieard, etc. (19) — This description is like that of an old Hebrew prophet. Plinlimmon (34) — the name of a Wolsli mountain. THE BARD 57 Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, 40 Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit, they linger yet, 45 Avengers of their native land: "With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line : — 2 Strophe " 'Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding sheet of Edward's race. 50 Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. ]\Iark the year, and mark the night. When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, through Berkeley's roofs 55 that ring. Shrieks of an agonizing King ! She- Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs. That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait ! 60 Amazement in his van, with Flight combin 'd, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. grisly (44) — horrible. verge (51) — margin, space. Eevern (54) — A river in the eastern part of Wales. amazement (61) — confusion. 68 THE BARD Antistrophe " 'Mighty victor, mighty lord! Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford 65 A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled f Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were bom ? Gone to salute the rising morn. 70 Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o 'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, 75 That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. Epode " 'Fill high the sparkling bowl. The rich repast prepare. Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : Close by the regal chair 80 Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray. Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, 85 And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame. Towers of Julius (87) — Tho tower of London, the oldest part of which Julius Caesar was thought to have built. THE BARD 59 "With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head. 90 Above, beloAv, the rose of snow, Twin 'd with her blushing foe, we spread : The bristled Boar in infant gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, 95 Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 3 Strophe " 'Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is sptm). Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.) * 100 Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn! In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh ! what solemn scenes on Sno wdon 's height 105 Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul ! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All-hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's Issue, hail! 110 the bristled hoar (93) — Richard the Third, because a silver boar was his badge. Half of thy heart, etc. (99) — See Tennyson's Dream of Fair Women. Snoivdon (105) — The chief mountaia in Wales. 60 THE BARD Antistrophe "Girt "with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a Forai divine ! 115 Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line ; Her lion-port, her awe -commanding face, Attemper 'd sweet to virgin-grace. "What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play! 120 Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colonr'd wings. Ejyode "The verse adorn again 125 Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin 'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 130 A voice, as of the cherub-choir. Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. her lion-port (117) — Quoon Elizabeth's pommanaing mien. Taliessin (121)— Chief of the Welsh bards. THE BARD 61 Fond impious man, think 'st thou yon sanguine cloud 135 Rais'd by thy breath, has quench 'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me ; with joy I see The different doom our fates assign. 140 Be thine despair, and sceptred care ; To triumph, and to die, are mine." He spake, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night, — Thomas Gray. The infant son of Edward I. was giren the title of "Prince of Wales," which the eldest son of the remaining sovereign has borne since that time. "According to the old story," says Cheney (A Short History of England, page 220) "Edward promised to give to the Welsh people as a prince a native of Wales and one who could not speak a word of English. He then presented to them his infant son who had just been born at the Welsh castle of Carnarvon." Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard 63 ELEGY 65 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD Gray's Elegy is the most popular and the most widely read poem in the English language ; and the old church- yard at Stoke Poges in Buckinghamshire is as much visited by tourists as any spot in England, except Strat- ford-on-Avon. The old cemetery is still a "country church-yard." The nearest post-office is two miles away, and the rural scenes described by Gray at the middle of the 18th century still meet the eye. Still the lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea; still the plowman homeward plods his weary way; still the owl complains from his ivy- mantled tower; beneath the same yew-trees' shade the forefathers of the hamlet sleep. At Windsor Castle, three miles away, the boast of heraldry and the pomp of power still prevail, for Windsor is a favourite resi- dence of the King; and every evening at eight o'clock the curfew bell at Windsor still tolls the knell of parting day. The only change noticeable from Gray's descrip- tion is that the sheep have lost their bells — drowsy tinklings no longer lull the distant folds. Hard by the same church-yard still stands the wood where the poet was wont to walk in melancholy mood, and a short dis- tance away at Burnham Beeches is pointed out the nodding beech that still wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, where at noontide he would stretch his listless length. It is a peaceful, dreamy landscape in one of the most beautiful parts of England. The visitor may 66 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A learn, if he is sufficiently interested to spend a day and make inquiry, that the curfew referred to was doubtless the one at AVindsor, that the ivy-mantled tower is the tower of St. Giles Church in the midst of the cemetery and still covered with ivy ; and he may see the English country life much as it was at the time the poem was written. In this old St. Giles church lie buried many persons of more or less renown, and tablets are there to their memory. It was the custom there, as elsewhere, to inter persons of distinction within the church and the humble folk in the church-yard. Gray himself be- longed to the latter class, and he lies buried in the same grave with his mother and his aunt immediately out- side of the church. All about are ancient tombstones, many of them so weather-worn and moss-covered that their inscriptions can no longer be made out. The Elegy is composed of three parts. The first three stanzas describe the quiet landscape, at nightfall: the cattle are slowly crossing the field, the plowman is com- ing home from his work hungry and tired, the tinkling sound of the sheep-bells is heard in the distance, the evening insects are flying around, the moon is up, and in the church tower an owl is heard as the sounds of the curfew bell float over from "Windsor or from Eton. Stanzas four to twenty-three inclusive constitute the main body of the elegy. Yonder under the ancient elms and yew-trees sleep the men who used to fell the trees, plow the fields and reap the harvests. Their joys were homely and their destiny obscure, but the high and pow- erful need not mock — they must all at last come to the same low estate in the grave. No monument, however COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD 67 high, no tribute of honor, no voice of flattery can bring them back. And perhaps some of these lowly fore- fathers might have been famous and powerful too if they had only had the opportunity. Some of them may have had the latent possibilities of a Hampden or a Milton or a Cromwell, but their lot forbade. And so here are their names on the humble gravestones, with texts of scripture and tributes from those who loved them. Surely these humble men are entitled to these memorials, for no one likes to leave this life without some loving word. The remainder of the poem is about the poet himself, his daily life and moods, and concludes with the epitaph written for himself. It is interesting to notice how perfectly Gray describes himself in the last eight stan- zas. It was his custom during that part of every year which he spent at Stoke Poges to take early morning walks to meet the sun upon the upland lawn, and through the wood near where his monument now stands, across the heath, and near his favorite tree. He was a youth to fortune unknown, but his fame was rising about his ears during his own life. Science and knowledge certainly smiled on his humble birth, for he was doubtless the greatest scholar in England in his day ; and melancholy marked him for her own. In a letter to his friend West at Oxford he wi^ote: "Low spirits are my true and faithful companions ; they get up with me, go to bed with me, make journeys and returns as I do . . . but most commonly we sit alone together." All of his life he was melancholy and more or less morbid. His bounty (generosity) was large, and his soul was honest, sincere, and simple. He was offered the office of poet-laureate, 68 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A and refused. He said he would "rather be a sergeant- trumpeter or pin-maker to the palace." Previously he had declined the degree of Doctor of Laws from the Univei'sity of Aberdeen. In return for these traits of character he had gained his only wish — a friend (Ime 124). In this line Gray probably refers to Horace Wal- pole, who was his intimate associate at Eton and Cam- bridge, with whom he traveled on the Continent, who looked after the publication of his poems, and at whose famous "Strawberry Hill" residence Gray spent a part of every year for the last twenty-five years of his life. Other friends were Richard West, son of a Lord Chan- cellor of Ireland, and William Mason, who became Gray's biographer, but the tribute in the "epitaph", as previ- ously stated, is probably to Walpole — notwithstanding the fact that at one time they had had a famous quarrel. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD (Tue text here given is that copied by Edmund Gosse from one of the earliest editions and is authoritative. It is slightly different from most modern editions.) The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o 'er the lea, Curfew — French couvre-feu (line 1) — cover-fire. A custom in- troduced after tbe Norman Conquest for protection against fire, as most of the houses were then wood. Now all of the houses in England are brick, stone, or plaster. The ringing of thf "curfew" now generally means that chi'dren of a certain age must get indoors, and off streets. COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD 69 The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 2 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 3 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The mopeing owl does to the moon complain 10 Of such as, wand 'ring near her secret bow'r. Molest her ancient sclitary reign. 4 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould 'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15 The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 5 The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed. The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20 solemn stillness holds (6) — A solemn stillness pervades the air. rude (16) — uncultured. straw-built shed (18) — Many sheds and even miany residences In the British Isles are still thatched or covered with straw. lowly bed (20) — does not here mean the grave. 70 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A 6 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knee the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bow 'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 8 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 30 Nor Grandeur hear ■\^ath a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. 35 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 10 Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise. COUNTKY CHURCH- YARD 71 Where through the long-drawn isle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40 11 Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death? 12 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre. 13 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with, the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 50 Chill Penury repress 'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. 14 Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. fretted vault (39) — oraamented with fretwork, or small bands crossed and interlacod. It has been pointed out that the service at King's College chapel, Cambridge, Inspired this couplet. storied urn (41) — a memorial urn, with inscriptions. animated hunt (41) —a life-like bust. provoke (43) — call forth. living lyre (48) — poetry. 72 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A 15 Some village-Hampden that with dauntless breast The little Tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 60 16 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o 'er a smiling land. And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, 17 Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone 65 Their growing virtues, but their crimes oonfin'd; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. village-TIampden (57) — John Hampden, a famous English patriot, one of the first opponents of the tax of ship-monoy. Uitle Tyrant (58) — In comparison with Charles I. who was a great tyrant. Some Cromicell guiltless of his country's blood (60) — This line is not true to history, but in Gray's time it was the belief that Crom- well had brought about the death of Charles. For example, Gold- smith says in his very popular History of England that Cromwell "secretly solicited and contrived the death of Charles I." We linow now that this is wholly untrue. Th' applause of list'ning senates, etc, (61) — aa William Pitt, Lord Chatham, was then doing. The next three lines (in stanza 16) aaay refer to Walpole (father of Gray's special friend, Horace Walpole), who was closing his long minis.try (1721-1742) when Gray began the Elegy. shut the gates of mercy (68) — show no mercy. — Shaiespearc. (Henry V,) 111, 3, says: — "The gates of mercy shall be all shut up." COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD 73 18 The struggling pangs of conscious truth, to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 70 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse 's flame. 19 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn 'd to stray ; Along the cool sequester 'd vale of life 75 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 20 Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80 21 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply : And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. struggling pangs of conscious (69) — Truth Is here personified and represented as struggling for birth. Their lot rendered it unneces- sary for thorn to conceal their opinions with regard to what they knew to he truth. To quench, etc. (70) — They had not learned to be shameless In wrong-doing. Or heap the shrine, etc. (71) — referring to the custom in the 18th century of using fulsome flattery in the dedication of poetical or other literary works to the nobility. 74 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A 22 For who to dumb Forgetfuluess a prey, 85 This pleasing anxious being e'er resign 'd, Left the warm precincts of the chearful day, Nor east one longing lin'gring look behind? 23 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 90 E 'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E 'en in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. 24 For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 95 Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy Fate, — 25 Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews aM'ay To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100 stanzas 22 and 23 mean that no one leaves this life with entire willingness; even from the grave the voice seems to call back to the friends and scenes of life. pious (90) — Here the meaning is dutiful. For thee (93) — refers to the poet himself — as for thee. Stanza 24 Is involved but its meaning Is, if some kindred spirit should read this poem and, passing that way, should inquire the fate of its author, perhaps some old man will say, etc. COUNTRY CHURCH- YARD 76 26 'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 27 * Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105 Mutt 'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn. Or craz'd with care, or cross 'd in hopeless love. 28 *One morn I miss'd him on the custom 'd hill. Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; 110 Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, not at the wood was he : 29 'The next, with dirges due in sad array (Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him born. Approach and read (for thou cans't read) the lay, 115 Grav 'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. ' Jcr thou canst read (115) — It is an old uneducated peasant that is speaking. It is as if tie said : 'Tow can read -tlie epitaph, al- though I cannot." 76 ELEGY The Epitaph 30 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frown 'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 120 31 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav 'n did a recompence as largely send : He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear. He gain'd from Heav'n ( 'twas all he wish'd) a friend. 32 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. — Thomas Gray. "The Epitaph" — written by Gray as a description of himself. St. Giles churcb, standing in the midst of the churchyard, -waa built in 1330 on the site of a church built in 1107. It is well preserved and contains many interesting memorials. Compare with this Elegy such other famous English elegies as Milton's Lycidas, Shelley's Adonais, Tennyson's In Memoriam, and Matthew Arnold's Thyrais. The Deserted Village 77 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 79 THE DESERTED VILLAGE The Deserted Village is a didactic and descriptive poem; but unlike most didactic poems it is not a bore, and unlike most descriptive poems it is not unprofitable. Indeed, its descriptions are so supremely good that they were long ago given a permanent place in English litera- ture ; and its political economy is coming, at last after a century and a third, to be the watchword of great na- tional movements in both Goldsmith's own country and the United States. Goldsmith held that the perma- nent strength of a nation must rest upon its small inde- pendent land-holders, that the life of such people is the happiest and freest, and that the accumulation of great landed estates, with its accompanying luxury, was a bad thing for the country. He deplored the laws and cus- toms which made it possible for powerful lords and squires to crush out the small land-holders, convert the land into parks, hunting-grounds, and great grazing tracts, and thus make it necessary for the yeomen and peasants to flock to the cities or emigrate to America. For a hundred years or more every editor of Goldsmith spoke slightingly of this theory, saying one after an other, "We now know this to be faulty political econ- omy." The fact is, we now know it to be the soundest political economy ; and everywhere, both in England and America, the cry today is, ''Back to the farm!" One of the greatest national questions in England today is how to correct the very evils which Goldsmith deplored one hundred and thirty-five years ago. That the evils 80 THE DESERTED VILLAGE complained of by him were not the fiction of a poetic imagination is evident from abundant contemporary evi- dence. Goldsmith wrote from first-hand knowledge. In his dedication of The Deserted Village to Sir Joshua Reynolds he says: "I have taken all possible pains in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege, and all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real which I here attempt to display." John Cowper, writing in 1732, said, * ' When these com- mons came to be enclosed and converted into pasture the Ruin of the Poor is a natural consequence; they being bought out by the lord of the Manor or some other per- son of substance." He said that in thirty years more than twenty villages ill his vicinity were depopulated. "In some parishes 120 families of Farmers and Cottagers have in a few years been reduced to four, to two, aye, and sometimes to but one family, and if the practice of enclosing continues much longer we may expect to see all the great estates ingrossed by a few Hands, and the industrious Farmers and Cottagers almost entirely root- ed out of the Kingdom." A pamphlet signed "A Coun- try Farmer" and printed in 1786 (sixteen years after The Deserted Village) shows that in one part of England several hundred villages, which forty years before con- tained four hundred to five hundred inhabitants each, then had only forty to eighty each — "some only one poor decrepit man or woman, housed by the occupiers of the lands, who live in another parish, to prevent their being obliged to pay towards the support of the poor who live in the next parish." The writer of the pamph- THE DESERTED VILLAGE 81 let mentions one case in which twenty farms were con- solidated into four and the whole area devoted to graz- ing, sixty cottages being pulled down. Two villages in Leicestershire within two miles of each other, which had contained thirty-four or thirty-five dwellings each, had been reduced in one case to three houses and in the other to one house. Then he goes on to say, "Many of the small farmers who have been deprived of their livelihood have sold their stock-in-trade and have raised from £50 to £100 with which they procured themselves and their families a passage to America. ' ' John "Wedge, writing in 1793 of his own county of Warwickshire, says, "The hardy yeomanry of country villages have been driven for employment to Birming- ham, Coventry, and other manufacturing towns." In the time of Cromwell there were at least 180,000 yeomen and small land-owners, but a hundred years later they were being recognized as a class of the past. During the ten years from 1762 to 1772, just when Goldsmith was ■VNTiting The Deserted Tillage, it is known that more than 1,800 families, comprising about 9,000 persons, were, in consequence of " inclosures, " sent adrift in four coun- ties alone, and the process continued without interrup- tion for many years afterwards. It is a well-known fact that the laws and customs, particularly the latter, have made it possible for most of the land of England to come into the hands of a com- paratively few people, where it still remains. Fortescue says that in the reign of Henry VI in no country of Europe were small proprietors so numerous as in Eng- land. "They are they that in times past made all 82 THE DESERTED VILLAGE France afraid" of England, says Harrison. Today two-thirds of the whole area of England and Wales be- longs to the members of the House of Lords or other men of great wealth. The purpose of such organizations as the "English Land Restoration League" is to get these great estates divided up and placed once more in the hands of the people. The Enclosure Act, which brought about the results deplored by Goldsmith, gave the lord of the manor a right to enclose the common land, and at the time of Goldsmith this act was being enforced to its fullest extent. Between 1760 and 177-i as many as 700 private Enclosure Acts were passed and at least 3,000,000 acres of common land were thereby enclosed. The little land holders were too poor to pay for the fencing and for the expenses of the private act under which the enclosure was made and the inevitable result followed. Mr. G. G. Whiskard, of Wadham College, Oxford, says: "The inevitable result followed. Almost immediately after each enclosure the small proprietors sold their allotments at a sacrifice to the lord of the manor and all, or nearly all, the village land fell into the hands of a single wealthy proprietor. Even where the small proprietor was able to pay his share of expenses and do his own fencing, yet other expenses fell on him. He had no one to represent his interests in Parliament, and in many of the private Acts it is expressly provided that the lord of the manor, to whom fell the greater share of the old common land, should be exempt from paying any expenses, and should have his fencing done for him at the joint cost of the other proprietors, among whom too the whole of the expenses were divided. "In short the enclosures took the common land of England from the poor and gave it to the rich. It is true that one result of this exchange was that the land was more profitably cultivated; but this good was outweighed by many evils. Tlie small farmer had perforce become a laborer, and the laborer, who had formerly been able to get through the bad days of winter with the help of the THE DESERTED VILLAGE 83 cow which he pastured on the common land, could now do so no longer, for his pasture was taken from him. The result was wide- spread distress and wholesale emigration. The laborer who emi- grated was not missed ; his place was taken by machinery. It is not altogether true, as Macaulay would have us believe, that the dark side of Goldsmith's picture is drawn entirely from Ireland. Many villages of England were depleted of their inhabitants, while the status of the few that were left had changed from the status of employer to that of laborer. A whole class — that of the small farmer — had almost perished out of England, and its loss is felt to this day." "Under the Tudors," says Mr. Lloyd Sanders, of Christ Church College, "the practice of enclosures together with the still more op- pressive plan of converting arable land into pasture-land, became a crying evil. . . . Bishop Latimer, in his famous Sermon on the Plough, preached before the court of Edward VI, denounced the nobles as 'enclosers, graziers, and rent-raisers'. One or two at- tempts were made to check these practices. Henry VIII ordered the houses which had been pulled down to be rebuilt, and limited the number of sheep on each farm to 2,000 ; and the Protector Somerset appointed a Royal Commission 'for the redress of enclosure'. Such efforts, however, were of no avail, and complaints were frequent through the reigns of Elizabeth and the Stuarts. Later it came to be thought necessary to obtain the sanction of Parliament for en- closure. The first Local Enclosure Act was passed under Anne, and since then the permission of the legislature has generally been re- garded as a necessary preliminary to enclosure. Between the years 1700 and 1845 some 4,000 of these Acts were passed, and 7,17-5,000 acres of land consolidated, whereby the class of small yeoman be- came almost extinct." Some slight knowledge at least of the conditions here briefly discussed is necessary to an understanding of even the motive of The Deserted Village. Indeed one of the great elements of value in the poem is its contribu- tion to our knowledge of the social life of England in the last half of the 18th century ; for it should be remembered that the "Auburn" of the poem is an English village, the life described is English life, and the conditions English conditions, although the actual "Auburn" has been identified with the village of Lissoy or Lishoy, 84 THE DESERTED VILLAGE Goldsmith's boyhood home in the county of Westmeath, Ireland. "Lissoy," says Howett, "consists in fact of a few common cottages by the road-side, in a flat and by no means particularly interesting scene. A few hundred yards beyond these cottages stand, at some distance from the road, the ruins of the house where Goldsmith's father lived. In the front view of the house is the 'decent church' of Kilkenny West, that literally 'tops the neighboring hill ' ; and in a circuit of not more than half a mile diameter around the house are 'the never- failing brook', 'the busy mill', 'the hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade', in short every striking object of the picture. There are, besides, many ruined houses in the neighborhood, bespeaking a better state of popu- lation than at present." Goldsmith evidently took his childhood home as it existed in his loving recollection, and gave it an English setting. But after all, the supremacy of The Deserted Village lies not in its political economy or its value as a his- torical document, but in its descriptions of village life and in its characters of the village preacher and the village schoolmaster. If it had not been for these the poem would have been forgotten long ago, but there are hardly any lines in all English literature more familiar than those just referred to ; and outside of Shakespeare and Pope there are no lines more often quoted. More- over, the closing lines of the description of the village preacher contain one of the finest similes to be found in the whole range of English poetry. THE DESERTED VILLAGE 85 FROM THE DESERTED VILLAGE Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delay 'd: Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene! How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 10 The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. For talking age and whispering lovers made ! How often have I blessed the coming day, 15 When toil remitting lent its turn to play. And all the village train, from labour free. Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree; While many a pastime circled in the shade. The young contending as the old survey 'd ; 20 And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd; The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 25 By holding out to tire each other down ; The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, mistrustless {Une 27) — unconscious. 86 THE DESERTED VILLAGE While secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 30 These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, "With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed. These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the la-woi, 35 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the v^^hole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 40 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. But, choked with sedges, Avorks its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 45 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler 's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land, 50 111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : hollow sounding bittern (44) — the bittern Is a wading bird which makes a hollow booming noise. men decay (r>'2) — decrease in number. It does not here mean ithat men decay in character, altliouph this is the meaning universally attached to It when it is quoted by public spealsera and writers. THE DESERTED VILLAGE 87 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made : But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 55 When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England 's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 60 His best companions, innocence and health, And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are altered ; trade 's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : Along the lawn where scattered hamlets rose 65 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose; And every want to opulence allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but little room, 70 Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene. Lived in each look, and brightened all the green ; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. And rural mirth and manners are no more. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 75 And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, A breath can make them (54) — Princes and lords are created by the word of the King. peasantry (55) — here means small land-holders. 88 THE DESERTED VILLAGE The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 80 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize 85 ]\Iore skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train. He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; The long-remembered beggar was his guest. Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 90 The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allow 'd; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away; "Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 95 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, His pity gave ere charity began. 100 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 felt for all ; passing rich (80) — more than rich. The poet's father and brother were hoth country pnr<;nns and oarh received £40 a year. The description here is thought to be of his father. THE DESERTED VILLAGE 89 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 105 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, 110 The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 115 His looks adorned the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man. With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 120 E 'en children followed with endearing wile. And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed. Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 125 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 130 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 90 THE DESERTED VILLAGE There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school: A man severe he was, and stern to view, 135 I knew him well, and every truant knew ; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 140 Full well the busy whisper, circling round. Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned: Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew ; 145 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher, too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing, too, the parson o"s^Tied his skill. And e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; 150 While words of learned length and thund'ring sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around, And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot 155 Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot, luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree. How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! How do thy potions, with insidious joy. Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy! 160 the village master (134) — The original of this happy sketch waa doubtless Thomas Byrne, Goldsmith's teacher at Lissoy. THE DESERTED VILLAGE 91 Kingdoms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own : At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; Till, sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 165 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. E 'en now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done ; E 'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. 170 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail That idly waiting flaps with every gale. Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, 175 And kind connubial tenderness are there, And piety with wishes placed above. And steady loyalty, and faithful love. — Oliver Goldsmith. Read Jloore's Utopia in connection with The Deserted Village. Compare Chaucer's Parish Tricst, in the Prologue to the Canter- hurt/ Tales, with Goldsmith's Village Preacher. Note: A good example of land held in common may still be seen in the suburbs of Oxford where a considerable tract of land has been pastured in common by the "freemen" of Oxford since the days of the Norman conquest. To Mary 03 TO MART 95 TO MARY Cowper's poem To Mary is one of the most familiar in the language — one of the most familiar and one of the most pathetic. The lines are so clear and so simple that they do not need any "explaining," and yet the poem has a story back of it which it is needful to know if one is to understand and appreciate it. William Cowper (1731-1800) came of the nobility. His mother was descended from Henry III, and his great uncle was Lord Chancellor for both Queen Anne and George I. From nature he received more than a touch of melancholy insanity as well as the gift of genius — an insanity which put him twice into the mad-house and made him thrice attempt suicide. An early love affair with a beautiful cousin was frowned upon by her father, and the poet never married. His nature was deeply religious and he became the great poet of the religious revival in England which we associate with the names of Wesley and Whitefield. He wrote many of the great hymns now sung in all the churches. His education was good, but his means were very slender, and he was so shy and sensitive and unworldly that he was wholly unfitted to make his way in this world. He says of himself, with heartbreaking pathos — I was a stricken deer that left the herd Long since. When he was somewhat past thirty years of age he became a member of the household of Rev. Morley 96 TO MARY Unwin, and all of the rest of his life is linked in a remarkable way with that family. Mr. Unwin died two years after Cowper took up his residence with them, and thereafter Mrs. Unwin and Cowper resided together in a purity of relationship as unquestioned as their love for each other was deep. When she was forty-eight and Cowper forty-one they planned to be married, but Cow- per 's melancholy and despondency began to increase and the marriage never took place. Goldwin Smith says of this remarkable friendship: "They became companions for life. Cowper says they were as mother and son to each other; but Mrs. Unwin was only seven years older than he. To label their connection is impossible, and to try to do it would be a platitude. In his poems Cowper calls Mrs. Unwin Mary ; she seems always to have called him Mr. Cowper. It is evident that her son, a strictly virtuous and religions man, never had the slightest misgiving about his mother's position." In her advancing years Mrs. Unwin had a slight stroke of paralysis and her mind was affected. The worse she became the brighter beamed CoA^^per's affection for her. In 1793, while she was in this pitiable state, he wrote the poem To Mary. Mrs. Unwin died three years later, aged seventy-two. When Cowper looked upon her corpse he flung himself across the room with a passionate cry of grief, and from that time he never mentioned her name or spoke of her again. In order that Cowper should know nothing about the burial it was performed at night by torch-light. He survived her three years and a half, with now and then a gleam of reason and a faint revival of his great faculties. TO MARY 97 TO MARY The twentieth year is well-nigh past, Since first our sky was overcast; Ah, would that this might be the last ! My Mary ! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow, 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store. For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary ! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will. My Mary ! But well thou playedst the housewife 's part. And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about my heart, My Mary ! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream ; Yet me they charm, what'er the theme, My Mary! 98 TO MARY Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary ! For, could I view nor them nor thee, "What sight worth seeing could I see ? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary ! Partakers of thy sad decline. Thy hands their little force resign. Yet, gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary ! Such feebleness of limbs thou provest. That now at every step thou movest Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest, My Mary ! And still to love, though prest with ill. In wintry age to feel no chill. With me is to be lovely still. My Mary! But ah ! by constant heed I know. How oft the sadness that I show ■Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe. My Mary ! TO MARY 99 And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary ! — William Cowper. Note: The first line of the poem refers to an attack of Insanity wliich Cowper had twenty years before — the first attacls; after he went to live with the Unwins. Tennyson could never trust himself to read this poem aloud. It ia indeed "full of tears." Highland Mary 101 HIGHLAND MARY 103 HIGHLAND MARY In the imposing monument to Robert Burns at AUo- way, near Ayr, in Scotland, there may be seen two small volumes, one of the Old Testament and one of the New. On them are written the names "Robert Burns" and "Mary Campbell." They are also inscribed by the hand of the poet with these two texts: "Ye shall not swear by my name falsely ; I am the Lord ; ' ' and * ' Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths." These two volumes with this interesting inscription were given by Burns to Mary Campbell one Sunday in the month of May, 1786, on the Banks of the Ayr, and Mary gave him a Bible in return. Standing on each side of a brook, and holding a Bible between them, they pledged themselves to each other while life should last. They expected to marry and go to the West Indies, but they never saw each other after that day. Mary, whose home was on the Clyde, and who had been working in Burns 's neighborhood as a children's maid, left at once for her home to arrange affairs for their proposed "change of life," as Burns says in a letter. In the autumn "she was returning to Glasgow, where she had obtained a place, when, stopping on the road at Greenock to attend a sick brother, she caught fever from him and died. She was buried in the west kirkyard of the town, a spot where all who love the Scottish muse never fail to drop their fervent tear." (John Stuart Blackie.) 104 HIGHLAND MARY A monument, erected by descendants of her family, now marks her grave. On the third anniversary of her death Burns ^vrote To Mary in Heaven, the last three stanzas of which describe the betrothal incident: That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, To live one day of parting love ! Eternity can not efface Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our last embrace. Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore. O'erhung with wild-woods, thickening green ; The fragrant birch and hawthorue hoar, Twined amorous round the raptur'd scene : The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray ; Till too, too soon the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes. And fondly broods with miser-care ; Time but th' impression stronger makes. As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? Mary Campbell was but one of the many flames of the warm-hearted Bobbie, but she was doubtless the object of his deepest and sincerost affection. She was the subject of some of his 'finest poems, including To Mary in Heaven, My Highland Lassie, Sweet Afton, and Highland Mary. HIGHLAND MARY 105 HIGHLAND MARY Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last fareweel 0' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom 'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp 'd her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vx)w and loek'd embrace Our parting was fu ' tender ; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder ; But, ! fell Death 's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and eauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! pale, pale now, those ruby lips, I aft hae kiss 'd sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling glance lOG HIGHLAND MARY That dwelt on ine sae kindly; And moldering now in silent dust That heart that lo 'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. — Robert Burns. Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey 107 LINES COMPOSED ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY 109 LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Ahhey (gen- erally referred to as the "Tintern Abbey" poem) may be called the spiritual autobiography of William Words- worth. It gives in one hundred and sixty lines the essence of all that any biographer has been able to tell of his eighty years. To understand it fully much of Wordsworth's other poetry, particularly the Prelude, should be read, as well as some account of his life; for Tintern Ahhey, though radiant as well as profound, is an unknown language to the casual reader. One must be an ardent and devoted lover of both nature and human- ity, and he must have something of that poetic insight which perceives "the light that never was, on sea or land," else he cannot interpret it and make it his own. Wordsworth spent nearly all of his long life among the dalesmen of northern England, brooding with his power- ful mind over the relations of nature and the spirit of man, and the profoundest problems of life. The French Revolution stirred his sympathies deeply, and he spent a short time as a young man in Paris, but the hor- rors of that terrible outburst, and particularly the Napo- leonic days that followed, made him lose faith for the time being in humanity and in his own ideals. He returned to England in a most unhappy state of mind, and led, as he says, a homeless life, utterly dejected. In the summer of 1793, the next year after his return from France, he made his first visit to the valley of the Wye 110 LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES in Monmouthshire, alone and on foot. The five years intervening between this and his second visit were spent chiefly in "plain living and high thinking" among the quiet hills, with his sister Dorothy as his inseparable companion and with the stimulating friendship of Cole- ridge ; though he was sometimes ' ' 'mid the din of towns and cities." The benignant influence of his sister, of nature, and of Coleridge restored Wordsworth's spirit and wrought in him the changes which he describes in the "Tintern Abbey" poem. Nature was as a medicine to his soul; and as for his sister's influence, he again and again declares that she it was that kept him a poet through those distressful years. In June, 1798, Words- worth and Dorothy made that famous second visit to the Wye and to Tintern Abbey, mentioned in his immor- tal verse. In his Memoirs he says : "We left Alfoxden on Monday mornin.a: the 26th of June (1798), stayed with Coleridge till Monday following, then set forth on foot towards Bristol. We were at Cottle's for a week, and thence we went toward the banks of the Wye. We crossed the Severn Ferry and walked ten miles further to Tintern Abbey, a very beau- tiful ruin on the Wye. The next morning we walked along the river through Monmouth to Goodrich Castle, there slept, and re- turned the next day to Tintern. thence to Chepstow, and from Chepstow back again in a boat to Tintern, where we slept, and thence back in a small vessel to Bristol. "The Wye is a stately and majestic river from its width and depth, but never slow and sluggish ; you can always hear its mur- mur. It travels through a woody country, now varied with cot- tages and green meadows, and now with huge and fantastic rocks." The Wye is "stately and majestic" only in compari- son with other English streams ; it is a small stream com- pared with American and Continental rivers. The Wye country, however, is of surpassing beauty. Hill and vale and stream unite to make a picture worthy of all the ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY 111 praise that poets and painters have showered upon it. In the midst of this charming setting is Tintern Abbey, built for the Cistercian monks early in the 12th century, and now in picturesque but stately ruins. A view of the Abbey by moonlight, with the river at its base and the hills towering all about it, is an experience not to be forgotten. These haunts of ancient peace are trans- formed by the moon and the night into faery lands forlorn. Near Goodrich Castle is where Wordsworth met the "little cottage girl" of his We Are Seven poem, which is familiar to all school children. Concerning the manner of the composition of the Tin- tern Abbey poem, Wordsworth says: "No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleas- ant for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tin- tern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was enter- ing Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days with my sister. Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost imme- diately after in the little volume, Lyrical Ballads, of which so much has been said in these notes." Was there ever before or since such high converse? Was there ever such an improvization ? Did any other traveller ever speak such radiant words in such noble form as he trudged across the hills ? I know of nothing more interesting or amazing in the history of poetry than this unaltered impromptu of Wordsworth 's, spoken to his sister as the two strolled together in the valley of the Severn and the Wye. "Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it was WTitten down" until three or four days later. The real significance of all this lies 112 LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES in the fact that it was possible only because it was the expression of the chief mood and meaning of his whole life, the blossoming of accumulated and long-maturing meditation, and mental suffering, and deep joy of resto- ration. It was perhaps his greatest utterance as a poetic teacher and interpreter of nature and of human lifo. The dominant conception of the poem is the relation of nature to man, and the relation of the spirit of the universe to both. In the first twenty-two lines there is a description of the scenery true to its present aspect of winding and untrimmed hedgerows, orchard-tufts, plots of cottage-ground, and the river with its soft inland murmur. Lines 23 to 50 tell how the remembrance of these beautiful scenes has been constantly with him, produc- ing sensations sweet, felt in the blood and felt along the heart. The pleasure thus given had had no slight influence on the acts of daily life, his little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love. To these recollections he owed also a higher and more blessed mood — a mood in Avhich he became so completely in harmony with nature, and so lost himself, that he was more of a spirit than a corporeal being, and was able to see into the life of things. The next fifteen lines (50 to 65) contain another tribute, in more general terms, to the healing power of nature as represented in the sylvan "Wye, tell how his spirit had turned to it from the fretful stir and fever of the world, and express the realization (lines 63-65) that his mind is gathering, on this second visit, life and food for future years, just as it had done on his first ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY 113 visit. It was one of the most marked characteristics of "Wordsworth's genius that he treasured up his pleasant experiences and emotions, let them mellow and ripen in his mind, and turned them into poetry years afterward. His poetry is full of such instances; and in the lines on T/ie Daffodils he says : For oft when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils. The next forty-five lines (65-110) contain the heart of the poem — the revelation of the four stages of his de- velopment in his attitude towards nature, and man, and the spirit of the universe — the four periods which Ed- ward Dowden calls the period of the blood, the period of the senses, the period of the imagination, and the period of the soul. The first stage is merely referred to in lines 73-74 — the stage of his boyish days when he took such delight in nature as any healthy young animal might take. The second stage (lines 76-83 especially) was that in which nature was an appetite, a feeling and a love in itself, without any association with man and without any coloring supplied by man. This second stage, this pas- sion for nature as nature, lasted until, as Walter Ra- leigh puts it, the fever of political thought and passion drove it out. Then came his saddening experiences with the seething humanity of the French Revolution. "When this crisis was past, the love of nature returned to him, but this time associated with a love of man and 114 LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES with a deep sense of the pathos of things. This third stage is described in lines 88-93. But another and a still deeper change has occurred {lines 93-102) ; he has learned to see and to feel the spirit of God in all created things, in the light of setting suns and the round ocean and the living air as well as in the mind of man. This ''something" which he here calls a "motion and a spirit" he calls "an active Prin- ciple, " " the Soul of all the worlds, ' ' and ' ' the sentiment of Being," in other passages. It is a pantheistic con- ception of Deity: God in everything, and the spirit of everything everywhere. In many other poems of his the same idea is expressed, and it was a part of his life as well as his creed ; but he held it not inconsistent with the Christian idea of Deity. From line 110 on the poem is addressed to his sister, in whose unmixed love of nature he recognizes himself as he was in his second stage. lie tells her to let nature have its way with her, to give herself up to its ministries and its rewards; and then when these ecstasies shall be matured into a sober pleasure, when her mind shall be a mansion for all lovely forms and her memory a dwell- ing-place for all sweet sounds and harmonies, she will not forget these, his exhortations, and this, his heart- spoken poem, across the hills of Wye — for nature never did betray the heart that loved her. ]\Iiss Wordsworth was in complete sympathy with her brother in letting the moon shine on her in her solitary walks and in letting the misty mountain wands be free to blow against her. The following extract from her Journal illustrates not only her love of nature, but her ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY 115 devotion to her brother ; it is dated at Grasmere, Novem- ber 14, 1800 : "A fine mild night. I walked with William over the Raise. It was starlight. I parted with him very sad, unwilling not to go on. The hills, and the stars, and the white waters, with their ever- varying yet ceaseless sound, were very impressive." Sadly enough, her passion for nature led her into mountain rambles which were beyond her strength, and in 1832 she had a serious illness which left her mind clouded for the remainder of her life. ANALYSIS I. Introduction, lines 1-22. II. Although absent, these scenes have not been forgotten by the poet (22-57). 1. They have been with him in solitude (25). 2. And amid the noise of cities (26). 3. He has felt them in his emotion (28). 4. And in his intellect (29). 5. And they have given him, also, unremembered pleasure (31). (1) They have influenced him like a forgotten kind act (31-35). (2) And their recollection has lifted him into the imagi- native mood in which his own being was forgotten (35-49) (The "period of the imagination"). 6. Both at night and in joyless daylight his spirit has returned to these scenes (50-57). III. His return calls up old thoughts and new (57). 1. This present experience will furnish food for reflection in future years. 2. On his first visit nature was to him an appetite (66-83) (The "period of the senses"). 3. The animal pleasure in nature having before that passed away (73-74) (The "period of the blood"). 4. He has since learned to look upon nature with a feeling chastened by humanity and with the sense of a spiritual Presence (85-103) (The "period of the soul"). IIG LINES COMPOSED ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY 5. And so he is still nonetheless n lover of nature though his feelings have changed (103-111). IV. Tribute to his sister Dorothy (111-159). 1. Her joy in nature is such as his was formerly (110-119). 2. He prays that she may continue in that joy (119-121). 3. For nature can make us feel that everything is full of blessings (121-134). 4. Her wild joy in nature will by and by become a sober pleasure like his (134-145). 5. Then she will remember his exhortation, their visit to- gether here, and that he worshiped nature with a holier love tian in his youth, both for its sake and for hers. Lines 117 LINES 119 LINES Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798. Five years have past ; five summers, with the length Of five long winters ! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur. Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 15 Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! inland murmur (line 4) — where the Wye joins the Severn a few miles below Tintern it rushes over a rocky channel, but here It la quiet and calm. Tennyson In In Memoriam says : — There twice a day the Severn fills ; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills. Wordsworth himself in a note calls attention to the fact that a few miles above Tintern the Wye is not affected by the tides. connect the landscape u-i1h the sky (8) — a gradation of colors from the landscape to the sky. 120 LINES With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 25 Of toAMis and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration : — feelings, too, 30 Of unremembered pleasure ; such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 35 To them I may have oAved another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood. In "which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, 40 Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood. In which the affections gently lead us on, — Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood purer mind (29) — clearer; furnishing not only food for sensa- tion and feeling but for quiet tliougtit and contemplation. fcrlinf/s. too, etc. (30-35) — such influences affect one's little acts of daily life. LINES 121 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 45 In body, and become a living soul : While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 50 In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 55 O sylvan Wye ! thou wandered thro ' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee ! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60 The picture of the mind revives again : While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, 65 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first ice are laid asleep in body . . . see into the life of things (45-49) — In various other poems, notably the Prelude and the Ex- cursion, he speaks of this power of the spirit of man to become one with, to fuse itself with, the spirit of nature. "Freed from the bonds of sense, the soul rises to communion with the spirit that works harmoniously in nature, and with clear vision and intense joy beholds the Inner life of things." It is worth pointing out that In the "inner life of things" Wordsworth saw always joy and love — a joy chastened and subdued, but always joy and love. 122 LINES I came among these hills ; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led : more like a man 70 Flying from something that he dreads, than one "Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then ( The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all, — I cannot paint 75 What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 80 That had no need of a remoter charm. By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more. And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 85 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 90 The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power sad music of humanity (91) — in the Ode on Immortality he says : — The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality. LINES 123 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 95 Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; A motion and a spirit, that impels 100 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains ; and of all that w^e behold From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 105 Of eye, and ear — both what they half create, And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 110 Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirit to decay : For thou art with me here upon the banks trhat they half create (lOfl) — what is lent to natural objects by the imagination of the beholder, — The light that never was, on sea or land, The consecration and the poet's dream. 124 LINES Of this fair river ; thou my dearest Friend, 115 My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while IMay I behold in thee what I was once, 120 My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform 125 The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 130 The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e 'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon my dearest Friend (115) — His sister Dorothy. Concerning her In- fluence In restoring him to a happier state of mincl, be says in the Prelude : Then It was — Thanks to the bountcoas Giver of all good — That the bolovCd Sister in whose sight Those days were passed, now speaking In a voice Of sudden admonition — like a brook That did but cross a lonely road, and now Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn, Companion never lost through many a league — • Maintained for me a saving intercourse. She in the midst of all, preserved me still A Poet. LINES 125 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; . 135 And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee : and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 145 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance — If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence — wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream 150 We stood together : and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service : rather say With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 155 That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! — William Wordsworth. Wordsworth's great Ode on Immortalify should be read carefully in connection with the study of the "Tintern Abbey" poem. Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood 127 ODE ON INTIMATIONS 129 ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD Principal Shairp says that Wordsworth's Ode ''marks the highest limit which the tide of poetic inspiration has reached in England" since the days of Milton; Lord Houghton (R. M. Milnes) called it "the greatest poem in the English language," and Emerson said ''The Ode on Immortality is the high-water mark which the intel- lect has reached in this age. ' ' Wordsworth contributes materially to the interpreta- tion of the poem in his own prose account of his child- hood feelings and experiences. He says: "This was composed during my residence at Town-End, Gras- mere. Two years at least passed between the writing of the first four stanzas and the remaining part. To the attentive and com- petent reader the whole sufficiently explains itself, but there may be no harm in adverting here to particular feelings or experiences of my own mind on which the structure of the poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to admit the . notion of death as a state applicable to my own being. I have said elsewhere : 'A simple child That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?' "But it was not so much from the source of animal vivacity that my difficulty came, as from a sense of the indomitableness of the spirit within me. I used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost persuade myself that, whatever might be- come of others, I should be translated in something of the same way to heaven. With a feeling congenial to this, I was often unable to think of external things as having external existence, and I communed with all that I saw as something not apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial nature. Many times while 130 ODE ON INTIMATIONS going to school have I grasped at a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality. At that time I was afraid of mere processes. In later periods of life I have deplored, as we have all reason to do, a subjugation of an opposite character, and have rejoiced over the remembrances, as is expressed in the lines Obstinate Questionings, etc. To that dream-like vividness and splendour, which invests objects of sight in childhood, every one, I believe, if he would look back, could bear testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here ; but having in the poem regarded it as a presumptive evidence of a prior state of existence, I think it right to protest against a conclusion, which has given pain to some good and pious persons, that I meant to inculcate such a belief. It is far too shadowy a notion to be recommended to faith as more than an element in our instincts of immortality." John Ruskin, in discussing the relation of nature to art, says {Modern Painters, part 3, Chapter 5) : "I suppose there are few, among those who love nature otherwise than by profession and at second-hand, who look not back to their youngest and least-learned days as those of the most intense, super- stitious, insatiable, and beatific perception of her splendours. And the bitter decline of this glorious feeling, though many note it not, partly owing to the cares and weight of manhood, which leave them not the time nor the liberty to look for their lost treasure, and partly to the human and divine affections which are appointed to take its place, yet has formed the subject not indeed of lamenta- tion, but of holy thankfulness for the witness it bears to the im- mortal origin and end of our nature to one whose authority is al- most without appeal in all questions relating to the influence of external things upon the pure human soul. . . . And if it were possible for us to recollect all the unaccountable and happy in- stincts of the careless time, and to reason upon them with the maturer judgment, we might arrive at more rapid and right results than either the philosophy or the sophisticated practice of art have yet attained." The main idea of the Ode may be found in a little poem called The Eetreat, by William Vaughan, a "Pla- tonic ' ' poet of the seventeenth century : Happy tKose early days, when I Shined in my Angel-infancy ! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, FROM RECOTJ.ECTIONS 131 Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white celestial thought; When yet I had not walk'd above A mile or two from my first love. And looking back, at that short space Could see a glimpse of his bright face ; When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy, Some shadows of eternity ; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. O how I long to travel back. And tread again that ancient track ! That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train ; From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees That shady City of Palm trees : But ah ! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way : — Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move; And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return. The theme of "Wordsworth's Ode is, that with the passing of childhood many of the soul's possessions necessarily pass away, but its essential nature does not pass; the cliaracter of these early possessions, and their power to remain, though changed, indicate a heavenly pre-existence and a future immortality. Notice that he calls them not arguments but "intimations." There are three stages in the development of the theme: (1) The attitude of the child towards nature. (2) The losses of these feelings that older life experi- 132 ODE ON INTIMATIONS ences. (3) The spiritual possessions that remain per- manently — "the strength in what remains behind." Professsor W. D. IMacClintock offers the following analysis : 1. A beauty and glory which once rested upon the earth for the child has passed away for the man. St. I-IV. (a) This glory has passed away from the common sights of nature and from the rare. St. I-II. (b) What a pity that we should thus complain while na- ture about is so joyous ! Attempt made to rejoice. But some aspect of nature brings back the mood of regret. St. III-IV. 2. The coming and the going of this glory accounted for. St. V-VIII. (a) It came with the child from his pre-existing state. St. V. (b) It passes away. (1) Because nature is so attractive to the child. St. VI. (2) Because the child takes on the yoke of life as a result of his instinct for imitation. St. VII. An exclamation of pity that the child must grow older and lose his early knowledge and feeling. St. VIII. (3) Though much is gone, the soul's essential instincts remain, indicating a native and indestructible spirit- ual nature. St. IX. (4) After this conclusion, nature is viewed again calmlv and with more joy than when the poet was a child. St. X-XI. Stanza VII is an epitome of man's life on earth. The "six years darling" especially in the mind of Words- worth was Hartly Coleridge. "Humorous st^ge" {line 103) is quoted from Shakespeare's A