It was a record attendance
– all but one of our readers attended and we had a lovely guest, retired professor of English from St.
Teresa's College, Betty Kuriyan.
We all enjoyed the
occasion, which was celebrated with sandwiches and cakes with tea and
coffee. Our special thanks go to KumKum who proposed the happy idea of a
session of poetry devoted to the English Romantic poets. She then
followed up with the readers to ensure attendance. Kudos to
her; and to Priya for arranging the splendid refreshments.
Saras (back) Hemjith, Kavita, Shoba, Betty, Joe, KumKum, Zakia
Although Thommo and Ankush
were recovering from medical issues, both participated with
abandon.
Saras, Hemjith
In our family I am allowed
to decide whether Keats or Shelley is the greater poet, but there is
no evidence from this session for a conclusion either way. Other
contenders among the Romantics seem equally eligible. What a
marvellous group of poets to have arrived in one place within a
generation and elevated poetry to Himalayan heights!
Priya, Saras, Hemjith, Kavita
This time Sunil was
missing; his absence has a generally downhill influence on the
gathering for lack of wisecracks and laughter. As we are reading a
humorous novella next time (Pnin) his attendance is a must if
we are to derive the full experience.
Betty, KumKum, Zakia
Zakia, who came but did not
read, is missing from the group picture below.
Ankush, Saras, Thommo, Priya, KumKum, Shoba, Pamela, Betty Kavita, Preeti, Hemjith (seated)
Full Account and Record
of the Romantic Poets Session – Jun 15, 2017
The dates for the next
readings are confirmed as follows:
Fri
Jul 7, 2017, 5:30 pm – Pnin by Vladimir Nabokov
Fri
Aug 4, 2017, 5:30 pm – Poetry
Present: Zakia,
Thommo, Hemjit, KumKum, Joe, Shoba, Saras, Priya, Pamela,
Kavita, Ankush, Preeti
Guest: Betty
Kuriyan
Absent: Sunil
KumKum asked Joe to go
first with the reading.
1.
Joe
George Gordon Lord Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Lord Byron in Albanian dress, 1813 portrait by Thomas Phillips
Joe read excerpts from the major works of Byron but first gave this capsule summary of his eventful life.
Byron was an outsize
figure, probably the celebrity of his age, the first pop-star of
poetry. He was born in London in 1788 to a mother who was connected
to the Gordon clan of Scotland. Though she had money it was wasted by
her husband ('Mad Jack') who had to flee creditors for Europe. At age
ten George inherited the title and estates of the fifth Lord Byron,
his great uncle, on his death. It was a great manor, Abbey Newstead,
in decay with hundreds of acres in Nottinghamshire.
He went to Harrow school and picked up the love of fellow schoolboys younger than him. But bisexual as he was, he fell in love with young female cousins and left behind poems of his juvenilia, which show, if nothing else, that when it came to expressing his heart and soul, poetry was his natural medium, all self-taught.
Lord Byron lived at Newstead Abbey at various times from the autumn of 1808 to the autumn of 1814
He went to Harrow school and picked up the love of fellow schoolboys younger than him. But bisexual as he was, he fell in love with young female cousins and left behind poems of his juvenilia, which show, if nothing else, that when it came to expressing his heart and soul, poetry was his natural medium, all self-taught.
In 1809 Byron went on his
first European travel after his M.A. from Cambridge – Portugal,
Spain, Albania, and Greece where he saw at first hand how the Greeks
were oppressed by the Turks; the seeds of his desire to liberate Greece were sown then. When he returned to England he had written a
long epic poem, Childe Harold, which made money for him and
for his publisher John Murray — 3,000 copies were sold in the first
week.
It was full of adventures and narrative. He became famous
overnight, a celebrity, and the toast of London society. Women began
throwing themselves at him and he was an artful catcher, but the
affairs were brief, except for one: his encounter with Annabella
Millbanke which ended in marriage. It was ill-fated from the
beginning, for it was filled with alternating fits of Byron’s rage
and tenderness, and episodes of infidelity, including a scandalous
one with his half-sister Augusta (by his father’s first marriage).
Augusta was the one constant love in his life to whom he wrote letters (and poems) from everywhere.
Annabella Millbanke, Lady Byron
Augusta was the one constant love in his life to whom he wrote letters (and poems) from everywhere.
Augusta Leigh, half-sister of Byron
Annabella presented him
with a daughter, Ada, later to become the famed mathematician Ada Lovelace and collaborator of Charles Babbage in building early computational machines. But soon after Annabella deemed Byron was mad, and skipped
with their daughter to her parent’s home. She sued for divorce and
Byron fled England and never saw his family again. He met up with
Shelley and his entourage — live-in wife Mary, and Claire,
step-sister of Mary, who had offered sex to Byron in London and begot
an illegitimate daughter, Allegra, in result. Byron housed the young
girl in a convent in Italy and she later died there at age five from
typhus.
Byron moved to Venice,
composing all the while, and this time when the Shelleys returned to
England they carried the proofs of a new epic poem, Don Juan —
the first two cantos of perhaps his most famous work. Because his
publisher wanted cuts for indelicacies (there are none, by modern
standards), Byron jumped to a new publisher, John Hunt, brother to
the poet Leigh Hunt. Byron inverts the character of Don Juan from
what he was known for in previous literature, for being a seducer and
libertine, and transformed him into a genial, intelligent, courteous
person who is a victim of temptresses. Ultimately there were 16
cantos totalling 16,000 lines and Byron was working on the 17th when
he died.
In 1819 the final romance
of his life happened when he met Countess Teresa Guiccioli a beautiful
young woman married to a feeble old nobleman.
By the traditions of the permissive Italian society of the times, Byron could pay court and make out as he pleased with Teresa, so long as he maintained discretion outwardly. There are many poems describing his absorption with the Countess who heartily reciprocated his passion.
Teresa Guiccioli, Byron’s last mistress
By the traditions of the permissive Italian society of the times, Byron could pay court and make out as he pleased with Teresa, so long as he maintained discretion outwardly. There are many poems describing his absorption with the Countess who heartily reciprocated his passion.
His final adventure,
wanting to be a doer and not merely a writer, was to lead a rag-tag
army, partly paid by him, to liberate Greece from the Ottoman Turks
in 1824. He fired no bullet and fought no battle before he was
stricken by a fever after the rains. An incompetent doctor bled him
with leeches and after days of that treatment Byron went into a coma
and died, aged 36, His body was brought back to England and buried in
a church near Newstead Abbey, much-mourned. His collected poems
amount to 800 pages or so. His hand-written memoir, meant for
publication, was burnt by his publisher and friends, for fear its
candour would ruin Byron's reputation, as well as the publisher’s
prospect of profiting from the poet’s works.
There is an excellent BBC
film of Byron in 10 parts each of 15 mins duration made in 2003:
The Complete Works of Lord
Byron Including the Suppressed Poems, and Supplementary Pieces in one
volume are found at
Joanna Baillie (1762 –
1851)
Joanna Baillie was a
Romantic poet and playwright of Scots extraction. She wrote a series
of plays each to illustrate a particular passion of humans, Plays
on the Passions. She was born into a pious Presbyterian family.
She was an outdoors person, a close observer of nature, enjoyed
riding, and had a natural gift for story-telling with which she
entertained her school friends. She could not read until the age of
nine. She attended a boarding school in Glasgow where she developed
many interests – drawing, music, writing and acting in plays. She
visited the theatre and it was the seed of a passion that would last
for life as she wrote scores of plays.
JB's
first poem, Winter Day,
was a long poem evoking the sights and sound of winter in her
neighbourhood, Long Calderwood. Thommo recited an excerpt. It is a
dark and fearful night when a snowstorm is brewing:
Loud
blows the northern blast--
He
hears its hollow grumbling from afar,
Then,
gath'ring strength, roll on with doubl'd might,
And
break in dreadful bellowings o'er his head;
The farmer is glad to check
on his poultry in the shed and hurry back to his bed.
KumKum noted that Joanna
Baillie's plays were successful. Thommo remarked that in those days
plays written by women were rarely staged, but Baillie maintained
hers were meant for the stage, not the closet.
Joanna Baillie consigned
half her writing income to charity and supported chimney sweeps. She
helped many authors and poets down on their luck. She also
corresponded extensively with Sir Walter Scott, and from it flowed a
deep friendship.
3.
Priya
Priya
William Blake (1757 – 1827)
William Blake (1757-1827), only known Self-Portrait of William Blake 1802. Pencil with black, white, and grey washes, 243 x 201 mm. Collection Robert N. Essick
William Blake by Thomas Phillips
Blake printed his first
collection of poems, Poetical Sketches, around 1783. In 1788
Blake took to the process of relief etching. The printed pages from
these etchings were later hand-coloured and that is how many of his
famous illuminated works, including Songs of Innocence and of
Experience, were produced. Here is a sample
Prints of the Chimney Sweeper poem, two parts
He was a political radical and wrote seven volumes on the French Revolution, one of which has survived. He disapproved of institutionalised religion. He has written an epic poem Jerusalem which is often quoted. Another is The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. A segment of Jerusalem gave its name to a film, Chariots of Fire. Here is that splendid verse:
AND did those feet in
ancient time
Walk upon England's
mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of
God
On England's pleasant
pastures seen?
And did the Countenance
Divine
Shine forth upon our
clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem
builded here
Among these dark Satanic
Mills?
Bring me my bow of
burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of
desire!
Bring me my spear! O
clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of
fire!
I will not cease from
mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep
in my hand,
Till we have built
Jerusalem
In England's green and
pleasant land.
The phrase “dark Satanic
Mills” as a dismal symbol of the Industrial Revolution takes its
origin from this verse.
The manner of his death is
reported in a biography
of Blake by Peter Ackroyd:
Eventually, he ceased
working and turned to his wife, who was in tears by his bedside.
Beholding her, Blake is said to have cried, "Stay Kate! Keep
just as you are – I will draw your portrait – for you have ever
been an angel to me." Having completed this portrait (now lost),
Blake laid down his tools and began to sing hymns and verses. At six
that evening, after promising his wife that he would be with her
always, Blake died.
Monument near Blake's unmarked grave at Bunhill Fields in London
William Wordsworth said of Blake: "There was no doubt that this poor man was mad, but there is something in the madness of this man which interests me more than the sanity of Lord Byron and Walter Scott."
Priya said Blake often had
visions, which began at the age of eight and he thought of them as
revelations of eternity. He was a poet of anti-Nature she said,
whatever that means. In 1789 he published Songs of Innocence,
and in 1794 he expanded it to Songs of Experience. The often
anthologised poem The Tyger was in the first volume
(Innocence).
Though Blake lived and died
as a print-maker and engraver, he is today ranked among the poets of
the Romantic period, a transformation that took a century. He is also
regarded as a philosopher and symbolist.
Joe protested that the
first poem's concluding line seems very reactionary:
So if all do their duty,
they need not fear harm.
This is one with St. Paul
in Ephesians 6:5 exhorting slaves to be subservient to their masters:
Slaves, obey your
earthly masters with respect and fear, and with sincerity of heart,
just as you would obey Christ.
It justifies the
revolutionary Marxist slogan, “Workers of the world, unite! You
have nothing to lose but your chains!” and makes clear why religion
was regarded as the opium of the people. In India the oppressive
caste system (justified as a system by Mahatma Gandhi, even though he
abhorred its cruelty) was based on a similar stupefaction of the
minds of the lower castes.
An analysis
offered of the Chimney Sweeper duo of poems indicates that Blake is
actually criticising the
view of the Church.
4.
Saras
Keat was the oldest of four
children. His father was a livery stable-keeper. Although Keats died
in poverty he had money tied up in a trust set up by his grandmother,
which was doled out in niggardly fashion by the trustee, a tea
merchant. At age nine Keats entered Enfield Academy, whose headmaster
was Clarke. He won prizes for essays and became a voracious reader.
Cowden Clarke the son of the headmaster and he became friends and one
night Cowden invited Keats over to read a classic volume, a
translation of Homer by Chapman. They pored over it until six in the
morning. Keats wrote the sonnet On first looking into Chapman's
Homer within a few hours after he returned:
Much have I travell'd in
the realms of gold,
And many goodly states
and kingdoms seen;
...
Yet did I never breathe
its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman
speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some
watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims
into his ken;
Quickness of composition
was a hallmark of Keats throughout his life.
John Keats portrait by William Hilton. National Portrait Gallery, London
At age fifteen Keats was
apprenticed as an apothecary surgeon and got his licence in 1816.
Thereafter he made a life-decision to switch to poetry. He met Leigh
Hunt, poet and publisher, who printed Chapman's Homer poem.
Then he met Shelley who was known already in the world of poetry and
the advice he got was to amass a body of verse. He wrote Endymion,
a 1,000-line allegorical romance which begins in matchless style --
A thing of beauty is a
joy for ever:
Its loveliness
increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness;
Shelley wrote a favourable
review. But Keats was the object of class vilification when an
anonymous reviewer announced he belonged to the ‘Cockney school of
poetry’, disparaging his humble origins. Keats was in despair,
never feeling he would write great poetry. In 1818 he went on a
walking tour of England, Ireland and the Lake District. The same
year he tenderly nursed his brother Tom who was dying from TB. He was probably infected himself in the process.
Keats House, Wentworth Place, now the Keats House museum (left)
1818-19 was a year of creative
fertility for Keats as he moved in with his friend Armitage Brown to
his house, Wentworth Place (now the Keats Museum), near Hampstead
Heath. In quick succession he wrote many of the odes for which he
remains famous: Melancholy, Grecian Urn, Nightingale, Psyche.
Brown wrote,
"In the spring of 1819
a nightingale had built her nest near my house. Keats felt a tranquil
and continual joy in her song; and one morning he took his chair from
the breakfast-table to the grass-plot under a plum-tree, where he sat
for two or three hours. When he came into the house, I perceived he
had some scraps of paper in his hand, and these he was quietly
thrusting behind the books. On inquiry, I found those scraps, four or
five in number, contained his poetic feelings on the song of our
nightingale."
In 1819, Keats wrote The
Eve of St. Agnes, La Belle Dame sans Merci, Hyperion,
and Lamia. The first two are read to this day as masterly
examples of a poet painting scenes in more vivid fashion than any
painter could – with words. A 1962 book by Walter Jackson Bate, a
biographer of Keats, is worth reading; it is called the The
Stylistic Development of Keats.
In late 1818 Keats met
Fanny Brawne. The meeting grew over time into an undying love on
Keats’ side and a rather more tentative one on the girl’s side.
They exchanged letters even when residing close by – imagine if
Twitter or WhatsApp were the medium, nothing would have survived. But
thanks to the prevalent habit of writing by hand, we have letters and
poems to mark the ripening affair. At the end of a letter to Fanny
Brawne, Keats inscribed a sonnet with these words saying “I cannot
tell what I am writing,” then a breathless hope for complete union:
O! let me have thee
whole,—all, all, be mine!
That shape, that
fairness, that sweet minor zest
Of love, your kiss—those
hands, those eyes divine,
That warm, white,
lucent, million-pleasured breast
Yourself — your soul—in pity
give me all,
Withhold no atom’s
atom or I die.
This was the precursor to
the much better known sonnet Bright Star which was also
addressed to Fanny Brawne:
Bright star! would I
were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour
hung aloft the night
And watching, with
eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient,
sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at
their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round
earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new
soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the
mountains and the moors—
No—yet still
steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair
love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its
soft swell and fall,
Awake for ever in a
sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her
tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or
else swoon to death.
The 2009 film ‘Bright
Star’ focusses on the life of Keats from the angle of this love
late in his life, and stars Ben Whishaw as John Keats, and Abbie
Cornish as Fanny Brawne. When his doctor advised that he should move
to a warmer climate as he was spitting blood, he and his wonderful
friend Joseph Severn, an artist, left for Rome in 1820 and took up
residence in a house which still stands, overlooking the Spanish
Steps:
There even in his dying
days he wrote verses, such as this:
Black the hue of
mourning robes still drapes the air
Over the Spanish Steps,
till dawn slips on marble
Lions aboard Bernini's
broken boat
A white cloth they wrap
the dead in;
Through this pallor a
pink of conch shells seeps,
Then blue flames consume
the whole of heaven.
Noon blasted by bolts of
brass and gold
Steeps my brain in a
dreamful fever-sleep
Wherein I labor beating
out the links
Of fate, link after
link, an endless chain
Of sorrows and sweats
and nervous tossings.
When I have the strength
to prop myself up
On Feb 21, 1821 he died in
the arms of Severn whom he comforted even as he was expiring. He is
buried in the Protestant cemetery in Rome near the baths of Caracalla
and over his gravestone is this despairing epitaph he wrote:
Here lies one whose name
was writ in water.
Severn who died in 1879 is
buried next to him on the right with the inscription
Shelley’s ashes are interred nearby.
Devoted friend and deathbed companion of John Keats
Shelley’s ashes are interred nearby.
5.
Hemjith
Wordsworth started The
Prelude, an epic poem at the age of twenty-eight and worked on it
until his death at age eighty. This work is considered as the
outgrowth of his own mind. It was intended as the prelude of a
three-part epic and philosophical poem, but remained incomplete and
was published after his death. Teaming up with Coleridge it was their
aim to surpass Milton’s Paradise Lost. The Boat Stealing
episode depicts Wordsworth’s childhood interaction with nature
where he experiences its different aspects – thrill, stealth, fear
and foreboding.
William Wordsworth at 28 by William Shuter, about the time he began The Prelude
The poem expands on the
childhood joy of doing a forbidden act: stealing a boat. Hemjith
liked the line,
... lustily
I dipped
my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my
boat
Went heaving through the
Water like a swan;
A huge ridge appears,
posing a forbidding threat, as if the narrator had done something
wrong. Wordsworth in this poem considers Nature as having a
moralising influence on him. It was written at age twenty-eight but
only published at age eighty. For further elaboration read Wordsworth's Prelude, the Boat-stealing episode.
Wordsworth, born in 1770,
remained close to his four siblings, particularly his sister,
Dorothy. They lived in a rural Arcadia during childhood whose scenes
provide the Nature backdrop to his poetry. He had setbacks when his
father died but went to Cambridge, attending St. John's College. It
was an undistinguished college career followed by a tour of the Alps with a
friend in 1790. He acquired a passion for democracy in France. His
first published poems are from 1793, Descriptive
Sketches. In 1795 he settled with his sister Dorothy in
Dorset. Between 1797 and 1800 Wordsworth collaborated with Coleridge,
and moved near him. At this time he wrote the poems that appeared
later along with poems of Coleridge in the Lyrical
Ballads. The critic Matthew Arnold admired Wordsworth for his
reliance on feeling. The Preface to the volume sets out his ideas of
poetics and poetic diction. He thought urban life degraded humans,
and poets particularly need to rise above the frenetic pace of urban
life to deal in the verities. In the years to follow he composed The
Solitary
Reaper, Resolution
and Independence, and the Ode:
Intimations of Immortality, perhaps the best poems of his
maturity. There is a full-length BBC film on Coleridge
and Wordsworth, featuring other poets like Byron too, free for
viewing on youtube.
6.
Kavita
She Walks in Beauty
was written by Byron in response to seeing his cousin, Lady Wilmot
Horton, in a mourning dress at a party of Lady Sitwell's on June 11,
1814. The poem was completed next morning. It was published in Hebrew
Melodies in 1815. It is written in the smoothest of iambic
tetrameters.
Kavita said nowadays kids
don’t read. Ankush said at Valentine’s he read this poem to a
girl-friend, but didn’t let on what the reaction was ... who
would want innocent love, without a touch of mischief?
7.
Shoba
Shoba read a short poem by
Wordsworth,
the seminal poet of the Romantic Movement. It is the sort of poem
someone dashes off on the back of an envelope, so light is the
weight, and so faint the impression left when the last line has been
read. It is a nature poem, exclaiming at the simple sounds and sights
of nature, about a cock crowing, a stream flowing, birds that twitter
and lakes that glitter – but far inferior to what Wordsworth could
write when he was in his stride.
For a biography of
Wordsworth the reader can consult the wikipedia link above.
8.
Betty Kuriyan
Betty Kurian who was to
read the poem Ode to the West Wind by Shelley, first gave an
introduction to the reason they are called romantic poets. The Latin meaning
of romance is a verse narrative based on legend, chivalric love and
adventure, or the supernatural. Different trends marked the older
romantics like Wordsworth, and the younger ones like Shelley and
Keats. The older poets espoused Order and Form, the later poets
thought Imagination was uppermost in a poet's repertory. Passion is
mostly absent in Wordsworth. "A beautiful and ineffectual angel,
beating in the void his luminous wings in vain," was how
Matthew Arnold, also of the old guard, characterised Shelley. The
full quote from Arnold's essay is:
The man Shelley, in very
truth, is not entirely sane, and Shelley's poetry is not entirely
sane either. The Shelley of actual life is a vision of beauty and
radiance, indeed, but availing nothing, effecting nothing. And in
poetry, no less than in life, he is ‘a beautiful and ineffectual
angel, beating in the void his luminous wings in vain.’
When you contrast this with
the energy and revolutionary activity that animated the young
Shelley, the essays he wrote, and the political import of many of his
poems, there is little doubt that Arnold was misguided, or perhaps
had insufficient knowledge of Shelley's career. It strikes me that
Matthew Arnold if he was living in modern India would say something
like this about Arundhati Roy.
Betty mentioned the essay
Shelley wrote on the Necessity of Atheism and his hatred of
monarchy. He made speeches in Parliament demanding liberty for the
Irish Catholics. She also told how Shelley rescued Harriet from a
terrible situation by marrying her, though whether that was wise is
debatable, seeing as how it worked out (not very well).
The poem is in terza
rima with the 1st and 3rd line rhyming, the 2nd and 4th, and so
on; the rhythm itself is iambic pentameter. An Ode is usually addressed to a person, but here the West Wind is personified. She mentioned
each of the first three parts are addressed to the different elements
of nature the wind interacts with as it passes over. First the wind
sweeps away the autumn leaves and carries off seeds of vegetation. In
the second stanza, the poet describes the clouds over the autumn sky.
In the third stanza the impact of the wind on the Mediterranean coast
and the Atlantic ocean is called out.
The fourth stanza is about
how he could be transformed by the wind. It ends on a message of
rebirth and hope.The West Wind, Betty clarified, is a fierce wind
from the west that blows in autumn.
Ankush made a distinction
between Wordsworth and Coleridge; for Wordsworth Nature was a solace,
for Coleridge Nature is a heightened state of being. Kavita said
Wordsworth is soothing to read. Regarding the 'ineffectual angel'
calumny of Shelley, Joe thought writers are not meant to man the
barricades of revolutions but their words can inspire people. You
have to be a prose writer for that, said Betty. And so Shelley was in
his long essay Defence of Poetry and the Necessity of
Atheism. And Marx writing his dense tome Das Capital in
the British Library provided the entire ideology behind the Russian,
the Chinese, the Vietnamese, the Cuban, and numerous other
revolutions, including one right here in Kerala.
Here now is a bio of
Shelley put together from various sources by Joe. You may skip if
such details are not of interest. Joe was piqued by a book his
daughter presented him, Young
Romantics: The Shelleys, Byron and Other Tangled Lives by Daisy
Hay. The author provides an easy-to-read exploration of the
intertwined lives of the poets in Shelley's orbit. It makes for engrossing reading.
Shelley
in his personal life exemplified the ideals of rebelliousness against
authority, of freedom, including free-love, and was a generous spirit
toward his friends. He had great faith in the power of visionary
imagination.
Shelley
was born into nobility and by the laws of primogeniture stood to
inherit the estate of his grandfather. His schooling was not a happy
time, for he was bullied. He liked the science lectures and read
widely, but not well. He entered Eton at age twelve, and there too he
was made miserable by bullying and fagging for seniors. The only
relief was a master whose library he had access to and this allowed
him to read widely in literature and philosophy. At Eton he wrote
some poems which were published as Original
Poetry; by Victor and Cazire (1810)
— with subjects such as love, sorrow, hope, nature, and politics.
He also wrote a novel
Zastrozzi
(1810). Reviewers were not kind to either of these attempts.
Thus
when he went up to University College, Oxford, it was as a published
author. He kept up his catholic reading tastes in all manner of
subjects. He made a great friend in Thomas Hogg at the university and
there indulged in vigorous debates and reading. In his very first
year Shelley published a pamphlet titled The Necessity of Atheism
(1811) and sent it around to the deans of colleges. That cost him
dear. Shelley was expelled, and his refusal to disavow the opinions
(rather tame by modern standards, namely that proof of beliefs must
come from sensory perception, reason, or testimony) ensured his
expulsion stood, and he never went back. There was a falling out with
pater which left him insecure financially until he came into majority
at the age of twenty-one.
His
first unfortunate love affair, if it can be called thus, was when he
intervened to elope with a girl Harriet Westbrook. Shelley met Robert
Southey the poet but did not take to his tame ways and patronising
attitude. He then met William Godwin, whose book Political
Justice (1793)
set forth the principles he could live by. He put certain ideas of
this into action by taking up the cause of emancipation of Irish
Catholics from British rule by printing a pamphlet An
Address, to the Irish People
(1812), and distributing it in Dublin and giving talks. Shelley
preached love for humankind and universal brotherhood. He wrote a
fiery argument on freedom of the press when his pamphlets were
confiscated. During this time he composed poems that were never
published and only in the 1960s were they discovered, and published
as The
Esdaile Notebook
by Harvard University Press and Knopf in 1964. Here is a poem from
this early writing in the notebook, presented by Shelley to Harriet:
Written
at Cwm Elian
1811
When
the peasant hies him home, and the day planet reposes
Pillowed
on the azure peaks that bound the western sight,
When
each mountain flower its modest petal tremulously closes
And
sombre shrouded twilight comes to lead her sister Night,
Vestal
dark! how dear to me are then thy dews of lightness
That
bathe my brow so withering scorched beneath the daybeam's brightness.
More
dear to me, tho' day be robed in vest of dazzling whiteness,
Is
one folding of the garment dusk that wraps thy form, O Night!
With
thee I still delight to sit where dizzy Danger slumbers.
Where
'mid the rocks the fitful blast hath wak'd its wildest lay
Till
beneath the yellow moonbeam decay the dying numbers
And
silence, even in fancy's throne, hath seized again the sway.
Again
she must resign it, hark! for wildest cadence pouring
Far,
far amid the viewless glen beneath the Elian roaring
Mid
tongued woods, and shapeless rocks with moonlight summits soaring
It
mingles its magic murmuring with the blast that floats away.
In
London Shelley met with William Godwin, an early ideal, but was
disappointed by the real man. However in Godwin’s household lived
three women, all of whom fell in love with him: Mary Godwin, Claire
Clairmont, and Fanny Imlay. Shelley fell for Mary, who replaced
Harriet in his affections. Harriet was quite upset although following
his principles of free love he was willing to share the household
with Mary and Harriet.
Shelley
eloped with Mary to Europe, but came up short in funds and returned
to London where he raised money against his future inheritance in
1815. In 1816, Alastor, or The
Spirit of Solitude: and Other Poems,
were published by Shelley containing many poems of solitude and
nature following the one long poem, Alastor, about a poet’s veiled
dream and ultimate nirvana.
Claire Clairmont by Amelia Curran
Claire
had meanwhile thrown herself at Byron as his mistress and the Shelley
household went to Geneva to meet up with Byron and his entourage.
Shelley and Byron hit it off and had many conversations and
exchanges. They went sailing together. Shelley influenced Byron’s
poetry. One of Shelley’s fine poems, Hymn
to Intellectual Beauty, date from this time. It has a clear line
of descent from Wordsworth.
Twin
tragedies struck when Harriet, Shelley’s first wife, committed
suicide, and then Fanny Imlay. Mary and Shelley would have felt
responsible in part for the events. Free-love comes with
unforeseeable pain, in the end. Shelley wrote a poem which in its
second incarnation was called The
Revolt of Islam (though whether it has anything to do with Islam
is moot). It has glorious nature scenes like this:
Canto
12 Stanza 34
A
scene of joy and wonder to behold
That
river's shapes and shadows changing ever,
Where
the broad sunrise filled with deepening gold
Its
whirlpools, where all hues did spread and quiver;
And
where melodious falls did burst and shiver
Among
rocks clad with flowers, the foam and spray
Sparkled
like stars upon the sunny river,
Or
when the moonlight poured a holier day,
One
vast and glittering lake around green islands lay.
In
March 1818 Shelley and his women (Mary, and Claire who by now had a
child, Allegra, by Byron) went to Italy. There in the sunshine he
wrote several poems including, Julian
and Maddalo. Here is an excerpt and it refers to the seaside
rides on horseback with Byron:
A
narrow space of level sand thereon,
Where
'twas our wont to ride while day went down.
This
ride was my delight. I love all waste
And
solitary places; where we taste
The
pleasure of believing what we see
Is
boundless, as we wish our souls to be:
And
such was this wide ocean, and this shore
More
barren than its billows; and yet more
Than
all, with a remember'd friend I love
To
ride as then I rode; for the winds drove
The
living spray along the sunny air
Into
our faces; the blue heavens were bare,
Stripp'd
to their depths by the awakening north;
And,
from the waves, sound like delight broke forth
Harmonising
with solitude, and sent
Into
our hearts aëreal merriment.
Julian
is Shelley taking an optimistic view, and Maddalo is Byron with a
darker view. The travels in Italy were a strong inspiration for
Shelley and he wrote about it in letters to friends. One of Shelley’s
mature masterpieces is Prometheus
Unbound; the poet could not reconcile to Aeschylus in his play
having Zeus condemn Prometheus, the Titan who defied the gods and
gave fire to mankind, to eternal torture. In this lyrical drama
Shelley has Zeus fall from power and Prometheus is released. It is
full of speeches, therefore a closet drama not meant to be performed.
When it was published in 1820 the volume included other fine lyric
poems: Ode
to the West Wind,
The
Cloud,
To
a Skylark,
and Ode
to Liberty.
The
poem Ode
to the West Wind,
selected by our guest Betty Kurian, is written in terza
rima,
the well-known scheme of inter-locking tercets in which Dante
composed The
Divine Comedy:
aba
bcb cdc
and so on for any number of tercets. It’s rather difficult to
maintain in English compared with Italian, because of the paucity of rhymes
in English. The Wind as destroyer and preserver becomes the metaphor
for change that must be ushered in. Shelley saw events in the real
world that compelled him as a poet to swing into action and advocate
revolution. It is in five cantos, the first three describing the
action of wind on the earth, the air, and the ocean. The next two has
the poet addressing the wind invoking its power to uproot him and
make him part of its forceful rush to change the world. This echoes a
sentiment brought out in the famous lines from his Defence
of Poetry:
The
most unfailing herald, companion, and follower of the awakening of a
great people to work a beneficial change in opinion or institution,
is poetry … Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended
inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts
upon the present; the words which express what they understand not;
the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire;
the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the
unacknowledged legislators of the world.
Shelley’s
lament on the death of Keats, Adonais,
is the most touching tribute ever paid by one poet to another:
I
weep for Adonais—he is dead!
Oh,
weep for Adonais! though our tears
Thaw
not the frost which binds so dear a head!
...
But
now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perish'd,
The
nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,
Like
a pale flower by some sad maiden cherish'd,
And
fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;
But
further on Shelley maintains Keats is alive:
Peace,
peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep,
He
hath awaken'd from the dream of life;
'Tis
we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
With
phantoms an unprofitable strife,
and
ends by saying,
The
soul of Adonais, like a star,
Beacons
from the abode where the Eternal are.
Shelley
had to mediate in the rifts between Claire Clairmont and Byron over
their daughter Allegra and deal with a somewhat estranged Mary,
saddened by the loss of her babies. Later Shelley moved to a seaside
area of Italy in the north-west (the Italian Riviera) where he could
sail his boat with Edward Trelawney in the Gulf of La Spezia.
Trelawney was an adventurer, who later wrote a memoir, Recollections
of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron. Shelley wrote his last
long poem in 1822, called The
Triumph of Life.
Leigh Hunt and party had come over from England at his invitation to
spend time in Italy and start a new magazine, and having settled Hunt
in a house in Livorno, Shelley and Williams [Edward and Jane Williams
were a happily married couple the Shelley’s met in Italy and took
to seeing often] set back to sail to Lerici where they were staying,
also on the bay of La Spezia. A storm arose unexpectedly and they
were drowned; it was not until ten days later Shelley’s body was
found, bloated and unrecognisable. A copy of Keats’s poems was
found on his body. How lovely that the two were close in death!
Shelley’s
body had to be cremated right away on the beach — Hunt, Byron,
Mary, and Trelawney were present. There’s a painting by Fournier to
commemorate the event
Shelley’s
ashes are buried in the Protestant cemetery in Rome near Keats’
grave with these words from The
Tempest
Nothing
of him that doth fade
But
doth suffer a sea-change
Into
something rich and strange.
Hunt
inscribed one more epitaph: Cor Cordium (Heart of hearts)
There
is more than one Keats-Shelley
Association, one in UK and one in USA. Shelley’s poetry has
been prized since the beginning, but critics have not always been
kind to his work. I believe it is in smaller works you find Shelley
unalloyed at his lyrical best, e.g. Love’s
Philosophy, thus:
The
fountains mingle with the river,
And
the rivers with the ocean;
The
winds of heaven mix forever
With
a sweet emotion;
Nothing
in the world is single;
All
things by a law divine
In
another's being mingle--
Why
not I with thine?
See,
the mountains kiss high heaven,
And
the waves clasp one another;
No
sister flower could be forgiven
If
it disdained its brother;
And
the sunlight clasps the earth,
And
the moonbeams kiss the sea;--
What
are all these kissings worth,
If
thou kiss not me?
University
College, Oxford, which rusticated him now has a Shelley Memorial:
9.
KumKum
KumKum read this short bio
of Shelley before launching into The Cloud. Shelley was born
on August 4, 1792 in Sussex, England. He died by drowning in the sea
on July 8, 1822, off the Gulf of La Spezia in NW Italy. As an adult
Shelley inherited his grandfather's estate and a seat in Parliament.
He attended Eton school, and briefly went up to Oxford but was sent
down for expressing atheistic beliefs in pamphlets, and never
graduated. Shelley was an intellectual, who read extensively. His
real education took place outside of classrooms.
Shelley began to write
poems and essays early in his life. But success did not come easily,
because of his unyielding beliefs in atheism, free-love and a
revolutionary philosophy.
Shelley was much ahead of
his time. He talked about Freedom of Speech, and attacked organised
religion, the monarchy and unearned wealth. He advocated free love
and vegetarianism. Shelley's lifelong struggle against any form of
authority, be it kingly, priestly or patriarchal, made him unique
among his contemporaries.
Yet, Shelley, without
doubt, was in the forefront of the Romantic movement that swept the
literary scene in his time. It was a movement initiated by the poets
Blake, Wordsworth, and Coleridge before him and carried on by his
contemporaries, Byron and Keats, both of whom he befriended. Like a
true romantic, Shelley paid tribute to Nature, to Beauty, and to
Love in his poems.
The Cloud has a memorable
galloping rhythm and features anapaests, a foot which has two unaccented
syllables followed by an accented syllable. You can clearly hear one
anapaest in the first line, two in the second, one in the third, one
in the fourth of the opening lines:
I
bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From
the seas and the streams;
I
bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In
their noonday dreams.
The rhythm parallels the
frolicsome cloud as it goes about its multiple activities. Just as
the West Wind, here too the Cloud is personified.
10.
Pamela
Emily Jane Brontë (1818
– 1848)
Emily Brontë, as painted by her brother Patrick Branwell Brontë (died 1848), from a portrait with her sisters
Emily Brontë is best known for her only novel Wuthering Heights which we read last year. In the present poem we have a person expectantly waiting for a secret visitor who comes mysteriously at dead of night. The atmosphere is hushed and eerie and of such poems one must ask, not what they mean, but what they convey, and the poetic craft enlisted to attain the end of creating mystery. Here is Dame Peggy Ashcroft giving a reading in a low voice, quivering with a haunting tone.
A short biography taken
from an edition
by Chris Emery of The Visionary and Other Poems by Emily
Brontë is subscribed:
Emily Brontë was born in
1818 in Thornton. She was the younger sister of Charlotte Brontë and
the fifth of six children. In 1824, the family moved to Haworth, West
Yorkshire in England, where Emily’s father was curate. It was in
these new surroundings that her literary life began to flourish. She
worked briefly as a governess near Halifax, but returned to Haworth
due to homesickness. She later travelled to Brussels to attend a
private school with her sister, Charlotte.
After Charlotte discovered
her poetic talent, the sisters collaborated on a pseudonymous volume
of poetry, published as Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell
(1846). The volume sold only two copies. The poems within it, and
others collected later, have now achieved classic literary status.
Virginia Woolf believed that Emily’s poetry would outlive her more
famous novel. Emily published the first two volumes of Wuthering
Heights in 1847. After catching a cold at her brother’s funeral,
Emily developed tuberculosis and, after refusing medical help, she
died in December 1848. She is buried in Haworth.
11.
Preeti
Scott is better known as a
novelist (The Waverley Novels) but he started out as a poet.
Among the Romantics he must surely top as the best paid poet of the
period, and even Byron acknowledged that. His father was a lawyer and
mother, the daughter of a professor of medicine in Edinburgh. His
childhood was partly spent in the Borders, away from the town, and
there he picked up the traditions, the ballads and stories which were
to figure later on in his poems. His first major work was The
Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802). It was full of
ballads meant to be sung, and the language is Scots. As a young man he
met leading figures of literature and was introduced to Robert Burns.
He married a woman, Charlotte Carpenter, in 1797 and they lived
happily until her death in 1826.
Walter Scott, portrait by Sir Henry Raeburn in 1822
The Lay of the Last
Minstrel (1805) was a long narrative poem about a 16th century
border feud and many adventures, featuring magic and a goblin; it is
bolder verse, combining new forms with old. It was an instant success
and brought Scott money and fame. These familiar lines are from Canto
VI:
Breathes there the man,
with soul so dead,
Who never to himself
hath said,
This is my own, my
native land!
With that success Scott was
offered an advance of 500 guineas for his next poem! That would be
about USD 45,000 in today's money. The result was a poem called
Marmion about the Battle of Flodden Field, which became a huge
commercial success. This was followed by Lady of the Lake
(1810). He wrote several more long poems but the first four were
never surpassed in commercial success.
Then he turned to novels.
His decision was motivated partly by the greater
success of Byron's narrative verse, which he regarded as ‘more
forcible and powerful’, so he said. He was offered the Poet
Laureate's position in 1813, but declined, saying he could not ‘write
to order.’ [The Poet Laureate has to compose verses on royal
occasions]. Robert Southey assumed the laureateship.
Abbotsford, home of Walter Scott
Scott was a well-received
figure at home, modest in his ways, and genial in writing and
comportment. He was extremely well-read but you never would know
talking to him. Scott was knighted by King George IV whose visit to
Edinburgh Scott personally stage-managed with high ceremony; everyone
including the King was dressed in tartan. Most of the account above
is taken from a Walter
Scott biography online.
Preeti who read Lochinvar
(the name means a loch on the hilltop) said Edinburgh was a favourite
city of hers. People there quote Walter Scott all the time, the
guides even more so. She took a tour with Hansons
touring company.
Edinburgh Castle is built high on an impressive 700 million year old extinct volcano called Castle Rock, in the middle of what is now the city of Edinburgh. Preeti wanted Joe to read the ballad from having heard him recite the first two lines with gusto:
The Scott Monument stands in Princes Street Gardens in Edinburgh - 287 steps to the top
Edinburgh Castle is built high on an impressive 700 million year old extinct volcano called Castle Rock, in the middle of what is now the city of Edinburgh. Preeti wanted Joe to read the ballad from having heard him recite the first two lines with gusto:
O
young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through
all the wide Border his steed was the best;
But everyone said in unison
she should recite the ballad of the knight, ‘So faithful in love,
and so dauntless in war.’ The brisk pace of the poem ends with a
galloping chase as the knight makes off with the bride:
There
was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters,
Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There
was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But
the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So
daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have
ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
12.
Ankush
Ankush
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 – 1834)
Coleridge is known in poetry for his longer poems, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Kubla Khan, and Christabel. The first two have become canonical works and appear often in anthologies of verse. He is known as a friend of Wordsworth with whom he founded the Romantic Movement. He gave a course of lectures in London and Bristol on Shakespeare over a period of years, and those he delivered in 1810-11 in London were considered masterful contributions to Shakespeare criticism, most especially his lecture on Hamlet which ends:
Shakspeare wished to
impress upon us the truth, that action is the chief end of existence
— that no faculties of intellect, however brilliant, can be
considered valuable, or indeed otherwise than as misfortunes, if they
withdraw us from, or render us repugnant to action, and lead us to
think and think of doing, until the time has elapsed when we can do
anything effectually. In enforcing this moral truth, Shakespeare has
shown the fulness and force of his powers : all that is amiable and
excellent in nature is combined in Hamlet, with the exception of one
quality. He is a man living in meditation, called upon to act by
every motive human and divine, but the great object of his life is
defeated by continually resolving to do, yet doing nothing but
resolve.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge portrait
His other work Biographia Literaria purports to be a literary biography, but it ranges over many things besides his own work, with essays on philosophy, especially German philosophy (he was fluent in German from a long sojourn in Germany), the question of diction in Wordsworth, and the concept of a ‘willing suspension of disbelief.’
Coleridge suffered from
anxiety and depression throughout his life, which could often cripple
him. His use of opium (laudanum) was prescribed to mitigate this, but
it made him an addict too. His father was a Reverend and he the
youngest of ten children by the second wife. In childhood he was not
into sports and games but read a great deal precociously. He credits
one of his masters who was a devotee of plain words and sound sense
in writing to the development of his own style. He went to Jesus
College, Cambridge, and won prizes for essays and odes.
At Cambridge he became
acquainted with Robert Southey and made plans for a commune in
Pennsylvania with him. That led to them marrying two sisters, but the
girl he wed, Sara, proved an unhappy match, leading to later
separation. In 1795 he met Wordsworth and Dorothy, his sister. They
lived near each other for a while and during this time he composed
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla Khan, the
latter in an opium-induced haze, as Coleridge said. The latter poem
is associated with the literary expression, Person
from Porlock. He was interrupted during its composition by a
tradesman from Porlock's shop and after the chap was sent off
Coleridge could not access his dream state again, and so the poem
remains incomplete, only 54 lines long. The story goes that Coleridge
used to carry around the draft with him hoping on some occasion the
neurons in his brain would align into the identical state and he
could recommence. Once when Byron met him at a party he offered 100
guineas on the spot for the draft.
Draft of the poem Kubla Khan in Coleridge's hand
1798 saw the joint
publication of the Lyrical
Ballads with Wordsworth, which may be taken as the starting point
for the Romantic Movement. Its purpose was to sweep away the cobwebs
of high flown 18th century poetry and usher in new principles of
versification. Wordsworth explained the poems “were written chiefly
with a view to ascertain how far the language of conversation in the
middle and lower classes of society is adapted to the purpose of
poetic pleasure.” Two of the best known poems are in this
collection: The
Rime of the Ancient Mariner (Coleridge) and Lines
Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey (Wordsworth). The
former has yielded the much-quoted lines
Water, water, every
where,
Nor any drop to drink.
And extraordinary images
like this, as the air grew still and the ship hardly moved:
As idle as a painted
ship
Upon a painted ocean
and the closing lines of
the poem,
A sadder and a wiser
man,
He rose the morrow morn.
Coleridge went on a tour of
Germany and returned with a fluent knowledge of German, having read
major authors of German philosophy in the original. He went to the
Lake District of Grasmere where Wordsworth had taken up residence
with Dorothy, and for a while he stayed with them. As a guest he was
on the high-maintenance side with all his idiosyncrasies.
In his declining years as
an opium addict he stayed in a home belonging to a physician, Dr.
Gillman. The good doctor tried to control his addiction and that may
have enabled him to complete the Biographia Literaria while
staying there; he also composed a number of other prose works,
religious ones like the Lay
Sermons, collections of his verse like the Sibylline
Leaves, including this angelic short poem, a translation of
the Latin verse under an engraving
he encountered in Germany
The engraving by Hieronymus Wierix which Coleridge encountered in 1799 in Germany in a Catholic church
Dormi, Jesu! Mater ridet
Quae tam dulcem somnum
videt,
Dormi, Jesu! blandule!
Si non-dormis, Mater
plorat,
Inter fila cantans orat,
Blande, veni, somnule.
—Latin original
Sleep, sweet babe! my
cares beguiling:
Mother sits beside thee
smiling;
Sleep, my darling,
tenderly!
If thou sleep not,
mother mourneth,
Singing as her wheel she
turneth:
Come, soft slumber,
balmily!
—Translation
by S. T. Coleridge
He
published Aids to
Reflection, a religious tract, which is thought to have had a
significant impact on the Oxford Movement in the early twentieth
century. This is argued at length by Christopher Snook in Romanticism
and the Oxford Movement.
Coleridge
died in July 1834 from a heart attack.
Ankush
said The
Rime of the Ancient Mariner reads
like a fable, and it can be read as a metaphor. The phrase ‘albatross
around one's neck’ is used as a metaphor for a psychological burden
that persists, and a penance that must be carried out:
Ah!
well a-day! what evil looks
Had
I from old and young!
Instead
of the cross, the Albatross
About
my neck was hung.
Ankush
quoted Julian Barnes from the novel Flaubert's
Parrot:
(on
grief) And you do come out of it, that’s true. After a year, after
five. But you don’t come out of it like a train coming out of a
tunnel, bursting through the downs into sunshine and that swift,
rattling descent to the Channel; you come out of it as a gull comes
out of an oil-slick. You are tarred and feathered for life.
In
the process of getting over guilt some part of it stays with you.
There are many themes in the poem, for example:
Sin
and Redemption
After
the mariner kills the albatross the guilt of the sin haunts him until
he seeks absolution from the hermit.
Respect
for Nature
We
should respect all creatures, be it an albatross or the sea-snakes;
He
prayeth well, who loveth well
Both
man and bird and beast.
The
Poems
1.
Joe
George Gordon Lord Byron
(1788 – 1824)
(Byron in Albanian costume)
So We'll Go No More a
Roving (written at age 29 after some dissipation in Venice at the
Carnival before Lent, in a letter he wrote to Thomas Moore)
So, we'll go no more a
roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still
as loving,
And the moon be still as
bright.
For the sword outwears its
sheath,
And the soul wears out
the breast,
And the heart must pause to
breathe,
And love itself have
rest.
Though the night was made
for loving,
And the day returns too
soon,
Yet we'll go no more a
roving
By the light of the
moon.
The Adieu (excerpt)
— remembering Mary Chaworth, a distant cousin who refused his love
Yet, Mary, all thy beauties
seem
Fresh as in Love’s
bewitching dream,
To me in smiles
display’d;
Till slow disease resigns
his prey
To Death, the parent of
decay,
To Anna (another of his
early loves)
Oh! might I kiss those eyes
of fire,
A million scarce would
quench desire,
Still would I steep my lips
in bliss,
And dwell an age on every
kiss;
Nor then my soul should
sated be,
Still would I kiss, and
cling to thee,
Thine image cannot fade
Childe Harold Canto 4
Stanza I (CH reaches
Venice)
I stood in Venice, on
the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on
each hand:
I saw from out the wave
her structures rise
As from the stroke of
the enchanter's wand:
A thousand years their
cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying
glory smiles
O'er the far times when
many a subject land
Looked to the winged
Lion's marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state,
throned on her hundred isles!
Stanza XXVI. (CH
reaches Rome)
The commonwealth of
kings, the men of Rome!
And even since, and now,
fair Italy!
Thou art the garden of
the world, the home
Of all Art yields, and
Nature can decree;
Even in thy desert, what
is like to thee?
Thy very weeds are
beautiful, thy waste
More rich than other
climes' fertility;
Thy wreck a glory, and
thy ruin graced
With an immaculate charm
which cannot be defaced.
Stanza CLXXXIV. (CH
confesses his delight in the ocean)
And I have loved thee,
Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was
on thy breast to be
Borne like thy bubbles,
onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy
breakers—they to me
Were a delight; and if
the freshening sea
Made them a terror—'twas
a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a
child of thee,
And trusted to thy
billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy
mane—as I do here.
Stanza CLXXVIII. (CH
takes pleasure in Nature)
There is a pleasure in
the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on
the lonely shore,
There is society where
none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and
music in its roar:
I love not Man the less,
but Nature more,
From these our
interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or
have been before,
To mingle with the
Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express,
yet cannot all conceal.
The Prisoner of Chillon
(Byron begins the poem about 3 brothers imprisoned for their faith)
My hair is grey, but not
with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night,
As men's have grown from
sudden fears:
My limbs are bow'd, though
not with toil,
But rusted with a vile
repose,
For they have been a
dungeon's spoil,
And mine has been the fate
of those
To whom the goodly earth
and air
Are bann'd, and
barr'd—forbidden fare;
… (the youngest brother
is described)
But he, the favourite and
the flower,
Most cherish'd since his
natal hour,
His mother's image in fair
face
The infant love of all his
race
His martyr'd father's
dearest thought,
My latest care, for whom I
sought
To hoard my life, that his
might be
Less wretched now, and one
day free;
He, too, who yet had held
untired
A spirit natural or
inspired—
He, too, was struck, and
day by day
Was wither'd on the stalk
away.
Don Juan Canto 1
(Byron’s most famous poem, an epic)
47
Sermons he read, and
lectures he endured,
And homilies, and lives
of all the saints;
To Jerome and to Chrysostom
inured,
He did not take such
studies for restraints;
But how faith is acquired,
and then insured,
So well not one of the
aforesaid paints
As Saint Augustine in his
fine Confessions,
Which make the reader envy
his transgressions.
48
This, too, was a seal'd
book to little Juan—
I can't but say that his
mamma was right,
If such an education was
the true one.
She scarcely trusted him
from out her sight;
Her maids were old, and if
she took a new one
You might be sure she
was a perfect fright,
She did this during even
her husband's life—
I recommend as much to
every wife.
Canto II Stanza CLXXXVI
A long, long kiss, a
kiss of youth, and love,
And beauty, all
concentrating like rays
Into one focus,
kindled from above;
Such kisses as
belong to early days,
Where heart, and soul,
and sense, in concert move,
And the blood 's
lava, and the pulse a blaze,
Each kiss a
heart-quake,—for a kiss's strength,
I think, it must be
reckon'd by its length.
By length I mean
duration; theirs endured
Heaven knows how
long—no doubt they never reckon'd;
And if they had, they
could not have secured
The sum of their
sensations to a second:
They had not spoken;
but they felt allured,
As if their souls
and lips each other beckon'd,
Which, being join'd,
like swarming bees they clung—
Their hearts the
flowers from whence the honey sprung.
…
Stanza CXCII
Alas! they were so young,
so beautiful,
So lonely, loving,
helpless, and the hour
Was that in which the
heart is always full,
And, having o'er
itself no further power,
Prompts deeds eternity
can not annul,
But pays off moments
in an endless shower
Of hell-fire—all
prepared for people giving
Pleasure or pain to
one another living.
Childe Harold
Stanza CXXXVII.
But I have lived, and
have not lived in vain:
My mind may lose its
force, my blood its fire,
And my frame perish even
in conquering pain,
But there is that within
me which shall tire
Torture and Time, and
breathe when I expire:
2.
Thommo
Joanna Baillie (1762 –
1851)
A Winter Day
(excerpts)
The cock, warm roosting
'midst his feather'd dames,
Now lifts his beak and
snuffs the morning air,
Stretches his neck and
claps his heavy wings,
Gives three hoarse crows,
and glad his talk is done;
Low, chuckling, turns
himself upon the roost,
Then nestles down again
amongst his mates.
The lab'ring hind, who on
his bed of straw,
Beneath his home-made
coverings, coarse, but warm,
Lock'd in the kindly arms
of her who spun them,
Dreams of the gain that
next year's crop should bring;
Or at some fair disposing
of his wool,
Or by some lucky and
unlook'd-for bargain.
Fills his skin purse with
heaps of tempting gold,
Now wakes from sleep at the
unwelcome call,
And finds himself but just
the same poor man
As when he went to rest.-
He hears the blast against
his window beat,
And wishes to himself he
were a lord,
That he might lie a-bed.-
He rubs his eyes, and
stretches out his arms;
Heigh ho! heigh ho! he
drawls with gaping mouth,
Then most unwillingly
creeps out of bed,
And without looking-glass
puts on his clothes.
With rueful face he blows
the smother'd fire,
And lights his candle at
the red'ning coal;
First sees that all be
right amongst his cattle,
Then hies him to the barn
with heavy tread,
Printing his footsteps on
the new fall'n snow.
From out the heap of corn
he pulls his sheaves,
Dislodging the poor
red-breast from his shelter,
Where all the live-long
night he slept secure;
But now afrighted, with
uncertain flight
He flutters round the
walls, to seek some hole,
At which he may escape out
to the frost.
And now the flail, high
whirling o'er his head,
Descends with force upon
the jumping sheave,
Whilst every rugged wall,
and neighboring cot
Re-echoes back the noise of
his strokes.
But long accustom'd to
observe the weather,
The labourer cannot lay him
down in peace
Till he has look'd to mark
what bodes the night,
He turns the heavy door,
thrusts out his head,
Sees wreathes of snow
heap'd up on ev'ry side,
And black and grimily all
above his head,
Save when a red gleam
shoots along the waste
To make the gloomy night
more terrible
Loud blows the northern
blast--
He hears it hollow
grumbling from afar,
Then, gath'ring strength,
roll on with doubl'd might,
And break in dreadful
bellowings o'er his head;
Like pithless saplings bend
the vexed trees,
And their wide branches
crack. He shuts the door,
And, thankful for the roof
that covers him,
Hies him to bed.
3.
Priya
William Blake (1757 –
1827)
The Chimney Sweeper:
When my mother died I was very young
When my mother died I was
very young,
And my father sold me while
yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry "
'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!"
So your chimneys I sweep &
in soot I sleep.
There's little Tom Dacre,
who cried when his head
That curled like a lamb's
back, was shaved, so I said,
"Hush, Tom! never mind
it, for when your head's bare,
You know that the soot
cannot spoil your white hair."
And so he was quiet, &
that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping he
had such a sight!
That thousands of sweepers,
Dick, Joe, Ned, & Jack,
Were all of them locked up
in coffins of black;
And by came an Angel who
had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins &
set them all free;
Then down a green plain,
leaping, laughing they run,
And wash in a river and
shine in the Sun.
Then naked & white, all
their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and
sport in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom, if
he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his
father & never want joy.
And so Tom awoke; and we
rose in the dark
And got with our bags &
our brushes to work.
Though the morning was
cold, Tom was happy & warm;
So if all do their duty,
they need not fear harm.
The Chimney Sweeper: A
little black thing among the snow
A little black thing among
the snow,
Crying 'weep! 'weep! in
notes of woe!
"Where are thy father
and mother, say?"
"They are both gone up
to the church to pray.
Because I was happy upon
the heath,
And smiled among the
winter's snow,
They clothed me in the
clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the
notes of woe.
And because I am happy and
dance and sing,
They think they have done
me no injury,
And are gone to praise God
and his Priest and King,
Who make up a heaven of our
misery."
4.
Saras
John Keats (1795 –
1821).
Ode to a Nightingale
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
5.
Hemjith
William Wordsworth (1770
– 1850)
Excerpt from The
Prelude.
Boat Stealing Episode l.
357 to 400
One summer evening (led by her) I found
A little Boat tied to a Willow-tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on,
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
(Proud of his skill) to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon's utmost boundary; far above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin Pinnace; lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the Water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy Steep till then
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct,
Upreared its head.—I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim Shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living Thing,
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the Covert of the Willow-tree;
There in her mooring-place I left my Bark,—
And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar Shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or Sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty Forms, that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.
6.
Kavita
George Gordon Lord Byron
(1788 – 1824)
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like
the night
Of cloudless climes and
starry skies;
And all that’s best of
dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her
eyes;
Thus mellowed to that
tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day
denies.
One shade the more, one ray
the less,
Had half impaired the
nameless grace
Which waves in every raven
tress,
Or softly lightens o’er
her face;
Where thoughts serenely
sweet express,
How pure, how dear their
dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er
that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet
eloquent,
The smiles that win, the
tints that glow,
But tell of days in
goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all
below,
A heart whose love is
innocent!
7.
Shoba
William Wordsworth (1770
– 1850)
Written in March
The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter
The green field sleeps in
the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the
strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding
like one!
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare
hill;
The plowboy is whooping -
anon-anon:
There's joy in the
mountains;
There's life in the
fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!
8.
Betty Kuriyan
Percy Bysshe Shelley
(1792 – 1822)
Ode to the West Wind
I
O wild West Wind, thou
breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen
presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts
from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and
pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken
multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their
dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where
they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within
its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the
Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the
dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like
flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours
plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art
moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver;
hear, oh hear!
II
Thou on whose stream, mid
the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's
decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled
boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and
lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of
thine aëry surge,
Like the bright hair
uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even
from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the
zenith's height,
The locks of the
approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which
this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast
sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy
congregated might
Of vapours, from whose
solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and
hail will burst: oh hear!
III
Thou who didst waken from
his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean,
where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his
crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in
Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old
palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's
intenser day,
All overgrown with azure
moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints
picturing them! Thou
For whose path the
Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into
chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy
woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the
ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly
grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil
themselves: oh hear!
IV
If I were a dead leaf thou
mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to
fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy
power, and share
The impulse of thy
strength, only less free
Than thou, O
uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood,
and could be
The comrade of thy
wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip
thy skiey speed
Scarce seem'd a vision; I
would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer
in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a
leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of
life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has
chain'd and bow'd
One too like thee:
tameless, and swift, and proud.
V
Make me thy lyre, even as
the forest is:
What if my leaves are
falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty
harmonies
Will take from both a deep,
autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be
thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me,
impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over
the universe
Like wither'd leaves to
quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of
this verse,
Scatter, as from an
unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words
among mankind!
Be through my lips to
unawaken'd earth
The trumpet of a prophecy!
O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring
be far behind?
9.
KumKum
Percy Bysshe Shelley
(1792 – 1822)
The Cloud
I bring fresh showers for
the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the
streams;
I bear light shade for the
leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken
the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on
their mother's breast,
As she dances about the
sun.
I wield the flail of the
lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains
under,
And then again I dissolve
it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in
thunder.
I sift the snow on the
mountains below,
And their great pines groan
aghast;
And all the night 'tis my
pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms
of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my
skiey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is
fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at
fits;
Over earth and ocean, with
gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the
genii that move
In the depths of the purple
sea;
Over the rills, and the
crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the
plains,
Wherever he dream, under
mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves
remains;
And I all the while bask in
Heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in
rains.
The sanguine Sunrise, with
his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes
outspread,
Leaps on the back of my
sailing rack,
When the morning star
shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain
crag,
Which an earthquake rocks
and swings,
An eagle alit one moment
may sit
In the light of its golden
wings.
And when Sunset may
breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of
love,
And the crimson pall of eve
may fall
From the depth of Heaven
above,
With wings folded I rest,
on mine aëry nest,
As still as a brooding
dove.
That orbèd maiden with
white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my
fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes
strewn;
And wherever the beat of
her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of
my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her
and peer;
And I laugh to see them
whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden
bees,
When I widen the rent in my
wind-built tent,
Till calm the rivers,
lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky
fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the
moon and these.
I bind the Sun's throne
with a burning zone,
And the Moon's with a
girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and
the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my
banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a
bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like
a roof,
The mountains its columns
be.
The triumphal arch through
which I march
With hurricane, fire, and
snow,
When the Powers of the air
are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured
bow;
The sphere-fire above its
soft colours wove,
While the moist Earth was
laughing below.
I am the daughter of Earth
and Water,
And the nursling of the
Sky;
I pass through the pores of
the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when
with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is
bare,
And the winds and sunbeams
with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of
air,
I silently laugh at my own
cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of
rain,
Like a child from the womb,
like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it
again.
10.
Pamela
Emily Brontë (1818 –
1848)
The Visionary
Silent is the house: all
are laid asleep:
One alone looks out o’er
the snow-wreaths deep,
Watching every cloud,
dreading every breeze
That whirls the wildering
drift, and bends the groaning trees.
Cheerful is the hearth,
soft the matted floor;
Not one shivering gust
creeps through pane or door;
The little lamp burns
straight, its rays shoot strong and far:
I trim it well, to be the
wanderer’s guiding-star.
Frown, my haughty sire!
chide, my angry dame!
Set your slaves to spy;
threaten me with shame:
But neither sire nor dame
nor prying serf shall know,
What angel nightly tracks
that waste of frozen snow.
What I love shall come like
visitant of air,
Safe in secret power from
lurking human snare;
What loves me, no word of
mine shall e’er betray,
Though for faith unstained
my life must forfeit pay.
Burn, then, little lamp;
glimmer straight and clear—
Hush! a rustling wing
stirs, methinks, the air:
He for whom I wait, thus
ever comes to me;
Strange Power! I trust thy
might; trust thou my constancy.
11.
Preeti
Sir Walter Scott (1771 –
1832)
Lochinvar
O young Lochinvar is come
out of the west,
Through all the wide Border
his steed was the best;
And save his good
broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm’d, and
he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so
dauntless in war,
There never was knight like
the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and
he stopp’d not for stone,
He swam the Eske river
where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at
Netherby gate,
The bride had consented,
the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and
a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen
of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter’d the
Netherby Hall,
Among bride’s-men, and
kinsmen, and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride’s
father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven
bridegroom said never a word,)
“O come ye in peace here,
or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal,
young Lord Lochinvar?”
“I long woo’d your
daughter, my suit you denied;—
Love swells like the
Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now I am come, with
this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure,
drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in
Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride
to the young Lochinvar.”
The bride kiss’d the
goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaff’d off the wine,
and he threw down the cup.
She look’d down to blush,
and she look’d up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips
and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere
her mother could bar,—
“Now tread we a measure!”
said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so
lovely her face,
That never a hall such a
galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret,
and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood
dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens
whisper’d, “’twere better by far
To have match’d our fair
cousin with young Lochinvar.”
One touch to her hand, and
one word in her ear,
When they reach’d the
hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the
fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle
before her he sprung!
“She is won! we are gone,
over bank, bush, and scaur;
They’ll have fleet steeds
that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ’mong
Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and
Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and
chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of
Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so
dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of
gallant like young Lochinvar?
12.
Ankush
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
(1772 – 1834)
Kubla Khan
Or, a vision in a dream.
A Fragment.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome
decree:
Where Alph, the sacred
river, ran
Through caverns measureless
to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of
fertile ground
With walls and towers were
girdled round;
And there were gardens
bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an
incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests
ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of
greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic
chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart
a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and
enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning
moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her
demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with
ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast
thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently
was forced:
Amid whose swift
half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like
rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the
thresher’s flail:
And mid these dancing rocks
at once and ever
It flung up momently the
sacred river.
Five miles meandering with
a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the
sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns
measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a
lifeless ocean;
And ’mid this tumult
Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices
prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome
of pleasure
Floated midway on the
waves;
Where was heard the
mingled measure
From the fountain and
the caves.
It was a miracle of rare
device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with
caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian
maid
And on her dulcimer she
played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight
’twould win me,
That with music loud and
long,
I would build that dome in
air,
That sunny dome! those
caves of ice!
And all who heard should
see them there,
And all should cry, Beware!
Beware!
His flashing eyes, his
floating hair!
Weave a circle round him
thrice,
And close your eyes with
holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath
fed,
And drunk the milk of
Paradise.
That is a beautiful recounting of KRG's June 15, 2017 Session — when we celebrated The English Romantic Poets.
ReplyDeleteit was an enchanting evening when we read so many beautiful poems!
I am never tired of these Romantic poets and their wonderful poems. I now know that there are others in the group who share the same passion. Perhaps we can make this an Annual Event?
Thank you, Joe; you put in a lot of work to make this blog post one of your best. You managed to infuse depth into our Celebration!
And, a big Thank You to all our friendly readers in KRG for participating wholeheartedly.
KumKum
Joe thank you so much. As Kumkum mentioned you must have put in a lot to compile this as there were a lot of poets this time. Appreciate it so much. Nobody but you can do this. Only sad part is in the final group photo you are not there.
ReplyDeleteThanks, KumKum. Yes, it was a good session and everyone tried to discover their favourite among the Romantics. Such diversity!
ReplyDeleteI’m open to having another session, but let some time pass.
- joe
Hemjith, Glad you enjoyed the session and the post to record the event. It got delayed a bit since it needed work, but I am happy to put that in as I benefit most from the time spent. It’s like following a Litt course without ever leaving your home. I would have assigned some Diligent Reader Exercises, but people are too busy. One that I thought of was to add a reverie of 4 lines to The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in the same style.
ReplyDeleteI am there in an earlier photo ...
regards,
joe
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