2021 UNOM BRITISH LITERATURE SEM - II

 

UNIT – I POETRY (Detailed)

Macflecknoe

BY JOHN DRYDEN

A Satire upon the True-blue Protestant Poet T.S.

All human things are subject to decay,

And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey:

This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young

Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long:

In prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute

Through all the realms of Non-sense, absolute.

This aged prince now flourishing in peace,

And blest with issue of a large increase,

Worn out with business, did at length debate

To settle the succession of the State:

And pond'ring which of all his sons was fit

To reign, and wage immortal war with wit;

Cry'd, 'tis resolv'd; for nature pleads that he

Should only rule, who most resembles me:

Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,

Mature in dullness from his tender years.

Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he

Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity.

The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,

But Shadwell never deviates into sense.

Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,

Strike through and make a lucid interval;

But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,

His rising fogs prevail upon the day:

Besides his goodly fabric fills the eye,

And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty:

Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,

And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.

Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,

Thou last great prophet of tautology:

Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,

Was sent before but to prepare thy way;

And coarsely clad in Norwich drugget came

To teach the nations in thy greater name.

My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung

When to King John of Portugal I sung,

Was but the prelude to that glorious day,

When thou on silver Thames did'st cut thy way,

With well tim'd oars before the royal barge,

Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;

And big with hymn, commander of an host,

The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss'd.

Methinks I see the new Arion sail,

The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.

At thy well sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore

The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar:

Echoes from Pissing-Alley, Shadwell call,

And Shadwell they resound from Aston Hall.

About thy boat the little fishes throng,

As at the morning toast, that floats along.

Sometimes as prince of thy harmonious band

Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.

St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,

Not ev'n the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme:

Though they in number as in sense excel;

So just, so like tautology they fell,

That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore

The lute and sword which he in triumph bore

And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.

Here stopt the good old sire; and wept for joy

In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.

All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,

That for anointed dullness he was made.

 

Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind,

(The fair Augusta much to fears inclin'd)

An ancient fabric, rais'd t'inform the sight,

There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight:

A watch tower once; but now, so fate ordains,

Of all the pile an empty name remains.

From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,

Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys.

Where their vast courts, the mother-strumpets keep,

And, undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep.

Near these a nursery erects its head,

Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred;

Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,

Where infant punks their tender voices try,

And little Maximins the gods defy.

Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,

Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear;

But gentle Simkin just reception finds

Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds:

Pure clinches, the suburbian muse affords;

And Panton waging harmless war with words.

Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,

Ambitiously design'd his Shadwell's throne.

For ancient Decker prophesi'd long since,

That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,

Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense:

To whom true dullness should some Psyches owe,

But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;

Humorists and hypocrites it should produce,

Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.

 

Now Empress Fame had publisht the renown,

Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.

Rous'd by report of fame, the nations meet,

From near Bun-Hill, and distant Watling-street.

No Persian carpets spread th'imperial way,

But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay:

From dusty shops neglected authors come,

Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum.

Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay,

But loads of Shadwell almost chok'd the way.

Bilk'd stationers for yeoman stood prepar'd,

And Herringman was Captain of the Guard.

The hoary prince in majesty appear'd,

High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.

At his right hand our young Ascanius sat

Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.

His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,

And lambent dullness play'd around his face.

As Hannibal did to the altars come,

Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome;

So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain,

That he till death true dullness would maintain;

And in his father's right, and realm's defence,

Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense.

The king himself the sacred unction made,

As king by office, and as priest by trade:

In his sinister hand, instead of ball,

He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale;

Love's kingdom to his right he did convey,

At once his sceptre and his rule of sway;

Whose righteous lore the prince had practis'd young,

And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung,

His temples last with poppies were o'er spread,

That nodding seem'd to consecrate his head:

Just at that point of time, if fame not lie,

On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly.

So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook,

Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.

Th'admiring throng loud acclamations make,

And omens of his future empire take.

The sire then shook the honours of his head,

And from his brows damps of oblivion shed

Full on the filial dullness: long he stood,

Repelling from his breast the raging god;

At length burst out in this prophetic mood:

 

Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him reign

To far Barbadoes on the Western main;

Of his dominion may no end be known,

And greater than his father's be his throne.

Beyond love's kingdom let him stretch his pen;

He paus'd, and all the people cry'd Amen.

Then thus, continu'd he, my son advance

Still in new impudence, new ignorance.

Success let other teach, learn thou from me

Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.

Let Virtuosos in five years be writ;

Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.

Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,

Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;

Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,

And in their folly show the writer's wit.

Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,

And justify their author's want of sense.

Let 'em be all by thy own model made

Of dullness, and desire no foreign aid:

That they to future ages may be known,

Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own.

Nay let thy men of wit too be the same,

All full of thee, and differing but in name;

But let no alien Sedley interpose

To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.

And when false flowers of rhetoric thou would'st cull,

Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull;

But write thy best, and top; and in each line,

Sir Formal's oratory will be thine.

Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,

And does thy Northern Dedications fill.

Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,

By arrogating Jonson's hostile name.

Let Father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,

And Uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part;

What share have we in Nature or in Art?

Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,

And rail at arts he did not understand?

Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,

Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?

Where sold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss my arse,

Promis'd a play and dwindled to a farce?

When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,

As thou whole Eth'ridge dost transfuse to thine?

But so transfus'd as oil on waters flow,

His always floats above, thine sinks below.

This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,

New humours to invent for each new play:

This is that boasted bias of thy mind,

By which one way, to dullness, 'tis inclin'd,

Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,

And in all changes that way bends thy will.

Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence

Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.

A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,

But sure thou 'rt but a kilderkin of wit.

Like mine thy gentle numbers feebly creep,

Thy Tragic Muse gives smiles, thy Comic sleep.

With whate'er gall thou sett'st thy self to write,

Thy inoffensive satires never bite.

In thy felonious heart, though venom lies,

It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.

Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame

In keen iambics, but mild anagram:

Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command

Some peaceful province in acrostic land.

There thou may'st wings display and altars raise,

And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.

Or if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit,

Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.

He said, but his last words were scarcely heard,

For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd,

And down they sent the yet declaiming bard.

Sinking he left his drugget robe behind,

Born upwards by a subterranean wind.

The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,

With double portion of his father's art.

Mac Flecknoe Summary

The poem identifies itself as a satire of which the subject is “the True-blue Protestant Poet T.S.” referring to the poet Thomas Shadwell.

The first line of the poem creates the illusion of its being an epic poem about a historical hero. The next lines talk about Mac Flecknoe, a monarch who instead of ruling an empire, rules over the realm of Nonsense. The king is old and thus must choose a successor to his throne. Dryden wonders whether the king will chose a poet who has talent and wit or if he will choose someone like him, a man with no literary talent.

Flecknoe decides upon his son Shadwell, a man with no talent and who is tedious, stupid, and always at war with wit. Shadwell is also described as a very corpulent man. Through Flecknoe’s words, the poet continues to insult Shadwell in a mock-heroic tone, calling him a dunce, the “last great prophet of tautology,” and “for anointed dullness he was made.” Shadwell arrives in London, outfitted like a king and lauded by the people. Flecknoe chooses for his son’s throne a neighborhood of brothels and theaters birthing bad actors. Inside those places, real drama does not exist; only simple plays are welcome. Dryden also alludes to some of the historical Shadwell’s plays, like Epsom Wells and Psyche, and mocks another contemporary writer, Singleton, who is envious that he wasn’t chosen as successor to the throne. It is clear that in this environment, Shadwell will rule over those who have no literary talent. The descriptions Dryden offers only serve the purpose of highlighting the incompetency of Shadwell and create the image of a fool ruling over peasants.

As the coronation begins, Dryden describes the streets as filled with the limbs of other poets, suggesting that Shadwell managed to get a hold on his position at the expense of talented writers. Once more, the poet mentions human waste and links it with Shadwell’s writing and compares him with a historical figure, Hannibal, to suggest that Shadwell’s purpose is to destroy wit and replace it with dullness.

During his coronation, the oil used to anoint a new king is replaced by ale, signifying the poet’s dullness. After the crown is placed on his head, Shadwell sits on the throne and the former king prepares to give the cheering crowd a speech.

The former king begins by presenting the land over which the new king will rule, a territory where no one lives. Flecknoe urges his son to remain true to his writing and to not let anyone make any changes in his work. Flecknoe praises Shadwell’s abilities and then ends his speech by telling Shadwell to continue to remain dull and to avoid trying to be like Jonson.

Flecknoe concludes by exhorting his son not to focus on real plays but rather to work on acrostics or anagrams. His last words are cut off and he sinks below the stage. His mantle falls on Shadwell, which is appropriate because he has twice as much “talent” as his father.

 

 

 

The Tyger

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

 

In what distant deeps or skies.

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

 

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

 

What the hammer? what the chain,

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp,

Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

 

When the stars threw down their spears

And water'd heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

 

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

“The Tyger”

 

The speaker directly addresses a tiger, imagining its bright flashes of color in the dark night-time forest. The speaker asks which immortal being could possibly have created the tiger's fearsome beauty.

The speaker wonders in which far-off depths or skies the tiger's fiery eyes were made. Did the tiger's creator have wings, and whose hand would be daring enough to create the tiger?

The speaker imagines the kind of effort and skill that must have gone into creating the tiger, wondering who would be strong enough to build the tiger's muscular body. Whose hands and feet were the ones that made the tiger's heart start beating?

The speaker wonders about the tools the tiger's creator must have used, imagining that the tiger's brain was created in a forge. What terrifying being would be so daring as to create the tiger?

The speaker mentions a time when the stars gave up their weapons and rained their tears on heaven. At this time, wonders the speaker, did the creator look at the tiger and smile at his accomplishment? And was the tiger made by the same creator who made the lamb?

The speaker addresses the tiger again, this time wondering not just who could create this fearsome beast—but who would dare.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For a' That and a' That

BY ROBERT BURNS

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hings his head, an' a' that?

The coward slave, we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a' that!

For a' that, an' a' that,

Our toils obscure, an' a' that;

The rank is but the guinea's stamp;

The man's the gowd for a' that,

 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin-gray, an' a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,

A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, an' a' that,

Their tinsel show an' a' that;

The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;

Tho' hundreds worship at his word,

He's but a coof for a' that:

For a' that, an' a' that,

His riband, star, an' a' that,

The man o' independent mind,

He looks and laughs at a' that.

 

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, an' a' that;

But an honest man's aboon his might,

Guid faith he mauna fa' that!

For a' that, an' a' that,

Their dignities, an' a' that,

The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,

Are higher rank than a' that.

 

Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a' that,

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,

May bear the gree, an' a' that.

For a' that, an' a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that,

That man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that.

For a’ That and a’ That by Robert Burns

‘For a’ That and a’ That’ by Robert Burns was written in 1794, published in ’75 and then again in 1799. The poem often appears under the title, ‘Is There for Honest Poverty.,’  or ‘A Man’s a Man for A’ That.’ Burns is known for his use of Scottish dialect, a style of writing that is evident throughout the text of the poem. In fact, the title “for a’ that” comes from a Jacobite song published in the mid-1750s. While a number of these phrases, such as the title itself, can be hard to understand, reading aloud often clears up the meaning.

Analysis of  For a’ That and a’ That

 

Stanza One

In the first stanza of ‘For a’ That and a’ That’ a reader is immediately struck by the use of the Scottish dialect within the text. Words such as “and” and “all” are shortened to “an’” and “a’..” The speaker begins by asking why one should hang their head if they are poor. Poverty is “honest” in a way that wealth and position are not. The next lines speak to what it means to be a “slave” as well as looked down on for one’s wealth, or lack thereof. 

Here, the speaker exclaims over the way that those who are poor are treated. This is not something to fret over or structure one’s life around. He makes sure to state at the end of these lines that “rank” or position in life is not defined by money. In fact, societal ranking is worth nothing more than “the guinea’s stamp.” It is this small amount of worth that a “man’s the gowd,” or gold, “for a’ that.” The speaker uses the phrase “for a’ that” in a number of different ways in this piece. It is often utilized sarcastically, such as in this instance. He is exclaiming over society’s false equivalence between wealth and worth.

Stanza Two 

In the next lines, the speaker expands his narrative to include all of those who count themselves among the poor. He uses this section to describe what their lives are like and how they do not need luxuries to be content with life. They might eat “hamely” or plain, “fare” and “Wear hoddin-gray, an a’ that” but they do not want to give these features of their lives away. They are simply part of the way they live, not a burden to be thrown off. The word “hoddin” refers to a coarse cloth produced in Scotland. 

Next, the speaker refers to the “fools” with their “silks” and “knaves” with their “wine.” He is questioning the fact that these are the factors of modern life that are deemed valuable. The world says a man is a man for “a’ that,” or the possession he owns. To the speaker, this is very much not the case. A man is a man when he is “honest,” even, and especially, if he is poor. This type of man is the “king o’ men for a’ that.” 

 

Stanza Three 

In the third stanza of ‘For a’ That and a’ That’ the speaker continues on with the same themes from the previous lines. Here he points out a “birkie” in the distance. This is someone who is very self-assured and is “ca’d” or called, “a lord.” It is clear that the speaker dislikes this person and the way he carries himself. He “struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that.” These are features that place him above others in Burn’s contemporary world. 

In an effort to further degrade this person’s position the speaker refers to the “hundreds” who “worship” at his feet. This does not matter in the least as he is a “coof” or a fool. The man had a ribbon, a star, and all the trappings of position. Any “independent” minded man would laugh at this person. 

 

Stanza Four 

In the fourth stanza, the speaker refers to the ability of a “prince” to make a man into something more. He does not believe in the superiority of a “belted knight / A marquis, [or] a duke.” These men are not above any other. In fact, an honest man is “aboon” or above them. 

The following lines speak of how one’s integrity is greater than their rank. There is no prince who is worth more than a poor peasant. One’s “pith” or strength and “pride o’ worth” are of a “higher rank than a’ that.” It takes strength beyond that a prince can imbue to face the true hardships of the world. 

 

Stanza Five 

 

In the final set of lines of ‘For a’ That and a’ That’ the speaker refers to a larger group who was his audience the entire time. He asks that they “pray that…sense and worth” will overtake the earth. He is hoping that the frivolous nature of society and the way that position is elevated over honesty will end. 

If this change did eventually come over the earth then all men would become level. There would be no need to even speak of princes, dukes, and the lower classes as being separate. All men “Shall brothers be for a’ that.” It is impossible to read this piece without considering the fact that it was written in the late 1700s and is still being read and valued by a contemporary audience. Although princes do not hold sway in all societies like they used to, the hierarchical nature of society is just as pronounced as ever. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three Years She Grew

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Three years she grew in sun and shower,

Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown;

This Child I to myself will take;

She shall be mine, and I will make

A Lady of my own.

 

"Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse: and with me

The Girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,

Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

 

"She shall be sportive as the fawn

That wild with glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs;

And hers shall be the breathing balm,

And hers the silence and the calm

Of mute insensate things.

 

"The floating clouds their state shall lend

To her; for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the Storm

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

 

"The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.

 

"And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

 

Thus Nature spake—The work was done—

How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower by William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth’s Poems have long comforted the sorrowful soul. His tone is not that of the typical tortured soul poet, yet he was not without immense suffering. His ability to infuse comfort into his pain through his poetry has offered peace and understanding to people for generations. Wordsworth experienced some of the deepest pain any human being has ever known- the loss of a child. In this poem, Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower, he writes about Lucy, the character who represents his daughter, Catherine. She died at the age of three in the year of 1812. She was a child that was known for making those around her laugh. And as her condition was referred to as “convulsions” it is assumed that she suffered and died from Polio (Thron). Wordsworth grieves, but not beyond hope. He writes this poem about Lucy. Perhaps it was too painful to use Catherine’s name. But Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower quickly reveals that it is Catherine whom Wordsworth thinks about while writing this piece.

 

Analysis Stanza One

In the first stanza, the speaker let’s the reader identify with Lucy. It is not hard to imagine a lively young three year old, playing in the sun or in the rain. But she was too lovely for earth, or so Nature decided. The speaker suggests that Nature has taken the child for herself because she was too beautiful for the earth.

 

Stanza Two

The speaker shifts to thoughts of himself. He can easily see how Nature wanted this little girl for herself, lovely as she was, but he himself would need to respond to this loss. When he says that he will be “both law and impulse”, he implies that he will react in the way he is expected to react, and do the things he is expected to do, but he would not react without impulse. He would give way to his feelings and allow grief to have its way in his heart. He implies that as he walks the earth, and as he looks into the heavens, he will feel her presence as “an overseeing power” and he reveals that he will either kindle that feeling or restrain it, probably depending upon the time and circumstances in which this feeling arises.

Stanza Three

The speaker shifts tones once again in order to focus on her- Lucy. He has explained what this loss means to Nature, and to himself, but what does it mean for Lucy? He finds his comfort in this. Lucy is symbolic of Wordsworth’s daughter, Catherine, who died of Polio. The speaker believes that Lucy will be “sportive as the fawn” and able to run “across the lawn” as she was “wild with glee”. He believes that contrary to her limited physical ability on earth, in her new place, she would be able to enjoy running wild as a fawn. She would also enjoy “the silence and the calm”. The speaker finds comfort in this idea. 

Stanza Four

In this stanza of Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower, the speaker continues to imagine what Lucy is now doing. He imagines her floating on clouds, and watching those on earth. He imagines that she should never “fail to see” the “silent sympathy” he feels for her.

 

Stanza Five    

The speaker imagines that Lucy “shall be dear” even “to stars”. He imagines that she is enjoying her existence as she moves about in the night, being loved by the stars and all the heavenly beings.

Stanza Six

In this stanza, the speaker reveals his belief that although Lucy is no longer alive in earthly terms, she will still experience “vital feelings of delight” as she grows up into her “stately height” and into maturity. The imagery of her rearing her form “to stately height” and of “her virgin bosom swell[ing]” reveal his belief that wherever she is, wherever Nature has taken her, she will continue to grow up there, with all feelings of life and vitality. He vows to give these thoughts to Lucy daily, so that even though she exists in a different realm than he, they would still “together live here in this happy dell”.

 

Stanza Seven

In this final stanza of Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower, the speaker refers back to Nature. Nature is the authority in this situation, and she has said that “the work was done” and Lucy was no longer needed on earth. The speaker mourns over this, but he doesn’t resent it. He exclaims, “How soon my Lucy’s race was run!” and he is clearly grieving when he said, “she died and left to me this heath, this calm, and quiet scene”. This reveals that Lucy’s absence in his life is felt deeply. The absence of her laugh is painfully noticeable, and he is left only with memories of the past. Although the stanzas leading up to this final one speak of Lucy living a vital and fulfilling eternity, the speaker chooses to end Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower with the grief that he feels in knowing that “what has been…never more will be”.

To end this poem in grief, even though all comforting words were spoken and acknowledged, is to be real and tangible to readers. Anyone who has experienced loss knows that all hope of an afterlife, and all words of comfort, cannot change the empty feeling and knowledge that what once was, is now changed forever. With this poem, Wordsworth offers hope and comfort, yet he does not deny the unending grief. For this reason, Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower relates with many who have suffered loss, for Wordsworth reveals that he suffers too, and it that, there is some comfort for readers because they feel they are not alone.

 

 

 

Kubla Khan

BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

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.

Kubla Khan” Summary

In a place called Xanadu, the Mongolian leader Kubla Khan ordered his servants to construct an impressive domed building for pleasure and recreation on the banks of the holy river Alph, which ran through a series of caves so vast that no one could measure them, and then down into an underground ocean. So they created a space with 10 miles of fertile earth surrounded by walls and towers. And in it there were gardens with sunny little streams and fragrant trees, as well as very old forests with sunny clearings in the middle.

But, oh, how beautiful was that deep, impressive gorge that cut through the green hill, between the cedar trees! It was such a wild place! A place so sacred and bewitching that you might expect it to be haunted by a woman crying out for her satanic lover beneath the crescent moon. And out of this gorge, with its endlessly churning river, a geyser would sometimes erupt, as though the ground itself were breathing hard. This geyser would send shards of rock flying into the air like hail, or like grain scattered as it is being harvested. And as it flung up these rocks, the geyser would also briefly send the water of the holy river bursting up into the air. The holy river ran for five miles in a lazy, winding course through woods and fields, before it reached the incredibly deep caves and sank in a flurry into the much stiller ocean. And in the rushing waters of the caves, Kubla Khan heard the voices of his ancestors, predicting that war would come. The shadow of Kubla Khan's pleasure palace was reflected by the waves, and you could hear the sound of the geyser mingling with that of the water rushing through the caves. This was truly a miraculous place: Khan's pleasure palace was both sunny and had icy caves.

In a vision, I once saw an Ethiopian woman play a stringed instrument and sing about a mountain in Ethiopia. If I could recreate within myself the sound of her instrument and her song, it would bring me so much joy that I would build Kubla Khan’s pleasure palace in the sky above me: that sun-filled dome, those caves full of ice! And everyone who heard the song would look up and see what I had built, and they would cry out: “Be careful! Look at his wild eyes and crazy hair! Make a circle around him three times and refuse to look at him: he has eaten the food of the gods and drunk the milk of Heaven!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From childe Harold's Pilgrimage [There is a pleasure in the pathless woods]

George Gordon Byron - 1788-1824

   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.

   Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
   Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
   Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
   Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain
   The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
   A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
   When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
   He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

   His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields
   Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise
   And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
   For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
   Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
   And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
   And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
   His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay.

There is Pleasure in the Pathless Woods by Lord Byron

Strictly speaking, humans are social creatures. And yet, the desire for solitude and for silence sometimes feels like one of the most universal human emotions; everyone from time to time can benefit from being entirely and purely alone. Perhaps this is why paintings and photographs of the natural world as so common and so popular — because the feeling of solitude is universally desired in some capacity. So when George Gordon Byron, or, as he is more popularly known, Lord Byron wrote the fourth canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, he included what has come to be known as ‘There is Pleasure in the Pathless Woods’, the one hundred-and-seventy-eighth verse of the much larger poem. Reflecting a strong desire for solitude and peace, it has become one of his most popular short poems (not an entirely accurate designation, of course, but it is still well worth reading on its own).

 

There is Pleasure in the Pathless Woods Analysis

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:

The title of the poem, ‘There is Pleasure in the Pathless Woods’ — derived from the first line, since this was not written as a solitary poem — is telling enough on its own. To say there is pleasure in pathless woods is to say there is a certain kind of joy in walking the path that others do not. When someone is walking on a forest trail, anyone else can be on the same trail. But leaving the trail for a different path is making a conscious decision to be alone and to enjoy it. And in the very next line, the concepts of rapture and loneliness are juxtaposed with one another — loneliness is supposed to be a sorrowful feeling, but the narrator is finding intense joy in it.

What is especially interesting is the idea of solitude being its own society; the idea of emptiness, of loneliness even, is being personified into the pleasurable company. The imagery is strong here — the picture painted through Byron’s words indicate emerging from a natural forest into a silent shoreline, deep and peaceful, almost as though listening to pleasant music — and no one else is around.

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 first line here is an important one, because as was mentioned earlier, humans are social by nature. This isn’t the story of an isolated or depressed individual, this isn’t an expression of misanthropy; the narrator doesn’t hate humans, but simply prefers the company of nature. From here, ‘There is Pleasure in the Pathless Woods’ takes an attempt to explain the inexplicable. Comparing moments in solitude to interviews with nature, the narrator declares that he feels closer to the universe itself and feels something that cannot be ignored, but cannot be labeled either.

It is difficult to describe the feeling of solitude. Sometimes “peace” alone doesn’t feel like the right word, and the sentiments expressed in this poem are complicated and difficult to properly explain. There is no word in the English language to encompass many of these ideas, and yet there is also a clear indication of those emotions in the beautiful language and expression of the poem.

This stanza (which has been split into two halves here for ease of analysis) is written in what is called Spenserian stanza, a nine-line poem where the first eight lines are in iambic pentameter and the final line is a twelve-syllable iambic line. It also follows the Spenserian rhyming pattern of ABABBCBCC. The style was first developed in 1590 by Edmund Spenser, and is first seen in his work, The Fairie Queene. After Spenser’s death, the style was quickly forgotten, but revived later by poets throughout the nineteenth century like Lord Byron, who were undoubtedly inspired to some degree by his work.

 

Ozymandias

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

ummary

The speaker recalls having met a traveler “from an antique land,” who told him a story about the ruins of a statue in the desert of his native country. Two vast legs of stone stand without a body, and near them a massive, crumbling stone head lies “half sunk” in the sand. The traveler told the speaker that the frown and “sneer of cold command” on the statue’s face indicate that the sculptor understood well the emotions (or "passions") of the statue’s subject. The memory of those emotions survives "stamped" on the lifeless statue, even though both the sculptor and his subject are both now dead. On the pedestal of the statue appear the words, “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: / Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” But around the decaying ruin of the statue, nothing remains, only the “lone and level sands,” which stretch out around it.

Form

“Ozymandias” is a sonnet, a fourteen-line poem metered in iambic pentameter. The rhyme scheme is somewhat unusual for a sonnet of this era; it does not fit a conventional Petrarchan pattern, but instead interlinks the octave (a term for the first eight lines of a sonnet) with the sestet (a term for the last six lines), by gradually replacing old rhymes with new ones in the form ABABACDCEDEFEF.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ode to a Nightingale

BY JOHN KEATS

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?

Summary

Keats is in a state of uncomfortable drowsiness. Envy of the imagined happiness of the nightingale is not responsible for his condition; rather, it is a reaction to the happiness he has experienced through sharing in the happiness of the nightingale. The bird's happiness is conveyed in its singing.

Keats longs for a draught of wine which would take him out of himself and allow him to join his existence with that of the bird. The wine would put him in a state in which he would no longer be himself, aware that life is full of pain, that the young die, the old suffer, and that just to think about life brings sorrow and despair. But wine is not needed to enable him to escape. His imagination will serve just as well. As soon as he realizes this, he is, in spirit, lifted up above the trees and can see the moon and the stars even though where he is physically there is only a glimmering of light. He cannot see what flowers are growing around him, but from their odor and from his knowledge of what flowers should be in bloom at the time he can guess.

In the darkness he listens to the nightingale. Now, he feels, it would be a rich experience to die, "to cease upon the midnight with no pain" while the bird would continue to sing ecstatically. Many a time, he confesses, he has been "half in love with easeful Death." The nightingale is free from the human fate of having to die. The song of the nightingale that he is listening to was heard in ancient times by emperor and peasant. Perhaps even Ruth (whose story is told in the Old Testament) heard it.

"Forlorn," the last word of the preceding stanza, brings Keats in the concluding stanza back to consciousness of what he is and where he is. He cannot escape even with the help of the imagination. The singing of the bird grows fainter and dies away. The experience he has had seems so strange and confusing that he is not sure whether it was a vision or a daydream. He is even uncertain whether he is asleep or awake.

Analysis

The "Ode to a Nightingale" is a regular ode. All eight stanzas have ten pentameter lines and a uniform rhyme scheme. Although the poem is regular in form, it leaves the impression of being a kind of rhapsody; Keats is allowing his thoughts and emotions free expression. One thought suggests another and, in this way, the poem proceeds to a somewhat arbitrary conclusion. The poem impresses the reader as being the result of free inspiration uncontrolled by a preconceived plan. The poem is Keats in the act of sharing with the reader an experience he is having rather than recalling an experience. The experience is not entirely coherent. It is what happens in his mind while he is listening to the song of a nightingale.

Three main thoughts stand out in the ode. One is Keats' evaluation of life; life is a vale of tears and frustration. The happiness which Keats hears in the song of the nightingale has made him happy momentarily but has been succeeded by a feeling of torpor which in turn is succeeded by the conviction that life is not only painful but also intolerable. His taste of happiness in hearing the nightingale has made him all the more aware of the unhappiness of life. Keats wants to escape from life, not by means of wine, but by a much more powerful agent, the imagination.

The second main thought and the main theme of the poem is Keats' wish that he might die and be rid of life altogether, providing he could die as easily and painlessly as he could fall asleep. The preoccupation with death does not seem to have been caused by any turn for the worse in Keats' fortunes at the time he wrote the ode (May 1819). In many respects Keats' life had been unsatisfactory for some time before he wrote the poem. His family life was shattered by the departure of one brother to America and the death from tuberculosis of the other. His second volume of poetry had been harshly reviewed. He had no gainful occupation and no prospects, since he had abandoned his medical studies. His financial condition was insecure. He had not been well in the fall and winter of 1818-19 and possibly he was already suffering from tuberculosis. He could not marry Fanny Brawne because he was not in a position to support her. Thus the death-wish in the ode may be a reaction to a multitude of troubles and frustrations, all of which were still with him. The heavy weight of life pressing down on him forced "Ode to a Nightingale" out of him. Keats more than once expressed a desire for "easeful Death," yet when he was in the final stages of tuberculosis he fought against death by going to Italy where he hoped the climate would cure him. The death-wish in the ode is a passing but recurrent attitude toward a life that was unsatisfactory in so many ways.

The third main thought in the ode is the power of imagination or fancy. (Keats does not make any clear-cut distinction between the two.) In the ode Keats rejects wine for poetry, the product of imagination, as a means of identifying his existence with that of the happy nightingale. But poetry does not work the way it is supposed to. He soon finds himself back with his everyday, trouble-filled self. That "fancy cannot cheat so well / As she is fam'd to do," he admits in the concluding stanza. The imagination is not the all-powerful function Keats, at times, thought it was. It cannot give more than a temporary escape from the cares of life.

Keats' assignment of immortality to the nightingale in stanza VII has caused readers much trouble. Keats perhaps was thinking of a literal nightingale; more likely, however, he was thinking of the nightingale as a symbol of poetry, which has a permanence.

Keats' evocative power is shown especially in stanza II where he associates a beaker of wine "with beaded bubbles winking at the brim," with sunny France and the "sunburnt mirth" of the harvesters, and in his picture in stanza VII of Ruth suffering from homesickness "amid the alien corn." The whole ode is a triumph of tonal richness of that adagio verbal music that is Keats' special contribution to the many voices of poetry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Rape of the Lock: Canto 3

BY ALEXANDER POPE

Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flow'rs,

Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs,

There stands a structure of majestic frame,

Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name.

Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom

Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home;

Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,

Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea.

 

       Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort,

To taste awhile the pleasures of a court;

In various talk th' instructive hours they pass'd,

Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;

One speaks the glory of the British queen,

And one describes a charming Indian screen;

A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;

At ev'ry word a reputation dies.

Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat,

With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.

 

       Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day,

The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray;

The hungry judges soon the sentence sign,

And wretches hang that jury-men may dine;

The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace,

And the long labours of the toilet cease.

Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites,

Burns to encounter two adventrous knights,

At ombre singly to decide their doom;

And swells her breast with conquests yet to come.

Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join,

Each band the number of the sacred nine.

Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard

Descend, and sit on each important card:

First Ariel perch'd upon a Matadore,

Then each, according to the rank they bore;

For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race,

Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place.

 

       Behold, four Kings in majesty rever'd,

With hoary whiskers and a forky beard;

And four fair Queens whose hands sustain a flow'r,

Th' expressive emblem of their softer pow'r;

Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band,

Caps on their heads, and halberds in their hand;

And parti-colour'd troops, a shining train,

Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.

 

       The skilful nymph reviews her force with care:

"Let Spades be trumps!" she said, and trumps they were.

 

       Now move to war her sable Matadores,

In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors.

Spadillio first, unconquerable lord!

Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board.

As many more Manillio forc'd to yield,

And march'd a victor from the verdant field.

Him Basto follow'd, but his fate more hard

Gain'd but one trump and one plebeian card.

With his broad sabre next, a chief in years,

The hoary Majesty of Spades appears;

Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal'd;

The rest, his many-colour'd robe conceal'd.

The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage,

Proves the just victim of his royal rage.

Ev'n mighty Pam, that kings and queens o'erthrew

And mow'd down armies in the fights of loo,

Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid,

Falls undistinguish'd by the victor Spade!

 

       Thus far both armies to Belinda yield;

Now to the baron fate inclines the field.

His warlike Amazon her host invades,

Th' imperial consort of the crown of Spades.

The Club's black tyrant first her victim died,

Spite of his haughty mien, and barb'rous pride:

What boots the regal circle on his head,

His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread;

That long behind he trails his pompous robe,

And of all monarchs, only grasps the globe?

 

       The baron now his diamonds pours apace;

Th' embroider'd King who shows but half his face,

And his refulgent Queen, with pow'rs combin'd

Of broken troops an easy conquest find.

Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen,

With throngs promiscuous strow the level green.

Thus when dispers'd a routed army runs,

Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons,

With like confusion diff'rent nations fly,

Of various habit, and of various dye,

The pierc'd battalions disunited fall.

In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all.

 

       The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts,

And wins (oh shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts.

At this, the blood the virgin's cheek forsook,

A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look;

She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill,

Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille.

And now (as oft in some distemper'd state)

On one nice trick depends the gen'ral fate.

An Ace of Hearts steps forth: The King unseen

Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive Queen:

He springs to vengeance with an eager pace,

And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace.

The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky;

The walls, the woods, and long canals reply.

 

       Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate,

Too soon dejected, and too soon elate!

Sudden, these honours shall be snatch'd away,

And curs'd for ever this victorious day.

 

       For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd,

The berries crackle, and the mill turns round.

On shining altars of Japan they raise

The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze.

From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,

While China's earth receives the smoking tide.

At once they gratify their scent and taste,

And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.

Straight hover round the fair her airy band;

Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd,

Some o'er her lap their careful plumes display'd,

Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade.

Coffee, (which makes the politician wise,

And see through all things with his half-shut eyes)

Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain

New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain.

Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late,

Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate!

Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air,

She dearly pays for Nisus' injur'd hair!

 

       But when to mischief mortals bend their will,

How soon they find fit instruments of ill!

Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace

A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case;

So ladies in romance assist their knight

Present the spear, and arm him for the fight.

He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends

The little engine on his fingers' ends;

This just behind Belinda's neck he spread,

As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head.

Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair,

A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair,

And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear,

Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near.

Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought

The close recesses of the virgin's thought;

As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd,

He watch'd th' ideas rising in her mind,

Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art,

An earthly lover lurking at her heart.

Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his pow'r expir'd,

Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retir'd.

 

       The peer now spreads the glitt'ring forfex wide,

T' inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide.

Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd,

A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos'd;

Fate urg'd the shears, and cut the Sylph in twain,

(But airy substance soon unites again).

The meeting points the sacred hair dissever

From the fair head, for ever, and for ever!

 

       Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes,

And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies.

Not louder shrieks to pitying Heav'n are cast,

When husbands or when lap-dogs breathe their last,

Or when rich China vessels, fall'n from high,

In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie!

 

       "Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,"

The victor cried, "the glorious prize is mine!

While fish in streams, or birds delight in air,

Or in a coach and six the British fair,

As long at Atalantis shall be read,

Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed,

While visits shall be paid on solemn days,

When num'rous wax-lights in bright order blaze,

While nymphs take treats, or assignations give,

So long my honour, name, and praise shall live!

What time would spare, from steel receives its date,

And monuments, like men, submit to fate!

Steel could the labour of the gods destroy,

And strike to dust th' imperial tow'rs of Troy;

Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,

And hew triumphal arches to the ground.

What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel

The conqu'ring force of unresisted steel?"

Summary

The boat arrives at Hampton Court Palace, and the ladies and gentlemen disembark to their courtly amusements. After a pleasant round of chatting and gossip, Belinda sits down with two of the men to a game of cards. They play ombre, a three-handed game of tricks and trumps, somewhat like bridge, and it is described in terms of a heroic battle: the cards are troops combating on the “velvet plain” of the card-table. Belinda, under the watchful care of the Sylphs, begins favorably. She declares spades as trumps and leads with her highest cards, sure of success. Soon, however, the hand takes a turn for the worse when “to the Baron fate inclines the field”: he catches her king of clubs with his queen and then leads back with his high diamonds. Belinda is in danger of being beaten, but recovers in the last trick so as to just barely win back the amount she bid.

The next ritual amusement is the serving of coffee. The curling vapors of the steaming coffee remind the Baron of his intention to attempt Belinda’s lock. Clarissa draws out her scissors for his use, as a lady would arm a knight in a romance. Taking up the scissors, he tries three times to clip the lock from behind without Belinda seeing. The Sylphs endeavor furiously to intervene, blowing the hair out of harm’s way and tweaking her diamond earring to make her turn around. Ariel, in a last-minute effort, gains access to her brain, where he is surprised to find “an earthly lover lurking at her heart.” He gives up protecting her then; the implication is that she secretly wants to be violated. Finally, the shears close on the curl. A daring sylph jumps in between the blades and is cut in two; but being a supernatural creature, he is quickly restored. The deed is done, and the Baron exults while Belinda’s screams fill the air.

Commentary

This canto is full of classic examples of Pope’s masterful use of the heroic couplet. In introducing Hampton Court Palace, he describes it as the place where Queen Anne “dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea.” This line employs a zeugma, a rhetorical device in which a word or phrase modifies two other words or phrases in a parallel construction, but modifies each in a different way or according to a different sense. Here, the modifying word is “take”; it applies to the paralleled terms “counsel” and “tea.” But one does not “take” tea in the same way one takes counsel, and the effect of the zeugma is to show the royal residence as a place that houses both serious matters of state and frivolous social occasions. The reader is asked to contemplate that paradox and to reflect on the relative value and importance of these two different registers of activity. (For another example of this rhetorical technique, see lines 157–8: “Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, / when husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last.”) A similar point is made, in a less compact phrasing, in the second and third verse-paragraphs of this canto. Here, against the gossip and chatter of the young lords and ladies, Pope opens a window onto more serious matters that are occurring “meanwhile” and elsewhere, including criminal trials and executions, and economic exchange.

The rendering of the card game as a battle constitutes an amusing and deft narrative feat. By parodying the battle scenes of the great epic poems, Pope is suggesting that the energy and passion once applied to brave and serious purposes is now expended on such insignificant trials as games and gambling, which often become a mere front for flirtation. The structure of “the three attempts” by which the lock is cut is a convention of heroic challenges, particularly in the romance genre. The romance is further invoked in the image of Clarissa arming the Baron—not with a real weapon, however, but with a pair of sewing scissors. Belinda is not a real adversary, or course, and Pope makes it plain that her resistance—and, by implication, her subsequent distress—is to some degree an affectation. The melodrama of her screams is complemented by the ironic comparison of the Baron’s feat to the conquest of nations.

 

 

 

 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (text of 1834)

BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

Argument

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own Country.

PART I

It is an ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three.

'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

 

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,

And I am next of kin;

The guests are met, the feast is set:

May'st hear the merry din.'

 

He holds him with his skinny hand,

'There was a ship,' quoth he.

'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'

Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

 

He holds him with his glittering eye—

The Wedding-Guest stood still,

And listens like a three years' child:

The Mariner hath his will.

 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:

He cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,

The bright-eyed Mariner.

 

'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,

Merrily did we drop

Below the kirk, below the hill,

Below the lighthouse top.

 

The Sun came up upon the left,

Out of the sea came he!

And he shone bright, and on the right

Went down into the sea.

 

Higher and higher every day,

Till over the mast at noon—'

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,

For he heard the loud bassoon.

 

The bride hath paced into the hall,

Red as a rose is she;

Nodding their heads before her goes

The merry minstrelsy.

 

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,

Yet he cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,

The bright-eyed Mariner.

 

And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he

Was tyrannous and strong:

He struck with his o'ertaking wings,

And chased us south along.

 

With sloping masts and dipping prow,

As who pursued with yell and blow

Still treads the shadow of his foe,

And forward bends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,

And southward aye we fled.

 

And now there came both mist and snow,

And it grew wondrous cold:

And ice, mast-high, came floating by,

As green as emerald.

 

And through the drifts the snowy clifts

Did send a dismal sheen:

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—

The ice was all between.

 

The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around:

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,

Like noises in a swound!

 

At length did cross an Albatross,

Thorough the fog it came;

As if it had been a Christian soul,

We hailed it in God's name.

 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat,

And round and round it flew.

The ice did split with a thunder-fit;

The helmsman steered us through!

 

And a good south wind sprung up behind;

The Albatross did follow,

And every day, for food or play,

Came to the mariner's hollo!

 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,

It perched for vespers nine;

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,

Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'

 

'God save thee, ancient Mariner!

From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—

Why look'st thou so?'—With my cross-bow

I shot the ALBATROSS.

 

PART II

The Sun now rose upon the right:

Out of the sea came he,

Still hid in mist, and on the left

Went down into the sea.

 

And the good south wind still blew behind,

But no sweet bird did follow,

Nor any day for food or play

Came to the mariner's hollo!

 

And I had done a hellish thing,

And it would work 'em woe:

For all averred, I had killed the bird

That made the breeze to blow.

Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,

That made the breeze to blow!

 

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,

The glorious Sun uprist:

Then all averred, I had killed the bird

That brought the fog and mist.

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,

That bring the fog and mist.

 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,

The furrow followed free;

We were the first that ever burst

Into that silent sea.

 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,

'Twas sad as sad could be;

And we did speak only to break

The silence of the sea!

 

All in a hot and copper sky,

The bloody Sun, at noon,

Right up above the mast did stand,

No bigger than the Moon.

 

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean.

 

Water, water, every where,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, every where,

Nor any drop to drink.

 

The very deep did rot: O Christ!

That ever this should be!

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs

Upon the slimy sea.

 

About, about, in reel and rout

The death-fires danced at night;

The water, like a witch's oils,

Burnt green, and blue and white.

 

And some in dreams assurèd were

Of the Spirit that plagued us so;

Nine fathom deep he had followed us

From the land of mist and snow.

 

And every tongue, through utter drought,

Was withered at the root;

We could not speak, no more than if

We had been choked with soot.

 

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks

Had I from old and young!

Instead of the cross, the Albatross

About my neck was hung.

 

PART III

There passed a weary time. Each throat

Was parched, and glazed each eye.

A weary time! a weary time!

How glazed each weary eye,

 

When looking westward, I beheld

A something in the sky.

 

At first it seemed a little speck,

And then it seemed a mist;

It moved and moved, and took at last

A certain shape, I wist.

 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!

And still it neared and neared:

As if it dodged a water-sprite,

It plunged and tacked and veered.

 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

We could nor laugh nor wail;

Through utter drought all dumb we stood!

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,

And cried, A sail! a sail!

 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

Agape they heard me call:

Gramercy! they for joy did grin,

And all at once their breath drew in.

As they were drinking all.

 

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!

Hither to work us weal;

Without a breeze, without a tide,

She steadies with upright keel!

 

The western wave was all a-flame.

The day was well nigh done!

Almost upon the western wave

Rested the broad bright Sun;

When that strange shape drove suddenly

Betwixt us and the Sun.

 

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,

(Heaven's Mother send us grace!)

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered

With broad and burning face.

 

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)

How fast she nears and nears!

Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,

Like restless gossameres?

 

Are those her ribs through which the Sun

Did peer, as through a grate?

And is that Woman all her crew?

Is that a DEATH? and are there two?

Is DEATH that woman's mate?

 

Her lips were red, her looks were free,

Her locks were yellow as gold:

Her skin was as white as leprosy,

The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,

Who thicks man's blood with cold.

 

The naked hulk alongside came,

And the twain were casting dice;

'The game is done! I've won! I've won!'

Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

 

The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out;

At one stride comes the dark;

With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,

Off shot the spectre-bark.

 

We listened and looked sideways up!

Fear at my heart, as at a cup,

My life-blood seemed to sip!

The stars were dim, and thick the night,

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;

From the sails the dew did drip—

Till clomb above the eastern bar

The hornèd Moon, with one bright star

Within the nether tip.

 

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,

Too quick for groan or sigh,

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,

And cursed me with his eye.

 

Four times fifty living men,

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,

They dropped down one by one.

 

The souls did from their bodies fly,—

They fled to bliss or woe!

And every soul, it passed me by,

Like the whizz of my cross-bow!

 

PART IV

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!

I fear thy skinny hand!

And thou art long, and lank, and brown,

As is the ribbed sea-sand.

 

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,

And thy skinny hand, so brown.'—

Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!

This body dropt not down.

 

Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on a wide wide sea!

And never a saint took pity on

My soul in agony.

 

The many men, so beautiful!

And they all dead did lie:

And a thousand thousand slimy things

Lived on; and so did I.

 

I looked upon the rotting sea,

And drew my eyes away;

I looked upon the rotting deck,

And there the dead men lay.

 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;

But or ever a prayer had gusht,

A wicked whisper came, and made

My heart as dry as dust.

 

I closed my lids, and kept them close,

And the balls like pulses beat;

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky

Lay dead like a load on my weary eye,

And the dead were at my feet.

 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs,

Nor rot nor reek did they:

The look with which they looked on me

Had never passed away.

 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell

A spirit from on high;

But oh! more horrible than that

Is the curse in a dead man's eye!

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,

And yet I could not die.

 

The moving Moon went up the sky,

And no where did abide:

Softly she was going up,

And a star or two beside—

 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main,

Like April hoar-frost spread;

But where the ship's huge shadow lay,

The charmèd water burnt alway

A still and awful red.

 

Beyond the shadow of the ship,

I watched the water-snakes:

They moved in tracks of shining white,

And when they reared, the elfish light

Fell off in hoary flakes.

 

Within the shadow of the ship

I watched their rich attire:

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,

They coiled and swam; and every track

Was a flash of golden fire.

 

O happy living things! no tongue

Their beauty might declare:

A spring of love gushed from my heart,

And I blessed them unaware:

Sure my kind saint took pity on me,

And I blessed them unaware.

 

The self-same moment I could pray;

And from my neck so free

The Albatross fell off, and sank

Like lead into the sea.

 

PART V

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,

Beloved from pole to pole!

To Mary Queen the praise be given!

She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,

That slid into my soul.

 

The silly buckets on the deck,

That had so long remained,

I dreamt that they were filled with dew;

And when I awoke, it rained.

 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,

My garments all were dank;

Sure I had drunken in my dreams,

And still my body drank.

 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs:

I was so light—almost

I thought that I had died in sleep,

And was a blessed ghost.

 

And soon I heard a roaring wind:

It did not come anear;

But with its sound it shook the sails,

That were so thin and sere.

 

The upper air burst into life!

And a hundred fire-flags sheen,

To and fro they were hurried about!

And to and fro, and in and out,

The wan stars danced between.

 

And the coming wind did roar more loud,

And the sails did sigh like sedge,

And the rain poured down from one black cloud;

The Moon was at its edge.

 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still

The Moon was at its side:

Like waters shot from some high crag,

The lightning fell with never a jag,

A river steep and wide.

 

The loud wind never reached the ship,

Yet now the ship moved on!

Beneath the lightning and the Moon

The dead men gave a groan.

 

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,

Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;

It had been strange, even in a dream,

To have seen those dead men rise.

 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;

Yet never a breeze up-blew;

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,

Where they were wont to do;

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—

We were a ghastly crew.

 

The body of my brother's son

Stood by me, knee to knee:

The body and I pulled at one rope,

But he said nought to me.

 

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!'

Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!

'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,

Which to their corses came again,

But a troop of spirits blest:

 

For when it dawned—they dropped their arms,

And clustered round the mast;

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,

And from their bodies passed.

 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,

Then darted to the Sun;

Slowly the sounds came back again,

Now mixed, now one by one.

 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky

I heard the sky-lark sing;

Sometimes all little birds that are,

How they seemed to fill the sea and air

With their sweet jargoning!

 

And now 'twas like all instruments,

Now like a lonely flute;

And now it is an angel's song,

That makes the heavens be mute.

 

It ceased; yet still the sails made on

A pleasant noise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook

In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping woods all night

Singeth a quiet tune.

 

Till noon we quietly sailed on,

Yet never a breeze did breathe:

Slowly and smoothly went the ship,

Moved onward from beneath.

 

Under the keel nine fathom deep,

From the land of mist and snow,

The spirit slid: and it was he

That made the ship to go.

The sails at noon left off their tune,

And the ship stood still also.

 

The Sun, right up above the mast,

Had fixed her to the ocean:

But in a minute she 'gan stir,

With a short uneasy motion—

Backwards and forwards half her length

With a short uneasy motion.

 

Then like a pawing horse let go,

She made a sudden bound:

It flung the blood into my head,

And I fell down in a swound.

 

How long in that same fit I lay,

I have not to declare;

But ere my living life returned,

I heard and in my soul discerned

Two voices in the air.

 

'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man?

By him who died on cross,

With his cruel bow he laid full low

The harmless Albatross.

 

The spirit who bideth by himself

In the land of mist and snow,

He loved the bird that loved the man

Who shot him with his bow.'

 

The other was a softer voice,

As soft as honey-dew:

Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done,

And penance more will do.'

 

PART VI

 

First Voice

'But tell me, tell me! speak again,

Thy soft response renewing—

What makes that ship drive on so fast?

What is the ocean doing?'

 

Second Voice

Still as a slave before his lord,

The ocean hath no blast;

His great bright eye most silently

Up to the Moon is cast—

 

If he may know which way to go;

For she guides him smooth or grim.

See, brother, see! how graciously

She looketh down on him.'

 

First Voice

'But why drives on that ship so fast,

Without or wave or wind?'

 

Second Voice

'The air is cut away before,

And closes from behind.

 

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!

Or we shall be belated:

For slow and slow that ship will go,

When the Mariner's trance is abated.'

 

I woke, and we were sailing on

As in a gentle weather:

'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;

The dead men stood together.

 

All stood together on the deck,

For a charnel-dungeon fitter:

All fixed on me their stony eyes,

That in the Moon did glitter.

 

The pang, the curse, with which they died,

Had never passed away:

I could not draw my eyes from theirs,

Nor turn them up to pray.

 

And now this spell was snapt: once more

I viewed the ocean green,

And looked far forth, yet little saw

Of what had else been seen—

 

Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows, a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

 

But soon there breathed a wind on me,

Nor sound nor motion made:

Its path was not upon the sea,

In ripple or in shade.

 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek

Like a meadow-gale of spring—

It mingled strangely with my fears,

Yet it felt like a welcoming.

 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,

Yet she sailed softly too:

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—

On me alone it blew.

 

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed

The light-house top I see?

Is this the hill? is this the kirk?

Is this mine own countree?

 

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,

And I with sobs did pray—

O let me be awake, my God!

Or let me sleep alway.

 

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,

So smoothly it was strewn!

And on the bay the moonlight lay,

And the shadow of the Moon.

 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,

That stands above the rock:

The moonlight steeped in silentness

The steady weathercock.

 

And the bay was white with silent light,

Till rising from the same,

Full many shapes, that shadows were,

In crimson colours came.

 

A little distance from the prow

Those crimson shadows were:

I turned my eyes upon the deck—

Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,

And, by the holy rood!

A man all light, a seraph-man,

On every corse there stood.

 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:

It was a heavenly sight!

They stood as signals to the land,

Each one a lovely light;

 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,

No voice did they impart—

No voice; but oh! the silence sank

Like music on my heart.

 

But soon I heard the dash of oars,

I heard the Pilot's cheer;

My head was turned perforce away

And I saw a boat appear.

 

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,

I heard them coming fast:

Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy

The dead men could not blast.

 

I saw a third—I heard his voice:

It is the Hermit good!

He singeth loud his godly hymns

That he makes in the wood.

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away

The Albatross's blood.

 

PART VII

This Hermit good lives in that wood

Which slopes down to the sea.

How loudly his sweet voice he rears!

He loves to talk with marineres

That come from a far countree.

 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve—

He hath a cushion plump:

It is the moss that wholly hides

The rotted old oak-stump.

 

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,

'Why, this is strange, I trow!

Where are those lights so many and fair,

That signal made but now?'

 

'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said—

'And they answered not our cheer!

The planks looked warped! and see those sails,

How thin they are and sere!

I never saw aught like to them,

Unless perchance it were

 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag

My forest-brook along;

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,

That eats the she-wolf's young.'

 

'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look—

(The Pilot made reply)

I am a-feared'—'Push on, push on!'

Said the Hermit cheerily.

 

The boat came closer to the ship,

But I nor spake nor stirred;

The boat came close beneath the ship,

And straight a sound was heard.

 

Under the water it rumbled on,

Still louder and more dread:

It reached the ship, it split the bay;

The ship went down like lead.

 

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,

Which sky and ocean smote,

Like one that hath been seven days drowned

My body lay afloat;

But swift as dreams, myself I found

Within the Pilot's boat.

 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,

The boat spun round and round;

And all was still, save that the hill

Was telling of the sound.

 

I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked

And fell down in a fit;

The holy Hermit raised his eyes,

And prayed where he did sit.

 

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,

Who now doth crazy go,

Laughed loud and long, and all the while

His eyes went to and fro.

'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see,

The Devil knows how to row.'

 

And now, all in my own countree,

I stood on the firm land!

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,

And scarcely he could stand.

 

'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!'

The Hermit crossed his brow.

'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say—

What manner of man art thou?'

 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched

With a woful agony,

Which forced me to begin my tale;

And then it left me free.

 

 

Since then, at an uncertain hour,

That agony returns:

And till my ghastly tale is told,

This heart within me burns.

 

I pass, like night, from land to land;

I have strange power of speech;

That moment that his face I see,

I know the man that must hear me:

To him my tale I teach.

 

What loud uproar bursts from that door!

The wedding-guests are there:

But in the garden-bower the bride

And bride-maids singing are:

And hark the little vesper bell,

Which biddeth me to prayer!

 

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been

Alone on a wide wide sea:

So lonely 'twas, that God himself

Scarce seemèd there to be.

 

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,

'Tis sweeter far to me,

To walk together to the kirk

With a goodly company!—

 

To walk together to the kirk,

And all together pray,

While each to his great Father bends,

Old men, and babes, and loving friends

And youths and maidens gay!

 

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!

He prayeth well, who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast.

 

He prayeth best, who loveth best

All things both great and small;

For the dear God who loveth us,

He made and loveth all.

 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,

Whose beard with age is hoar,

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest

Turned from the bridegroom's door.

 

He went like one that hath been stunned,

And is of sense forlorn:

A sadder and a wiser man,

He rose the morrow morn.

 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Summary

An Ancient Mariner, unnaturally old and skinny, with deeply-tanned skin and a "glittering eye", stops a Wedding Guest who is on his way to a wedding reception with two companions. He tries to resist the Ancient Mariner, who compels him to sit and listen to his woeful tale. The Ancient Mariner tells his tale, largely interrupted save for the sounds from the wedding reception and the Wedding Guest's fearsome interjections. One day when he was younger, the Ancient Mariner set sail with two hundred other sailors from his native land. The day was sunny and clear, and all were in good cheer until the ship reached the equator. Suddenly, a terrible storm hit and drove the ship southwards into a "rime" - a strange, icy patch of ocean. The towering, echoing "rime" was bewildering and impenetrable, and also desolate until an Albatross appeared out of the mist. No sooner than the sailors fed it did the ice break and they were able to steer through. As long as the Albatross flew alongside the ship and the sailors treated it kindly, a good wind carried them and a mist followed. One day, however, the Ancient Mariner shot and killed the Albatross on impulse.

Suddenly the wind and mist ceased, and the ship was stagnant on the ocean. The other sailors alternately blamed the Ancient Mariner for making the wind die and praised him for making the strange mist disappear. Then things began to go awry. The sun became blindingly hot, and there was no drinkable water amidst the salty ocean, which tossed with terrifying creatures. The sailors went dumb from their thirst and sunburned lips. They hung the Albatross around the Ancient Mariner's neck as a symbol of his sin. After a painful while, a ship appeared on the horizon, and the Ancient Mariner bit his arm and sucked the blood so he could cry out to the other sailors. The ship was strange: it sailed without wind, and when it crossed in front of the sun, its stark masts seemed to imprison the sun. When the ship neared, the Ancient Mariner could see that it was a ghost ship manned by Death, in the form of a man, and Life-in-Death, in the form of a beautiful, naked woman. They were gambling for the Ancient Mariner's soul. Life-in-Death won the Ancient Mariner's soul, and the other sailors were left to Death. The sky went black immediately as the ghost ship sped away. Suddenly all of the sailors cursed the Ancient Mariner with their eyes and dropped dead on the deck. Their souls zoomed out of their bodies, each taunting the Ancient Mariner with a sound like that of his crossbow. Their corpses miraculously refused to rot; they stared at him unrelentingly, cursing him with their eyes.

The Ancient Mariner drifted on the ocean in this company, unable to pray. One night he noticed some beautiful water-snakes frolicking at the ship's prow in the icy moonlight. Watching the creatures brought him unprecedented joy, and he blessed them without meaning to. When he was finally able to pray, the Albatross fell from his neck and sank into the sea. He could finally sleep, and dreamed of water. When he awoke, it was raining, and an awesome thunderstorm began. He drank his fill, and the ship began to sail in lieu of wind. Then the dead sailors suddenly arose and sailed the ship without speaking. They sang heavenly music, which the ship's sails continued when they had stopped. Once the ship reached the equator again, the ship jolted, causing the Ancient Mariner to fall unconscious. In his swoon, he heard two voices discussing his fate. They said he would continue to be punished for killing the Albatross, who was loved by a spirit. Then they disappeared. When the Ancient Mariner awoke, the dead sailors were grouped together, all cursing him with their eyes once again. Suddenly, however, they disappeared as well. The Ancient Mariner was not relieved, because he realized that he was doomed to be haunted by them forever.

The wind picked up, and the Ancient Mariner spotted his native country's shore. Then bright angels appeared standing over every corpse and waved silently to the shore, serving as beacons to guide the ship home. The Ancient Mariner was overjoyed to see a Pilot, his boy, and a Hermit rowing a small boat out to the ship. He planned to ask the Hermit to absolve him of his sin. Just as the rescuers reached the ship, it sank suddenly and created a vortex in the water. The rescuers were able to pull the Ancient Mariner from the water, but thought he was dead. When he abruptly came to and began to row the boat, the Pilot and Pilot's Boy lost their minds. The spooked Hermit asked the Ancient Mariner what kind of man he was. It was then that the Ancient Mariner learned of his curse; he would be destined to tell his tale to others from beginning to end when an agonizing, physical urge struck him. After he related his tale to the Hermit, he felt normal again.

The Ancient Mariner tells the Wedding Guest that he wanders from country to country, and has a special instinct that tells him to whom he must tell his story. After he tells it, he is temporarily relieved of his agony. The Ancient Mariner tells the Wedding Guest that better than any merriment is the company of others in prayer. He says that the best way to become close with God is to respect all of His creatures, because He loves them all. Then he vanishes. Instead of joining the wedding reception, the Wedding Guest walks home, stunned. We are told that he awakes the next day "sadder and...wiser" for having heard the Ancient Mariner's tale.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Essay on Man: Epistle II

BY ALEXANDER POPE

I.

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan;

The proper study of mankind is man.

Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state,

A being darkly wise, and rudely great:

With too much knowledge for the sceptic side,

With too much weakness for the stoic's pride,

He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;

In doubt to deem himself a god, or beast;

In doubt his mind or body to prefer;

Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err;

Alike in ignorance, his reason such,

Whether he thinks too little, or too much:

Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd;

Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd;

Created half to rise, and half to fall;

Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;

Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd:

The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

 

Go, wondrous creature! mount where science guides,

Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides;

Instruct the planets in what orbs to run,

Correct old time, and regulate the sun;

Go, soar with Plato to th' empyreal sphere,

To the first good, first perfect, and first fair;

Or tread the mazy round his follow'rs trod,

And quitting sense call imitating God;

As Eastern priests in giddy circles run,

And turn their heads to imitate the sun.

Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule—

Then drop into thyself, and be a fool!

 

Superior beings, when of late they saw

A mortal Man unfold all Nature's law,

Admir'd such wisdom in an earthly shape,

And showed a Newton as we shew an Ape.

 

Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind,

Describe or fix one movement of his mind?

Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend,

Explain his own beginning, or his end?

Alas what wonder! Man's superior part

Uncheck'd may rise, and climb from art to art;

But when his own great work is but begun,

What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone.

 

Trace science then, with modesty thy guide;

First strip off all her equipage of pride;

Deduct what is but vanity, or dress,

Or learning's luxury, or idleness;

Or tricks to show the stretch of human brain,

Mere curious pleasure, or ingenious pain;

Expunge the whole, or lop th' excrescent parts

Of all our Vices have created Arts;

Then see how little the remaining sum,

Which serv'd the past, and must the times to come!

 

II.

Two principles in human nature reign;

Self-love, to urge, and reason, to restrain;

Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call,

Each works its end, to move or govern all:

And to their proper operation still,

Ascribe all good; to their improper, ill.

 

Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul;

Reason's comparing balance rules the whole.

Man, but for that, no action could attend,

And but for this, were active to no end:

Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot,

To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot;

Or, meteor-like, flame lawless through the void,

Destroying others, by himself destroy'd.

 

Most strength the moving principle requires;

Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires.

Sedate and quiet the comparing lies,

Form'd but to check, delib'rate, and advise.

Self-love still stronger, as its objects nigh;

Reason's at distance, and in prospect lie:

That sees immediate good by present sense;

Reason, the future and the consequence.

Thicker than arguments, temptations throng,

At best more watchful this, but that more strong.

The action of the stronger to suspend,

Reason still use, to reason still attend.

Attention, habit and experience gains;

Each strengthens reason, and self-love restrains.

 

Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to fight,

More studious to divide than to unite,

And grace and virtue, sense and reason split,

With all the rash dexterity of wit:

Wits, just like fools, at war about a name,

Have full as oft no meaning, or the same.

Self-love and reason to one end aspire,

Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire;

But greedy that its object would devour,

This taste the honey, and not wound the flow'r:

Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood,

Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.

 

III.

Modes of self-love the passions we may call:

'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all:

But since not every good we can divide,

And reason bids us for our own provide;

Passions, though selfish, if their means be fair,

List under reason, and deserve her care;

Those, that imparted, court a nobler aim,

Exalt their kind, and take some virtue's name.

 

In lazy apathy let Stoics boast

Their virtue fix'd, 'tis fix'd as in a frost;

Contracted all, retiring to the breast;

But strength of mind is exercise, not rest:

The rising tempest puts in act the soul,

Parts it may ravage, but preserves the whole.

On life's vast ocean diversely we sail,

Reason the card, but passion is the gale;

Nor God alone in the still calm we find,

He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind.

 

Passions, like elements, though born to fight,

Yet, mix'd and soften'd, in his work unite:

These 'tis enough to temper and employ;

But what composes man, can man destroy?

Suffice that reason keep to nature's road,

Subject, compound them, follow her and God.

Love, hope, and joy, fair pleasure's smiling train,

Hate, fear, and grief, the family of pain,

These mix'd with art, and to due bounds confin'd,

Make and maintain the balance of the mind:

The lights and shades, whose well accorded strife

Gives all the strength and colour of our life.

 

Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes,

And when in act they cease, in prospect, rise:

Present to grasp, and future still to find,

The whole employ of body and of mind.

All spread their charms, but charm not all alike;

On diff'rent senses diff'rent objects strike;

Hence diff'rent passions more or less inflame,

As strong or weak, the organs of the frame;

And hence one master passion in the breast,

Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest.

 

As man, perhaps, the moment of his breath,

Receives the lurking principle of death;

The young disease, that must subdue at length,

Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength:

So, cast and mingled with his very frame,

The mind's disease, its ruling passion came;

Each vital humour which should feed the whole,

Soon flows to this, in body and in soul.

Whatever warms the heart, or fills the head,

As the mind opens, and its functions spread,

Imagination plies her dang'rous art,

And pours it all upon the peccant part.

 

Nature its mother, habit is its nurse;

Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse;

Reason itself but gives it edge and pow'r;

As Heav'n's blest beam turns vinegar more sour.

We, wretched subjects, though to lawful sway,

In this weak queen some fav'rite still obey:

Ah! if she lend not arms, as well as rules,

What can she more than tell us we are fools?

Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend,

A sharp accuser, but a helpless friend!

Or from a judge turn pleader, to persuade

The choice we make, or justify it made;

Proud of an easy conquest all along,

She but removes weak passions for the strong:

So, when small humours gather to a gout,

The doctor fancies he has driv'n them out.

 

Yes, nature's road must ever be preferr'd;

Reason is here no guide, but still a guard:

'Tis hers to rectify, not overthrow,

And treat this passion more as friend than foe:

A mightier pow'r the strong direction sends,

And sev'ral men impels to sev'ral ends.

Like varying winds, by other passions toss'd,

This drives them constant to a certain coast.

Let pow'r or knowledge, gold or glory, please,

Or (oft more strong than all) the love of ease;

Through life 'tis followed, ev'n at life's expense;

The merchant's toil, the sage's indolence,

The monk's humility, the hero's pride,

All, all alike, find reason on their side.

 

Th' eternal art educing good from ill,

Grafts on this passion our best principle:

'Tis thus the mercury of man is fix'd,

Strong grows the virtue with his nature mix'd;

The dross cements what else were too refin'd,

And in one interest body acts with mind.

 

As fruits, ungrateful to the planter's care,

On savage stocks inserted, learn to bear;

The surest virtues thus from passions shoot,

Wild nature's vigor working at the root.

What crops of wit and honesty appear

From spleen, from obstinacy, hate, or fear!

See anger, zeal and fortitude supply;

Ev'n av'rice, prudence; sloth, philosophy;

Lust, through some certain strainers well refin'd,

Is gentle love, and charms all womankind;

Envy, to which th' ignoble mind's a slave,

Is emulation in the learn'd or brave;

Nor virtue, male or female, can we name,

But what will grow on pride, or grow on shame.

 

Thus nature gives us (let it check our pride)

The virtue nearest to our vice allied:

Reason the byass turns to good from ill,

And Nero reigns a Titus, if he will.

The fiery soul abhorr'd in Catiline,

In Decius charms, in Curtius is divine:

The same ambition can destroy or save,

And make a patriot as it makes a knave.

 

IV.

This light and darkness in our chaos join'd,

What shall divide? The God within the mind.

 

Extremes in nature equal ends produce,

In man they join to some mysterious use;

Though each by turns the other's bound invade,

As, in some well-wrought picture, light and shade,

And oft so mix, the diff'rence is too nice

Where ends the virtue, or begins the vice.

 

Fools! who from hence into the notion fall,

That vice or virtue there is none at all.

If white and black blend, soften, and unite

A thousand ways, is there no black or white?

Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain;

'Tis to mistake them, costs the time and pain.

 

V.

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,

As, to be hated, needs but to be seen;

Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,

We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

But where th' extreme of vice, was ne'er agreed:

Ask where's the North? at York, 'tis on the Tweed;

In Scotland, at the Orcades; and there,

At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where:

No creature owns it in the first degree,

But thinks his neighbour farther gone than he!

Ev'n those who dwell beneath its very zone,

Or never feel the rage, or never own;

What happier natures shrink at with affright,

The hard inhabitant contends is right.

 

VI.

Virtuous and vicious ev'ry man must be,

Few in th' extreme, but all in the degree;

The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise;

And ev'n the best, by fits, what they despise.

'Tis but by parts we follow good or ill,

For, vice or virtue, self directs it still;

Each individual seeks a sev'ral goal;

But heav'n's great view is one, and that the whole:

That counterworks each folly and caprice;

That disappoints th' effect of ev'ry vice;

That, happy frailties to all ranks applied,

Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride,

Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief,

To kings presumption, and to crowds belief,

That, virtue's ends from vanity can raise,

Which seeks no int'rest, no reward but praise;

And build on wants, and on defects of mind,

The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind.

 

Heav'n forming each on other to depend,

A master, or a servant, or a friend,

Bids each on other for assistance call,

'Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all.

Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally

The common int'rest, or endear the tie:

To these we owe true friendship, love sincere,

Each home-felt joy that life inherits here;

Yet from the same we learn, in its decline,

Those joys, those loves, those int'rests to resign;

Taught half by reason, half by mere decay,

To welcome death, and calmly pass away.

 

Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf,

Not one will change his neighbour with himself.

The learn'd is happy nature to explore,

The fool is happy that he knows no more;

The rich is happy in the plenty giv'n,

The poor contents him with the care of heav'n.

See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing,

The sot a hero, lunatic a king;

The starving chemist in his golden views

Supremely blest, the poet in his Muse.

 

See some strange comfort ev'ry state attend,

And pride bestow'd on all, a common friend;

See some fit passion ev'ry age supply,

Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.

 

Behold the child, by nature's kindly law,

Pleas'd with a rattle, tickl'd with a straw:

Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight,

A little louder, but as empty quite:

Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage,

And beads and pray'r books are the toys of age:

Pleas'd with this bauble still, as that before;

'Till tir'd he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er!

 

Meanwhile opinion gilds with varying rays

Those painted clouds that beautify our days;

Each want of happiness by hope supplied,

And each vacuity of sense by Pride:

These build as fast as knowledge can destroy;

In folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy;

One prospect lost, another still we gain;

And not a vanity is giv'n in vain;

Ev'n mean self-love becomes, by force divine,

The scale to measure others' wants by thine.

See! and confess, one comfort still must rise,

'Tis this: Though man's a fool, yet God is wise.

Pope's Poems and Prose Summary and Analysis of An Essay on Man: Epistle II

Summary

The subtitle of the second epistle is “Of the Nature and State of Man, with Respect to Himself as an Individual” and treats on the relationship between the individual and God’s greater design.

Here is a section-by-section explanation of the second epistle:

Section I (1-52): Section I argues that man should not pry into God’s affairs but rather study himself, especially his nature, powers, limits, and frailties.

Section II (53-92): Section II shows that the two principles of man are self-love and reason. Self-love is the stronger of the two, but their ultimate goal is the same.

Section III (93-202): Section III describes the modes of self-love (i.e., the passions) and their function. Pope then describes the ruling passion and its potency. The ruling passion works to provide man with direction and defines man’s nature and virtue.

Section IV (203-16): Section IV indicates that virtue and vice are combined in man’s nature and that the two, while distinct, often mix.

Section V (217-30): Section V illustrates the evils of vice and explains how easily man is drawn to it.

Section VI (231-294): Section VI asserts that man’s passions and imperfections are simply designed to suit God’s purposes. The passions and imperfections are distributed to all individuals of each order of men in all societies. They guide man in every state and at every age of life.

Analysis

The second epistle adds to the interpretive challenges presented in the first epistle. At its outset, Pope commands man to “Know then thyself,” an adage that misdescribes his argument (1). Although he actually intends for man to better understand his place in the universe, the classical meaning of “Know thyself” is that man should look inwards for truth rather than outwards. Having spent most of the first epistle describing man’s relationship to God as well as his fellow creatures, Pope’s true meaning of the phrase is clear. He then confuses the issue by endeavoring to convince man to avoid the presumptuousness of studying God’s creation through natural science. Science has given man the tools to better understand God’s creation, but its intoxicating power has caused man to imitate God. It seems that man must look outwards to gain any understanding of his divine purpose but avoid excessive analysis of what he sees. To do so would be to assume the role of God.

The second epistle abruptly turns to focus on the principles that guide human action. The rest of this section focuses largely on “self-love,” an eighteenth-century term for self-maintenance and fulfillment. It was common during Pope’s lifetime to view the passions as the force determining human action. Typically instinctual, the immediate object of the passions was seen as pleasure. According to Pope’s philosophy, each man has a “ruling passion” that subordinates the others. In contrast with the accepted eighteenth-century views of the passions, Pope’s doctrine of the “ruling passion” is quite original. It seems clear that with this idea, Pope tries to explain why certain individual behave in distinct ways, seemingly governed by a particular desire. He does not, however, make this explicit in the poem.

Pope’s discussion of the passions shows that “self-love” and “reason” are not opposing principles. Reason’s role, it seems, is to regulate human behavior while self-love originates it. In another sense, self-love and the passions dictate the short term while reason shapes the long term.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Deserted Village

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,

Where health and plenty cheared the labouring swain,

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed,

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

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,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,

For talking age and whispering lovers made!

How often have I blest the coming day,

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 surveyed;

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,

And slights of art and feats of strength went round;

And still as each repeated pleasure tired,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;

The dancing pair that simply sought renown

By holding out to tire each other down;

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,

While secret laughter tittered round the place;

The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove!

These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,

With sweet succession, taught even toil to please;

These round thy bowers their chearful influence shed,

These were thy charms—But all these charms are fled.

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,

Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;

Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,

And desolation saddens all thy green:

One only master grasps the whole domain,

And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,

But, choaked with sedges, works its weedy way;

Along thy glades, a solitary guest,

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;

Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,

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.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:

Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;

A breath can make them, as a breath has made;

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,

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:

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,

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;

And every want to oppulence 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,

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,

Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;

These, far departing seek a kinder shore,

And rural mirth and manners are no more.

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,

Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.

Here as I take my solitary rounds,

Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruined grounds,

And, many a year elapsed, return to view

Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

In all my wanderings round this world of care,

In all my griefs—and God has given my share—

I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,

Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;

To husband out life's taper at the close,

And keep the flame from wasting by repose.

I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,

Amidst the swains to shew my book-learned skill,

Around my fire an evening groupe to draw,

And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;

And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue,

Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,

I still had hopes, my long vexations past,

Here to return—and die at home at last.

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,

Retreats from care that never must be mine,

How happy he who crowns, in shades like these

A youth of labour with an age of ease;

Who quits a world where strong temptations try,

And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!

For him no wretches, born to work and weep,

Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;

No surly porter stands in guilty state

To spurn imploring famine from the gate,

But on he moves to meet his latter end,

Angels around befriending virtue's friend;

Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,

While resignation gently slopes the way;

And, all his prospects brightening to the last,

His Heaven commences ere the world be past!

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close,

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;

There, as I past with careless steps and slow,

The mingling notes came soften'd from below;

The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young,

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,

The playful children just let loose from school,

The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,

And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

But now the sounds of population fail,

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,

No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,

For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.

All but yon widowed, solitary thing

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;

She only left of all the harmless train,

The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden-flower grows wild;

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was, to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year;

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,

More 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;

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sate by his fire, and talked the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and shewed 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.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And even 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.

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies;

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was layed,

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns, dismayed

The reverend champion stood. At his control

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,

And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,

His looks adorned the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.

The service past, around the pious man,

With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;

Even children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest:

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven.

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,

With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,

There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,

The village master taught his little school;

A man severe he was, and stern to view,

I knew him well, and every truant knew;

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace

The day's disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee,

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he:

Full well the busy whisper circling round,

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned;

Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault;

The village all declared how much he knew;

'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too;

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge.

In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,

For even tho' vanquished, he could argue still;

While words of learned length and thundering sound,

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,

That one small head could carry all he knew.

But past is all his fame. The very spot

Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,

Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,

Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,

Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,

And news much older than their ale went round.

Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place;

The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor,

The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;

The chest contrived a double debt to pay,

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;

The pictures placed for ornament and use,

The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;

The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,

With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;

While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew,

Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.

Vain transitory splendours! Could not all

Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall!

Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart

An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;

Thither no more the peasant shall repair

To sweet oblivion of his daily care;

No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,

No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;

No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,

Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;

The host himself no longer shall be found

Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;

Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,

Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,

These simple blessings of the lowly train;

To me more dear, congenial to my heart,

One native charm, than all the gloss of art;

Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play,

The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,

Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,

With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,

In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,

The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;

And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,

The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey

The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay,

'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand

Between a splendid and a happy land.

Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,

And shouting Folly hails them from her shore;

Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound,

And rich men flock from all the world around.

Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name

That leaves our useful products still the same.

Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride

Takes up a space that many poor supplied;

Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds:

The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth,

Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth;

His seat, where solitary sports are seen,

Indignant spurns the cottage from the green:

Around the world each needful product flies,

For all the luxuries the world supplies.

While thus the land adorned for pleasure, all

In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.

As some fair female unadorned and plain,

Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,

Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies,

Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes.

But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,

When time advances, and when lovers fail,

She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,

In all the glaring impotence of dress.

Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed:

In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed;

But verging to decline, its splendours rise,

Its vistas strike, its palaces surprize;

While, scourged by famine from the smiling land,

The mournful peasant leads his humble band;

And while he sinks, without one arm to save,

The country blooms—a garden, and a grave.

Where then, ah where, shall poverty reside,

To scape the pressure of contiguous pride?

If to some common's fenceless limits strayed,

He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,

Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,

And ev'n the bare-worn common is denied.

If to the city sped—What waits him there?

To see profusion that he must not share;

To see ten thousand baneful arts combined

To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;

To see those joys the sons of pleasure know,

Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.

Here while the courtier glitters in brocade,

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;

Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.

The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign,

Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train;

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!

Sure these denote one universal joy!

Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn:

Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,

And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour

When idly first, ambitious of the town,

She left her wheel and robes of country brown.

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,

Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?

Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,

At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!

Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene,

Where half the convex world intrudes between,

Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,

Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.

Far different there from all that charm'd before,

The various terrors of that horrid shore;

Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,

And fiercely shed intolerable day;

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,

But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;

Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned,

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;

Where at each step the stranger fears to wake

The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;

Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,

And savage men, more murderous still than they;

While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,

Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.

Far different these from every former scene,

The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,

The breezy covert of the warbling grove,

That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,

That called them from their native walks away;

When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,

Hung round their bowers, and fondly looked their last,

And took a long farewell, and wished in vain

For seats like these beyond the western main;

And shuddering still to face the distant deep,

Returned and wept, and still returned to weep.

The good old sire the first prepared to go

To new found worlds, and wept for others woe.

But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,

He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.

His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,

The fond companion of his helpless years,

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,

And left a lover's for a father's arms.

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,

And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose;

And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear,

And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear;

Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief

In all the silent manliness of grief.

O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,

How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!

How do thy potions, with insidious joy,

Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!

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,

Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.

Even now the devastation is begun,

And half the business of destruction done;

Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,

I see the rural virtues leave the land:

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,

That idly waiting flaps with every gale,

Downward they move, a melancholy band,

Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.

Contented toil, and hospitable care,

And kind connubial tenderness, are there;

And piety with wishes placed above,

And steady loyalty, and faithful love.

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;

Unfit in these degenerate times of shame,

To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;

Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,

That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;

Thou guide by which the nobler arts excell,

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!

Farewell, and O where'er thy voice be tried,

On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,

Whether were equinoctial fervours glow,

Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,

Redress the rigours of the inclement clime;

Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain,

Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;

Teach him, that states of native strength possest,

Tho' very poor, may still be very blest;

That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,

As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;

While self-dependent power can time defy,

As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

Summary

Lines 1–34

The speaker describes Auburn, the village of his childhood. Each scene is constructed nostalgically, highlighting beauty in memory. The weather is always perfect; the people are filled with "humble happiness." The buildings are "never-failing ... busy ... and decent." He describes how everyone works hard and then enjoys their leisure time together on the rolling hills, playing sports or dancing. He also describes a heartwarming scene of young lovers flirting while a scolding matron watches with disapproval. The nostalgic scenes end suddenly with the statement "But all these are charms are fled."

Lines 35–74

Between the cozy houses the speaker sees the effect of the "tyrant" and the "master" on the "smiling plain." In the presence of such evil, everyone has left the now-"desolate" village. The only guests are bittern birds that guard their nests with "hollow-sounding" calls. The once-cozy houses have sunken and molded. The speaker laments that the village—once filled with "bold peasantry" that was the "country's pride"—is now deserted. Everyone has left to chase wealth in the city, which the speaker calls the place where "men decay." This, the speaker claims, is where "England's griefs began." People used to be happy simply when their needs were met, but with the rise of trade people longed for opulence and "unwieldy wealth." They longed to ease "every pang that folly pays to pride." This greed caused the decay of "rural mirth and manners."

Lines 75–136

The speaker describes returning home after years away, taking "solitary rounds" amid the dangled walkways and "ruined grounds." All around him he sees evidence of "the tyrant's power." Seeing how run-down the once-beautiful village has become fills the speaker's heart with emotion. He had long wished to return to Auburn as an old man, but it is his greatest grief to realize this will be impossible. Again, the speaker recounts images of the happy, bustling village where children came singing from school, and even the noisy watchdogs, geese, and nightingales sounded like "sweet confusion." Now, the population has been displaced, leaving behind only a feeble "wretched matron" who forages for food and cries herself to sleep each night.

Lines 137–192

The speaker recalls the village preacher. The place where his "modest mansion" once stood is now overgrown with wildflowers. He ran a "godly race" and was rewarded with a salary of £40 per year. The preacher never sought riches or fame—he only wanted to care for the wretched. He dedicated his life to easing others' pain, whether they were injured soldiers or ruined "spendthrifts." Regardless of the beggars' backgrounds, the preacher pitied and cared for them all: "He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all." His sermons were rousing—even fools who came to mock the church stayed to hear him. Everyone, from adults to children, longed to be near him.

Lines 193–250

Near the church was a noisy school where a stern schoolmaster ruled strictly. The speaker knew the schoolmaster well, as did the rest of the village truants. Despite the schoolmaster's stern appearance, he was kind and loved to teach. The children, in rapt attention, used to wonder how much knowledge could be crammed into one man's head. But now no one remembers the schoolmaster's wisdom. The school, once lovingly cared for with "white-washed wall" and a "nicely sanded floor," now sinks into obscurity. It lies unused and forgotten, alongside every other pleasure of the village where the barber told tales, the woodsmen swapped stories, and "coy maids" passed drinks.

Lines 251–286

The speaker knows the rich mock his nostalgia for home, but this cruelty only makes him fonder of the "simple blessings" of his "lowly" beginnings. Everyone else seems to love the "gloss of art," working hard to obtain its expensive beauty. The speaker much prefers the beautiful images of memory that "lightly ... frolic" over his "vacant mind." He goes on to blame the rich for chasing "wanton wealth," claiming their greed hastens "the poor's decay." The rich must decide where to draw the line between a "splendid," or opulent, land and a happy one. The land is rich, and men come from around the world to plunder her spoils. In doing so, the rich expand their boundaries. They push away the poor to make more room for their horses and dogs. The rich rob their neighbors of half the silk in their fields simply to make themselves another robe. The land had enough riches for everyone to enjoy, but the wealthy strip it barren for their own gain.

Lines 287–340

The speaker compares the land to a young woman who needs no "adornment" to show off her beauty. As time passes, however, the land needs such adornment to maintain its charm, but it has been betrayed. There's no way of covering up the "impotence" and "decline" of its splendors that transformed the "smiling land" into a "scourged," or tortured, place. It has been transformed from a blooming garden to a blooming grave. The speaker wonders where the poor should live if the rich push them off their native land.

Lines 341–384

The poor must travel through "dreary scenes" with "fainting steps." Eventually, they will arrive at "that horrid shore" that the speaker describes as if he were describing Hell: either some overcrowded city or some wilderness. To him, the city is a place where "birds forget to sing" and "the dark scorpion gathers death around." The speaker carefully contrasts this hellish scene with the "cooling brook" and "grassy vested green" of the village. He imagines what it might have been like for the traveling villagers to look upon their homes for the final time. He paints a heartbreaking scene of a family tearfully saying goodbye to each other.

Lines 385–430

The speaker curses luxury. People want luxury, so they leave their "pleasures" behind to seek its "insidious joy." Even as the speaker stands now, he can see "the rural virtues leave the land." He recalls days of "contented toil" and "hospitable care" when people worked hard and were kind to each other. They were pious, faithful, and loving, but now they are greedy and cruel. The speaker feels a sense of shame at the way the villagers have changed. Finally, he says goodbye to the village of his memory, with the hopes that time might "redress the rigors of the inclement clime" and bring both truth and humility back to the land.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DREAM CHILDREN: A REVERIE

Children love to listen to stories about their elders, when they were children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle or grandame, whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene—so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country—of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in the Wood. Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the Robin Redbreasts, till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother’s looks, too tender to be called upbraiding. Then I went on to say, how religious and how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining county; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort while she lived, which afterward came to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried away to the owner’s other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if some one were to carry away the old tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey, and stick them up in Lady C.’s tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, “that would be foolish indeed.” And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry too, of the neighborhood for many miles round, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman; so good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery by heart, aye, and a great part of the Testament besides. Here little Alice spread her hands. Then I told what a tall, upright, graceful person their great-grandmother Field once was; and how in her youth she was esteemed the best dancer—here Alice’s little right foot played an involuntary movement, till upon my looking grave, it desisted—the best dancer, I was saying, in the county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain; but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was so good and religious. Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house; and how she believed that an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but she said “those innocents would do her no harm”; and how frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious as she—and yet I never saw the infants. Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous. Then I told how good she was to all her grand-children, having us to the great house in the holidays, where I in particular used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts of the Twelve Caesars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them; how I never could be tired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken panels, with the gilding almost rubbed out—sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross me—and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then,—and because I had more pleasure in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew trees, or the firs, and picking up the red berries, and the fir apples, which were good for nothing but to look at—or in lying about upon the fresh grass, with all the fine garden smells around me—or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself ripening, too, along with the oranges and the limes in that grateful warmth—or in watching the dace that darted to and fro in the fish pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings,—I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet flavors of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such like common baits of children. Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had mediated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant. Then, in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though their great-grandmother Field loved all her grand-children, yet in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L——, because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any out—and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries —and how their uncle grew up to man’s estate as brave as he was handsome, to the admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame-footed boy—for he was a good bit older than me—many a mile when I could not walk for pain;—and how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was impatient, and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when he died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at first, but afterward it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be quarreling with him (for we quarreled sometimes), rather than not have him again, and was as uneasy without him, as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor took off his limb. Here the children fell a crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for uncle John, and they looked up and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty, dead mother. Then I told them how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W——n; and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens—when suddenly, turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of re-presentment, that I became in doubt which of them stood there before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech: “We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call Bartrum father. We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name”—and immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor armchair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side—but John L. (or James Elia) was gone forever.

 

SIR ROGER AT THE THEATRE. (text)

Addison.

 My friend Sir Roger de Coverley, when we last met together at the Club, told me that he had a great mind to see the new tragedy [83] with me, assuring me, at the same time, that he had not been at a play these twenty years. The last I saw, said Sir Roger, was the 'Committee,'[84] which I should not have gone to neither, had not I been told beforehand that it was a good Church of England comedy. He then proceeded to inquire of me who this distressed mother was, and, upon hearing that she was Hector's widow, he told me that her husband was a brave man, and that when he was a school−boy, he had read his life at the end of the dictionary. My friend asked me, in the next place, if there would not be some danger in coming home late, in case the Mohocks[85] should be abroad, I assure you, says he, I thought I had fallen into their hands last night, for I observed two or three lusty black men that followed me half way up Fleet Street, and mended their pace behind me in proportion as I put on to get away from them. You must know, continued the Knight with a smile, I fancied they had a mind to hunt me, for I remember an honest gentleman in my neighborhood who was served such a trick in King Charles the Second's time; for which reason he has not ventured himself in town ever since. I might have shown them very good sport had this been their design; for, as I am an old fox−hunter, I should have turned and dodged, and have played them a thousand tricks they had never seen in their lives before. Sir Roger added that if these gentlemen had any such intention they did not succeed very well in it; for I threw them out, says he, at the end of Norfolk Street, where I doubled the corner and got shelter in my lodgings before they could imagine what was become of me. However, says the Knight, if Captain Sentry will make one with us to−morrow night, and if you will both of you call upon me about four o'clock, that we may be at the house before it is full, I will have my own coach in readiness to attend you, for John tells me he has got the fore wheels mended.The Captain, who did not fail to meet me there at the appointed hour, bid Sir Roger fear nothing, for that he had put on the same sword which he made use of at the battle of Steenkirk. Sir Roger's servants, and among the rest my old friend the butler, had, I found, provided themselves with good oaken plants to attend their master upon this occasion. When he had placed him in his coach, with myself at his left hand, the Captain before him, and his butler at the head of his footmen in the rear, we convoyed him in safety to the playhouse, where, after having marched up the entry in good order, the Captain and I went in with him, and seated him betwixt us in the pit. As soon as the house was full, and the candles lighted, my old friend stood up and looked about him with that pleasure which a mind seasoned with humanity naturally feels in itself, at the sight of a multitude of people who seem pleased with one another, and partake of the same common entertainment. I could not but fancy to myself, as the old man stood up in the middle of the pit, that he made a very proper centre to a tragic audience. Upon the entering of Pyrrhus, the Knight told me that he did not believe the King of France himself had a better strut. I was, indeed, very attentive to my old friend's remarks, because I looked upon them as a piece of natural criticism; and was well pleased to hear him, at the conclusion of almost every scene, telling me that he could not imagine how the play would end. One while he appeared much concerned for Andromache; and a little while after as much for Hermione; and was extremely puzzled to think what would become of Pyrrhus. When Sir Roger saw Andromache's obstinate refusal to her lover's importunities, he whispered me in the ear, that he was sure she would never have him; to which he added, with a more than ordinary vehemence, "You can't imagine, Sir, what 'tis to have to do with a widow. Upon Pyrrhus his threatening afterwards to leave her, the Knight shook his head, and muttered to himself, Ay, do if you can. This part dwelt so much upon my friend's imagination, that at the close of the third act, as I was thinking of something else, he whispered in my ear, These widows, Sir, are the most perverse creatures in the world. But pray, says he, you that are a critic, is this play according to your dramatic rules, as you call them? Should your people in tragedy always talk to be understood? Sir Roger de Coverly Essays from The Spectator XXIII. SIR ROGER AT THE THEATRE. 48 Why, there is not a single sentence in this play that I do not know the meaning of. The fourth act very luckily begun before I had time to give the old gentleman an answer: Well, says the Knight, sitting down with great satisfaction, I suppose we are now to see Hector's ghost. He then renewed his attention, and, from time to time, fell a praising the widow. He made, indeed, a little mistake as to one of her pages, whom at his first entering he took for Astyanax; but he quickly set himself right in that particular, though, at the same time, he owned he should have been very glad to have seen the little boy, who, says he, must needs be a very fine child by the account that is given of him. Upon Hermione's going off with a menace to Pyrrhus, the audience gave a loud clap, to which Sir Roger added, On my word, a notable young baggage!As there was a very remarkable silence and stillness in the audience during the whole action, it was natural for them to take the opportunity of these intervals between the acts to express their opinion of the players and of their respective parts. Sir Roger hearing a cluster of them praise Orestes, struck in with them, and told them that he thought his friend Pylades was a very sensible man; as they were afterwards applauding Pyrrhus, Sir Roger put in a second time: "And let me tell you, says he, though he speaks but little, I like the old fellow in whiskers as well as any of them.Captain Sentry seeing two or three wags, who sat near us, lean with an attentive ear towards Sir Roger, and fearing lest they should smoke the Knight, plucked him by the elbow, and whispered something in his ear, that lasted till the opening of the fifth act. The Knight was wonderfully attentive to the account which Orestes gives of Pyrrhus his death, and at the conclusion of it, told me it was such a bloody piece of work that he was glad it was not done upon the stage. Seeing afterwards Orestes in his raving fit, he grew more than ordinary serious, and took occasion to moralize (in his way) upon an evil conscience, adding, that Orestes, in his madness, looked as if he saw something. As we were the first that came into the house, so we were the last that went out of it; being resolved to have a clear passage for our old friend, whom we did not care to venture among the jostling of the crowd. Sir Roger went out fully satisfied with his entertainment, and we guarded him to his lodgings in the same manner that we brought him to the playhouse; being highly pleased, for my own part, not only with the performance of the excellent piece which had been presented, but with the satisfaction which it had given to the good old man.

Summary

Sir Roger de Coverly at the theatre is an essay by Joseph Addisson. Sir Roger expresses his desire of watching a good tragedy to Addison. they meet at spectator club, Sir Roger says that he has not watched any good play in the last 20 years and the last play he watched was a church of England comedy named 'Committe'. thus they plan to watch a good tragedy a story of Distress woman named Andromach. it is the classical tragedy that revolves around Hector's widow (Andromach). Knight is one of the friends of Roger and Addison he plans to take Captain Sentry for the play. thus Addison, Sir Roger, Knight, Captain Sentry along with a Butler and a servant takes their coach to the theatre. they get the ticket and a comfortable middle seat at the theatre, the play begins. Pyrrus(Son of Achilles who killed Hector in Trojan war) is the character that enters the stage first. at the end of every act Sir Roger passes comments about the characters and the scene to his friends. Sir Roger was not fond of the character Andromach who is the widow and he anxiously wonders what it would become of Pyrrus  who is after Andromach. on the other hand Knight adores the characters on the stage and he passes good comments about Andromach. Captain sentry nudge his friends not to be explicit in their comments about the characters on stage as two of the audience were keenly observing their conversation. at the fourth act Hector's ghost was expected on stage and Knight misunderstands a page for Astynax (Andromach& Hector's son). The play ends with Andromach killing herself and Pyrrus left to feel sorrow about his mistakes. the friends of the spectator club was the last to leave the theatre. they all leave the theatre with the satisfaction of watching a good tragedy. the friends escort Roger and drops him at his house safely in the coach.    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Rivals

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

Summary

The play begins with a preface written by the author, Sheridan, in which he outlines what the audience is about to see. Sheridan writes in the preface that the success of the play was unexpected for him, as was the way in which the play was initially received. After a disastrous first night, he was forced to rewrite certain parts. Sheridan claims that the reason the play was unsuccessful was that it was the first play he had ever written and because he did not research the writing style enough.

Sheridan then talks about various critics who, in his opinion, misjudged his play and only wanted to make him feel bad and did not want to see him improve as a writer. Sheridan also expresses his opinion that critics should not write harsh criticism about anyone who they do not know personally.

Next, Sheridan presents the prologue of the play, a prologue which was presented only on the first night. The prologue presents a scene in which an attorney is trying to give money to a court official to present a brief speech on behalf of a poet.

A second prologue is then presented during which an actress comes on stage playing the role of the Muse and claiming that the purpose of the play is to transmit a moral lesson.

The play then begins with two servants meeting accidentally on the streets in the city of Bath. The servants, Fag and Thomas, talk about their masters and Thomas tells Fag that his master, Sir Anthony, has decided to move his entire family to the city. It is then revealed that Fag works for Sir Anthony’s son, Captain Absolute, who decided to change his name to Ensign Beverley, hoping to win the affection of a woman named Lydia Languish who prefers poor people. The two servants part when Fag sees his master in the distance.

The next scene takes place in Lydia’s home where one of her servants, Lucy, returns from running an errand. Lucy was sent to bring her mistress some books, and then she lists all the books she was able to find for Lydia. Julia, Lydia’s cousin, enters and tells Lydia about Sir Anthony and his arrival in town. The two then discuss their love interests and each criticizes the other, even though they both have secret relationships.

Lydia then tells her cousin about how she had never had a fight with her lover, Beverley, so she faked a letter just to have a reason to fight with him. Unfortunately, the plan back-fired and Lydia didn’t get a chance to mend things with him. Julia tries to assure Lydia that if Beverley really loves her, he will not give up that easily. Lydia also tells Julia that she does not care if Beverley is rich or not and that she will willingly give up her money just to be with him.

Next, Julia talks about her fiancé, a man named Faulkland, who is always questioning Julia about her love for him. The two fight frequently, but Julia still claims that she loves him.

When Sir Anthony arrives, Julia leaves in a hurry before he enters the room. Sir Anthony comes with a woman named Mrs. Malaprop, Lydia’s guardian, and they begin talking with her about Beverley and how their relationship is a mistake. When Lydia disagrees, she is sent from the room. Sir Anthony expresses his concern regarding the quality of Lydia’s education, claiming that the education she receives makes her act too independently. Sir Anthony then proposes to marry Lydia to his son and tells Mrs. Malaprop to do everything she can to convince Lydia to accept the match.

After Sir Anthony leaves, Mrs. Malaprop writes her own letter to her admirer, a man named Sir Lucius, and has Lucy deliver the letter. After Lucy takes her leave, Mrs. Malaprop begins talking to herself and revealing how she orchestrated the release of certain bit of information behind her master’s back and how she did everything she could to turn the things in her favor.

In the second Act, Fag talks with his master and tells him that his father is in town. Fag claims that he lied to Sir Anthony about Absolute’s visit and the two agree to tell Sir Anthony that the reason Absolute is in town is that he is recruiting soldiers.

Faulkland then enters and they soon begin to talk about Lydia. Faulkland advises Absolute to try and convince his father and Mrs. Malaprop to accept the match, but Absolute refuses, saying that if Lydia were to find out that he has money, she will reject him. They talk next about Julia and how Faulkland feels as if he will never be able to love another woman except Julia. Absolute then reveals to Faulkland that Julia is in town but advises Faulkland to be patient and to wait until he goes to see her. Acres, a man who was close to Julia, comes in and tells Faulkland that Julia was well during his absence. Instead of feeling happy, Faulkland feels betrayed, not knowing how Julia can be happy when he is miserable. After hearing this, Faulkland leaves the room, angry.

Alone, Acres and Absolute talk about Lydia and Acres expresses his love for Lydia and his hatred for Beverley, not knowing that Absolute is Beverley.

After Acres leaves, Sir Anthony enters, telling his son that he plans to marry him to a woman, but does not tell him who the woman is. Absolute tries to tell his father that he already loves someone, but Sir Anthony refuses to listen to what his son has to say and leaves, angered by his son’s disobedience.

In the second scene of the second act, Lucy delivers a letter from Malaprop to Sir Lucius who is unaware of the fact that Delia, the woman he thinks he is talking with, is an old woman and not a 17-year-old girl. After Sir Lucius leaves, Fag appears on the scene and calls out Lucy for her act. Then, Lucy tells Fag about Absolute and how he will compete for Lydia’s love as well. Fag leaves laughing, not telling Lucy that Absolute and Beverley are the same man.

Act 3 returns to Absolute who has found out from Fag that Sir Anthony plans to marry him to Lydia, the woman he loves. Soon after finding out about the woman’s identity, Absolute meets with his father and tells him that he has agreed to marry whoever his father has selected for him. Sir Anthony is surprised to see his son changed so much and promises he will arrange for him to meet his future wife.

Faulkland meets with Julia. Having heard about her happiness in his absence, he expresses his disapproval. Julia tries to reassure him that she loves him, but he does not accept it and she ends up leaving the room, crying.

In the next scene, Absolute goes to visit Mrs. Malaprop about Lydia and they begin talking about Lydia and her passion for Beverley. Mrs. Malaprop tells Absolute that she was unable to convince Lydia to give up her passion for Beverley but that she hopes the two will get along fine. Mrs. Malaprop then gives Absolute a letter written by Beverley and he pretends to laugh at it and at how Beverley planned to win Lydia by using Mrs. Malaprop.

Absolute tricks Malaprop and proposes to scheme together. Absolute tells Malaprop that she should let Lydia and Beverley continue to correspond, and that he will come when the two try to elope. Malaprop then calls Lydia down and Absolute convinces her that he somehow managed to fool her aunt into believing that he is Absolute. He then proposes that they run away together, but Lydia is reluctant to accept. The two are interrupted when Mrs. Malaprop enters the room and begins to criticize Lydia for rejecting Absolute.

Acres talks with his servant about dancing, when suddenly Sir Lucius appears. They begin talking about Lydia, the woman they both love, and how she loves another man, named Beverley. Sir Lucius doesn't realize that they are both pining for the same woman, and tells Acres that he should provoke Beverley into a duel since his reputation and honor have been tainted. Lucius leaves after he helps Acres write a letter challenging Beverley to a duel.

Acres becomes worried that he will die, even though everyone assures him he will survive. Acres sends for Absolute and asks him to deliver the letter to Beverley and to make sure that Beverley understands just how dangerous an opponent he is. Through this, Acres hoped to make Beverley deny the duel and thus save his honor.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Malaprop tries to convince Lydia to accept Absolute and forget about Beverley. Absolute comes to see Lydia with his father, but Lydia refuses to look at him. Absolute tries to convince his father to leave him alone with Lydia, but he refuses. Left with no other choice, Absolute talks with Lydia and she recognizes him as Beverley. Not knowing what else to do, Absolute reveals the truth to everyone in the room, telling Lydia that the only reason why he lied to her is to test whether she would still love him even if he was a poor man.

While Sir Anthony is pleased with how things have turned out, Mrs. Malaprop realizes that Absolute made fun of her through his letters. When Lydia and Absolute are alone, Lydia tells Absolute she no longer loves him because he deceived her and treated her like a child. Absolute tries to convince Lydia to marry him, but says he will not force her should she want to find someone else. The scene ends with Lydia storming out of the room. Sir Anthony tells Mrs. Malaprop she needs to convince Lydia to accept the match.

Absolute leaves Lydia’s home and runs into Lucius, who wants to fight with him. Absolute does not understand why, but agrees to meet with him that night at six o'clock—the same time and place given by Acres for his duel with Beverley. Faulkland also appears, and Absolute asks him to be his second in the duels. Faulkland refuses at first, saying that he needs to mend things with Julia. A letter she sent him made him change his mind and also to come up with a plan to test her love.

Faulkland sends a letter to Julia, telling her he must flee the country because he did something terrible and that he wishes she could come with him. However, the only way for her to go with him is if she were to be married to him. When the two meet, Julia tells Faulkland that she will marry him, and will follow him anywhere, no matter the circumstances.

Being sure that Julia loves him, Faulkland tells her the truth and promises to marry her the next day. Julia, however, is enraged that Faulkland does not trust her and is playing tricks on her, so breaks up with him.

Lydia then enters and tells Julia about everything that happened. Julia confesses to knowing about Beverley’s identity and while Lydia remains mad, Julia urges her to accept Absolute as her husband and marry him. The two ladies are interrupted by David who comes to tell them about the duel, so both women and Mrs. Malaprop rush to stop the men from injuring or possibly killing one another.

In the park where the men were supposed to meet, Absolute's father passes through by chance. Absolute manages to convince his father that he plans to go to Lydia, so his father leaves him alone.

Meanwhile, Lucius coaches Acres about the art of dueling. As Lucius presents some of the possibilities of the duel, Acres gets even more scared as he realizes that he might die. When Absolute and Faulkland appear, Absolute reveals his identity, but Acres refuses to fight against his best friend. Lucius, on the other hand, is more than happy to fight against Absolute, and they prepare to duel.

Before the fight can start, Sir Anthony and the women appear and the duel stops. Sir Anthony demands to know why Lucius wants to fight his son and he tells Sir Anthony that Absolute insulted his honor. Lucius then takes out the letters written to him by Delia. Lydia claims that she was not the author of those letters. Upon seeing the letters, Mrs. Malaprop admits to being the one who wrote them. Sir Anthony proposes that Lucius marry Mrs. Malaprop, but Lucius refuses.

Faulkland and Julia reconcile at Sir Anthony’s insistence, and the play draws to an end. The last character to speak is Julia, who expresses her hope for everyone in their group to continue being in love with their partner even in old age.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pride and Prejudice

Jane Austen

The news that a wealthy young gentleman named Charles Bingley has rented the manor of Netherfield Park causes a great stir in the nearby village of Longbourn, especially in the Bennet household. The Bennets have five unmarried daughters—from oldest to youngest, Jane, Elizabeth, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia—and Mrs. Bennet is desperate to see them all married. After Mr. Bennet pays a social visit to Mr. Bingley, the Bennets attend a ball at which Mr. Bingley is present. He is taken with Jane and spends much of the evening dancing with her. His close friend, Mr. Darcy, is less pleased with the evening and haughtily refuses to dance with Elizabeth, which makes everyone view him as arrogant and obnoxious.

At social functions over subsequent weeks, however, Mr. Darcy finds himself increasingly attracted to Elizabeth’s charm and intelligence. Jane’s friendship with Mr. Bingley also continues to burgeon, and Jane pays a visit to the Bingley mansion. On her journey to the house she is caught in a downpour and catches ill, forcing her to stay at Netherfield for several days. In order to tend to Jane, Elizabeth hikes through muddy fields and arrives with a spattered dress, much to the disdain of the snobbish Miss Bingley, Charles Bingley’s sister. Miss Bingley’s spite only increases when she notices that Darcy, whom she is pursuing, pays quite a bit of attention to Elizabeth.

When Elizabeth and Jane return home, they find Mr. Collins visiting their household. Mr. Collins is a young clergyman who stands to inherit Mr. Bennet’s property, which has been “entailed,” meaning that it can only be passed down to male heirs. Mr. Collins is a pompous fool, though he is quite enthralled by the Bennet girls. Shortly after his arrival, he makes a proposal of marriage to Elizabeth. She turns him down, wounding his pride. Meanwhile, the Bennet girls have become friendly with militia officers stationed in a nearby town. Among them is Wickham, a handsome young soldier who is friendly toward Elizabeth and tells her how Darcy cruelly cheated him out of an inheritance.

At the beginning of winter, the Bingleys and Darcy leave Netherfield and return to London, much to Jane’s dismay. A further shock arrives with the news that Mr. Collins has become engaged to Charlotte Lucas, Elizabeth’s best friend and the poor daughter of a local knight. Charlotte explains to Elizabeth that she is getting older and needs the match for financial reasons. Charlotte and Mr. Collins get married and Elizabeth promises to visit them at their new home. As winter progresses, Jane visits the city to see friends (hoping also that she might see Mr. Bingley). However, Miss Bingley visits her and behaves rudely, while Mr. Bingley fails to visit her at all. The marriage prospects for the Bennet girls appear bleak.

That spring, Elizabeth visits Charlotte, who now lives near the home of Mr. Collins’s patron, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who is also Darcy’s aunt. Darcy calls on Lady Catherine and encounters Elizabeth, whose presence leads him to make a number of visits to the Collins’s home, where she is staying. One day, he makes a shocking proposal of marriage, which Elizabeth quickly refuses. She tells Darcy that she considers him arrogant and unpleasant, then scolds him for steering Bingley away from Jane and disinheriting Wickham. Darcy leaves her but shortly thereafter delivers a letter to her. In this letter, he admits that he urged Bingley to distance himself from Jane, but claims he did so only because he thought their romance was not serious. As for Wickham, he informs Elizabeth that the young officer is a liar and that the real cause of their disagreement was Wickham’s attempt to elope with his young sister, Georgiana Darcy.

This letter causes Elizabeth to reevaluate her feelings about Darcy. She returns home and acts coldly toward Wickham. The militia is leaving town, which makes the younger, rather man-crazy Bennet girls distraught. Lydia manages to obtain permission from her father to spend the summer with an old colonel in Brighton, where Wickham’s regiment will be stationed. With the arrival of June, Elizabeth goes on another journey, this time with the Gardiners, who are relatives of the Bennets. The trip takes her to the North and eventually to the neighborhood of Pemberley, Darcy’s estate. She visits Pemberley, after making sure that Darcy is away, and delights in the building and grounds, while hearing from Darcy’s servants that he is a wonderful, generous master. Suddenly, Darcy arrives and behaves cordially toward her. Making no mention of his proposal, he entertains the Gardiners and invites Elizabeth to meet his sister.

Shortly thereafter, however, a letter arrives from home, telling Elizabeth that Lydia has eloped with Wickham and that the couple is nowhere to be found, which suggests that they may be living together out of wedlock. Fearful of the disgrace such a situation would bring on her entire family, Elizabeth hastens home. Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Bennet go off to search for Lydia, but Mr. Bennet eventually returns home empty-handed. Just when all hope seems lost, a letter comes from Mr. Gardiner saying that the couple has been found and that Wickham has agreed to marry Lydia in exchange for an annual income. The Bennets are convinced that Mr. Gardiner has paid off Wickham, but Elizabeth learns that the source of the money, and of her family’s salvation, was none other than Darcy.

Now married, Wickham and Lydia return to Longbourn briefly, where Mr. Bennet treats them coldly. They then depart for Wickham’s new assignment in the North of England. Shortly thereafter, Bingley returns to Netherfield and resumes his courtship of Jane. Darcy goes to stay with him and pays visits to the Bennets but makes no mention of his desire to marry Elizabeth. Bingley, on the other hand, presses his suit and proposes to Jane, to the delight of everyone but Bingley’s haughty sister. While the family celebrates, Lady Catherine de Bourgh pays a visit to Longbourn. She corners Elizabeth and says that she has heard that Darcy, her nephew, is planning to marry her. Since she considers a Bennet an unsuitable match for a Darcy, Lady Catherine demands that Elizabeth promise to refuse him. Elizabeth spiritedly refuses, saying she is not engaged to Darcy, but she will not promise anything against her own happiness. A little later, Elizabeth and Darcy go out walking together and he tells her that his feelings have not altered since the spring. She tenderly accepts his proposal, and both Jane and Elizabeth are married.