Expression: Observe that this poem is written in blank verse. In what respects does it differ from other forms of verse? Read it with great care, observing the marks of punctuation and giving to each passage the proper inflections and emphasis. Compare it with some other poems you have read.
Expression: Observe that this poem is written in blank verse. In what respects does it differ from other forms of verse? Read it with great care, observing the marks of punctuation and giving to each passage the proper inflections and emphasis. Compare it with some other poems you have read.
One Sunday evening, in the summer of 1848, Edgar Allan Poe was visiting at the house of a friend in New York city. The day was warm, and the windows of the conservatory where he was sitting were thrown wide open to admit the breeze. Mr. Poe was very despondent because of many sorrows and disappointments, and he was plainly annoyed by the sound of some near-by church bells pealing the hour of worship.
"I have made an agreement with a publisher to write a poem for him," he said, "but I have no inspiration for such a task. What shall I do?"
His friend Mrs. Shew gave him an encouraging reply, and invited him to drink tea with her. Then she placed paper and ink before him and suggested that, if he would try to write, the required inspiration would come.
"No," he answered; "I so dislike the noise of bells to-night, I cannot write. I have no subject—I am exhausted."
Mrs. Shew then wrote at the top of the sheet of paper,The Bells, by E. A. Poe, and added a single line as a beginning:
"The bells, the little silver bells."
"The bells, the little silver bells."
The poet accepted the suggestion, and after some effort finished the first stanza. Then Mrs. Shew wrote another line:
"The heavy iron bells."
"The heavy iron bells."
This idea was also elaborated by Mr. Poe, who copied off the two stanzas and entitled themThe Bells, by Mrs. M. L. Shew. He went home, pondering deeply upon the subject; the required inspiration was not long lacking; and in a few days the completed poem was ready to be submitted to the publisher.
The Bells
Hear the sledges with the bells—Silver bells!What a world of merriment their melody foretells!How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,In the icy air of night!While the stars that oversprinkleAll the heavens seem to twinkleWith a crystalline delight,Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rime,To the tintinnabulation that so musically swellsFrom the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.Hear the mellow wedding bells—Golden bells!What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!Through the balmy air of nightHow they ring out their delight!From the molten-golden notes,And all in tune,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtledove that listens while she gloatsOn the moon!Oh, from out the sounding cells,What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!How it swells!How it dwellsOn the Future! how it tellsOf the rapture that impelsTo the swinging and the ringingOf the bells, bells, bells—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—To the riming and the chiming of the bells!Hear the loud alarum bells—Brazen bells!What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!In the startled ear of nightHow they scream out their affright!Too much horrified to speak,They can only shriek, shriek,Out of tune,In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fireLeaping higher, higher, higher,With a desperate desireAnd a resolute endeavorNow—now to sit or never,By the side of the pale-faced moon.Oh, the bells, bells, bells,What a tale their terror tellsOf despair!How they clang and crash and roar!What a horror they outpourOn the bosom of the palpitating air!Yet the ear it fully knows,By the twangingAnd the clanging,How the danger ebbs and flows;Yet the ear distinctly tells,In the janglingAnd the wrangling,How the danger sinks and swells,By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells,Of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells!In the clamor and the clangor of the bells.Hear the tolling of the bells—Iron bells!What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!In the silence of the night,How we shiver with affrightAt the melancholy menace of their tone!For every sound that floatsFrom the rust within their throatsIs a groan.And the people—ah, the people—They that dwell up in the steeple,All alone,And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled monotone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone:They are neither man nor woman;They are neither brute nor human;They are ghouls:And their king it is who tolls;And he rolls, rolls, rolls,RollsA pæan from the bells!And his merry bosom swellsWith the pæan of the bells,And he dances and he yells,Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rime,To the pæan of the bells—Of the bells:Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rime,To the throbbing of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells—To the sobbing of the bells;Keeping time, time, time,As he knells, knells, knells,In a happy Runic rime,To the rolling of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells,—To the tolling of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—To the moaning and the groaning of the bells!
Hear the sledges with the bells—Silver bells!What a world of merriment their melody foretells!How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,In the icy air of night!While the stars that oversprinkleAll the heavens seem to twinkleWith a crystalline delight,Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rime,To the tintinnabulation that so musically swellsFrom the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding bells—Golden bells!What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!Through the balmy air of nightHow they ring out their delight!From the molten-golden notes,And all in tune,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtledove that listens while she gloatsOn the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!How it swells!How it dwellsOn the Future! how it tellsOf the rapture that impelsTo the swinging and the ringingOf the bells, bells, bells—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—To the riming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells—Brazen bells!What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!In the startled ear of nightHow they scream out their affright!Too much horrified to speak,They can only shriek, shriek,Out of tune,In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fireLeaping higher, higher, higher,With a desperate desireAnd a resolute endeavorNow—now to sit or never,By the side of the pale-faced moon.Oh, the bells, bells, bells,What a tale their terror tellsOf despair!How they clang and crash and roar!What a horror they outpourOn the bosom of the palpitating air!Yet the ear it fully knows,By the twangingAnd the clanging,How the danger ebbs and flows;Yet the ear distinctly tells,In the janglingAnd the wrangling,How the danger sinks and swells,By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells,Of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells!In the clamor and the clangor of the bells.
Hear the tolling of the bells—Iron bells!What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!In the silence of the night,How we shiver with affrightAt the melancholy menace of their tone!For every sound that floatsFrom the rust within their throatsIs a groan.And the people—ah, the people—They that dwell up in the steeple,All alone,And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled monotone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone:They are neither man nor woman;They are neither brute nor human;They are ghouls:And their king it is who tolls;And he rolls, rolls, rolls,RollsA pæan from the bells!And his merry bosom swellsWith the pæan of the bells,And he dances and he yells,Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rime,To the pæan of the bells—Of the bells:Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rime,To the throbbing of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells—To the sobbing of the bells;Keeping time, time, time,As he knells, knells, knells,In a happy Runic rime,To the rolling of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells,—To the tolling of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—To the moaning and the groaning of the bells!
In the early part of the nineteenth century Fitz-Greene Halleck was regarded as one of the greatest of American poets. He is now, however, remembered chiefly as the author of a single poem, "Marco Bozzaris," published in 1827. This poem has been described, perhaps justly, as "the best martial lyric in the English language."
It was written at a time when the people of Greece were fighting for their independence; and it celebrates the heroism of the young Greek patriot, Marco Bozzaris, who was killed while leading a desperate but successful night attack upon the Turks, August 20, 1823. As here presented, it is slightly abridged.
Marco Bozzaris
At midnight, in his guarded tent,The Turk was dreaming of the hourWhen Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,Should tremble at his power:In dreams, through camp and court, he boreThe trophies of a conqueror;In dreams his song of triumph heard;Then wore his monarch's signet ring:Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king;As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,As Eden's garden bird.At midnight, in the forest shades,Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,True as the steel of their tried blades,Heroes in heart and hand.There had the Persian's thousands stood,There had the glad earth drunk their bloodOn old Platæa's day;And now there breathed that haunted airThe sons of sires who conquered there,With arm to strike and soul to dare,As quick, as far as they.
At midnight, in his guarded tent,The Turk was dreaming of the hourWhen Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,Should tremble at his power:In dreams, through camp and court, he boreThe trophies of a conqueror;In dreams his song of triumph heard;Then wore his monarch's signet ring:Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king;As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,As Eden's garden bird.
At midnight, in the forest shades,Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,True as the steel of their tried blades,Heroes in heart and hand.There had the Persian's thousands stood,There had the glad earth drunk their bloodOn old Platæa's day;And now there breathed that haunted airThe sons of sires who conquered there,With arm to strike and soul to dare,As quick, as far as they.
An hour passed on—the Turk awoke;That bright dream was his last;He woke—to hear his sentries shriek,"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"He woke—to die midst flame, and smoke,And shout, and groan, and saber stroke,And death shots falling thick and fastAs lightnings from the mountain cloud;And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,Bozzaris cheer his band:"Strike—till the last armed foe expires;Strike—for your altars and your fires;Strike—for the green graves of your sires;God—and your native land!"They fought—like brave men, long and well;They piled that ground with Moslem slain,They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,Bleeding at every vein.His few surviving comrades sawHis smile when rang their proud hurrah,And the red field was won;Then saw in death his eyelids closeCalmly, as to a night's repose,Like flowers at set of sun.Bozzaris! with the storied braveGreece nurtured in her glory's time,Rest thee—there is no prouder grave,Even in her own proud clime.She wore no funeral weeds for thee,Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plumeLike torn branch from death's leafless treeIn sorrow's pomp and pageantry,The heartless luxury of the tomb;But she remembers thee as oneLong-loved and for a season gone.For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,Her marble wrought, her music breathed;For thee she rings the birthday bells;Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;For thine her evening prayer is saidAt palace couch and cottage-bed....And she, the mother of thy boys,Though in her eye and faded cheekIs read the grief she will not speak,The memory of her buried joys,And even she who gave thee birth,Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,Talk of thy doom without a sigh;For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's:One of the few, the immortal names,That were not born to die.
An hour passed on—the Turk awoke;That bright dream was his last;He woke—to hear his sentries shriek,"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"He woke—to die midst flame, and smoke,And shout, and groan, and saber stroke,And death shots falling thick and fastAs lightnings from the mountain cloud;And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,Bozzaris cheer his band:"Strike—till the last armed foe expires;Strike—for your altars and your fires;Strike—for the green graves of your sires;God—and your native land!"
They fought—like brave men, long and well;They piled that ground with Moslem slain,They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,Bleeding at every vein.His few surviving comrades sawHis smile when rang their proud hurrah,And the red field was won;Then saw in death his eyelids closeCalmly, as to a night's repose,Like flowers at set of sun.
Bozzaris! with the storied braveGreece nurtured in her glory's time,Rest thee—there is no prouder grave,Even in her own proud clime.She wore no funeral weeds for thee,Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plumeLike torn branch from death's leafless treeIn sorrow's pomp and pageantry,The heartless luxury of the tomb;But she remembers thee as oneLong-loved and for a season gone.For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,Her marble wrought, her music breathed;For thee she rings the birthday bells;Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;For thine her evening prayer is saidAt palace couch and cottage-bed....And she, the mother of thy boys,Though in her eye and faded cheekIs read the grief she will not speak,The memory of her buried joys,And even she who gave thee birth,Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,Talk of thy doom without a sigh;For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's:One of the few, the immortal names,That were not born to die.
Expression: Talk with your teacher about these three poems, and the proper manner of reading each. Learn all that you can about their authors.
Expression: Talk with your teacher about these three poems, and the proper manner of reading each. Learn all that you can about their authors.
Think of the country for which the Indians fought! Who can blame them? As Philip looked down from his seat on Mount Hope and beheld the lovely scene which spread beneath at a summer sunset,—the distant hilltops blazing with gold, the slanting beams streaming across the waters, the broad plains, the island groups, the majestic forests,—could he be blamed, if his heart burned within him, as he beheld it all passing, by no tardy process, from beneath his control, into the hands of the stranger?
As the river chieftains—the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains—ranged this lovely valley, can it be wondered at, if they beheld with bitterness the forest disappearing beneath the settler's ax—the fishing places disturbed by his sawmills?
Can we not imagine the feelings, with which some strong-minded savage chief, who should have ascended the summit of the Sugarloaf Mountain, in company with a friendly settler, contemplating the progress already made by the white man and marking the gigantic strides with which he was advancing into the wilderness, should fold his arms, and say:—
"White man, there is an eternal war between me and thee. I quit not the land of my fathers, but with my life. In those woods where I bent my youthful bow, I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will still glide unrestrained in my bark canoe; by those dashing waterfalls I will still lay up my winter's store of food; on these fertile meadows I will still plant my corn.
"Stranger! the land is mine. I understand not these paper rights. I gave not my consent, when, as thou sayest, these broad regions were purchased, for a few baubles, of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my father sell that which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon? He knew not what he did.
"The stranger came, a timid suppliant; he asked to lie down on the red man's bearskin, and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for his women and children. Now he is become strong and mighty and bold, and spreads out his parchment over the whole, and says, 'It is mine!'
"Stranger, there is no room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison in the white man's cup; the white man's dog barks at the red man's heels.
"If I should leave the land of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the west? The fierce Mohawk—the man-eater—is my foe. Shall I fly to the east? The great water is before me. No, stranger! Here have I lived, and here will I die; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee.
"Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction; for that alone I thank thee. And now take heed to thy steps—the red man is thy foe.
"When thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle past thee. When thou liest down by night, my knife shall be at thy throat. The noonday sun shall not discover thy enemy; and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood. Thou shalt sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes. Thou shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalping knife. Thou shalt build, and I will burn—till the white man or the Indian perish from the land."
FOOTNOTE:[53]By Edward Everett, an American statesman and orator (1794-1865).
[53]By Edward Everett, an American statesman and orator (1794-1865).
[53]By Edward Everett, an American statesman and orator (1794-1865).
Expression: This selection and also the selections on pages202,209, and231are fine examples of American oratory, such as was practiced by the statesmen and public speakers of the earlier years of our republic. Learn all that you can about Patrick Henry, Daniel Webster, Edward Everett, Theodore Parker, and other eminent orators. Before attempting to read this selection aloud, read it silently and try to understand every statement or allusion contained in it. Call to mind all that you have learned in your histories or elsewhere concerning the Indians and their treatment by the American colonists. Now read with energy and feeling each paragraph of this extract from Mr. Everett's oration. Try to make your hearers understand and appreciate the feelings which are expressed.
Expression: This selection and also the selections on pages202,209, and231are fine examples of American oratory, such as was practiced by the statesmen and public speakers of the earlier years of our republic. Learn all that you can about Patrick Henry, Daniel Webster, Edward Everett, Theodore Parker, and other eminent orators. Before attempting to read this selection aloud, read it silently and try to understand every statement or allusion contained in it. Call to mind all that you have learned in your histories or elsewhere concerning the Indians and their treatment by the American colonists. Now read with energy and feeling each paragraph of this extract from Mr. Everett's oration. Try to make your hearers understand and appreciate the feelings which are expressed.
Do you know how empires find their end?
Yes. The great states eat up the little. As with fish, so with nations.
Come with me! Let us bring up the awful shadows of empires buried long ago, and learn a lesson from the tomb.
Come, old Assyria, with the Ninevitish dove upon thy emerald crown! What laid thee low?
Assyria answers: "I fell by my own injustice. Thereby Nineveh and Babylon came with me to the ground."
O queenly Persia, flame of the nations! Wherefore art thou so fallen? thou who trod the people under thee, bridged the Hellespont with ships, and poured thy temple-wasting millions on the western world?
Persia answers: "Because I trod the people under me, because I bridged the Hellespont with ships, and poured my temple-wasting millions on the western world, I fell by my own misdeeds!"
And thou, muselike Grecian queen, fairest of all thy classic sisterhood of states, enchanting yet the world with thy sweet witchery, speaking in art, and most seductive in song, why liest thou there with thy beauteous yet dishonored brow reposing on thy broken harp?
Greece answers: "I loved the loveliness of flesh, embalmed in Parian stone. I loved the loveliness of thought, and treasured that more than Parian speech. But the beauty of justice, the loveliness of love, I trod down to earth. Lo! therefore have I become as those barbarian states, and one of them."
O manly, majestic Rome, with thy sevenfold mural crown all broken at thy feet, why art thou here? 'Twas not injustice brought thee low, for thy great Book of Law is prefaced with these words, "Justice is the unchanging, everlasting will to give each man his right." It was not the saint's ideal. It was the hypocrite's pretense.
And Rome says: "I made iniquity my law! I trod the nations under me! Their wealth gilded my palaces, where now thou mayst see the fox and hear the owl. Wicked men were my cabinet counselors. The flatterer breathed his poison in my ear. Millions of bondmen wet the soil with tears and blood! Do you not hear it crying yet to God? Lo here have I my recompense, tormented with such downfalls as you see.
"Go back and tell the newborn child who sitteth on the Alleghanies, laying his either hand upon a tributary sea,—tell him there are rights which States must keep, or they shall suffer punishment. Tell him there is a God who hurls to earth the loftiest realm that breaks his just, eternal law. Warn the young empire, that he come not down, dim and dishonored, to my shameful tomb. Tell him that Justice is the unchanging, everlasting will, to give each man his right. I knew this law. I broke it. Bid him keep it, and be forever safe."
FOOTNOTE:[54]By Theodore Parker, an eminent American clergyman and author (1810-1860).
[54]By Theodore Parker, an eminent American clergyman and author (1810-1860).
[54]By Theodore Parker, an eminent American clergyman and author (1810-1860).
And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him.
And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying:
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.
Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.
Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savor, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.
Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven....
Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: but I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also. And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain. Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away.
Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.
FOOTNOTE:[55]From the Gospel of Matthew.
[55]From the Gospel of Matthew.
[55]From the Gospel of Matthew.
It is not growing like a treeIn bulk doth make man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear.A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night,—It was the plant and flower of light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures life may perfect be.
It is not growing like a treeIn bulk doth make man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear.A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night,—It was the plant and flower of light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures life may perfect be.
I weigh not fortune's frown or smile;I joy not much in earthly joys;I seek not state, I seek not style;I am not fond of fancy's toys;I rest so pleased with what I have,I wish no more, no more I crave.I quake not at the thunder's crack;I tremble not at noise of war;I swound not at the news of wrack;I shrink not at a blazing star;I fear not loss, I hope not gain,I envy none, I none disdain.I feign not friendship, where I hate;I fawn not on the great in show;I prize, I praise a mean estate—Neither too lofty nor too low;This, this is all my choice, my cheer—A mind content, a conscience clear.
I weigh not fortune's frown or smile;I joy not much in earthly joys;I seek not state, I seek not style;I am not fond of fancy's toys;I rest so pleased with what I have,I wish no more, no more I crave.
I quake not at the thunder's crack;I tremble not at noise of war;I swound not at the news of wrack;I shrink not at a blazing star;I fear not loss, I hope not gain,I envy none, I none disdain.
I feign not friendship, where I hate;I fawn not on the great in show;I prize, I praise a mean estate—Neither too lofty nor too low;This, this is all my choice, my cheer—A mind content, a conscience clear.
How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armor is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill;Whose passions not his masters are,Whose soul is still prepared for death,Not tied unto the world with careOf public fame, or private breath;Who envies none that chance doth raise,Nor vice; who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given by praise;Nor rules of state, but rules of good.This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands,And having nothing, yet hath all.
How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armor is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill;
Whose passions not his masters are,Whose soul is still prepared for death,Not tied unto the world with careOf public fame, or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,Nor vice; who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given by praise;Nor rules of state, but rules of good.
This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands,And having nothing, yet hath all.
Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native airIn his own ground.Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,Whose flocks supply him with attire;Whose trees in summer yield him shade,In winter, fire.Blest, who can unconcern'dly findHours, days, and years slide soft awayIn health of body, peace of mind,Quiet by day,Sound sleep by night; study and easeTogether mixt, sweet recreation,And innocence, which most does pleaseWith meditation.Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;Thus unlamented let me die;Steal from the world, and not a stoneTell where I lie.
Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native airIn his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,Whose flocks supply him with attire;Whose trees in summer yield him shade,In winter, fire.
Blest, who can unconcern'dly findHours, days, and years slide soft awayIn health of body, peace of mind,Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and easeTogether mixt, sweet recreation,And innocence, which most does pleaseWith meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;Thus unlamented let me die;Steal from the world, and not a stoneTell where I lie.
Mine be a cot beside the hill;A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear;A willowy brook that turns a millWith many a fall shall linger near.The swallow, oft, beneath my thatchShall twitter from her clay-built nest;Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,And share my meal, a welcome guest.Around my ivied porch shall springEach fragrant flower that drinks the dew;And Lucy, at her wheel, shall singIn russet gown and apron blue.The village church among the trees,Where first our marriage vows were given,With merry peals shall swell the breezeAnd point with taper spire to Heaven.
Mine be a cot beside the hill;A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear;A willowy brook that turns a millWith many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatchShall twitter from her clay-built nest;Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall springEach fragrant flower that drinks the dew;And Lucy, at her wheel, shall singIn russet gown and apron blue.
The village church among the trees,Where first our marriage vows were given,With merry peals shall swell the breezeAnd point with taper spire to Heaven.
FOOTNOTES:[56]By Ben Jonson (1573-1637).[57]By Joshua Sylvester (1563-1618).[58]By Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1639).[59]By Alexander Pope (1688-1744).[60]By Samuel Rogers (1763-1855).
[56]By Ben Jonson (1573-1637).
[56]By Ben Jonson (1573-1637).
[57]By Joshua Sylvester (1563-1618).
[57]By Joshua Sylvester (1563-1618).
[58]By Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1639).
[58]By Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1639).
[59]By Alexander Pope (1688-1744).
[59]By Alexander Pope (1688-1744).
[60]By Samuel Rogers (1763-1855).
[60]By Samuel Rogers (1763-1855).
Expression: Which of these poems do you like best? Give reasons for your preference. What sentiment is emphasized by all of them? What other pleasant ideas of life are expressed? What mental pictures are called up by reading the fourth poem? the fifth? What traits of character are alluded to in the first poem? the second? Now read each poem aloud, giving to each line and each stanza the thought which was in the author's mind when he wrote it.
Expression: Which of these poems do you like best? Give reasons for your preference. What sentiment is emphasized by all of them? What other pleasant ideas of life are expressed? What mental pictures are called up by reading the fourth poem? the fifth? What traits of character are alluded to in the first poem? the second? Now read each poem aloud, giving to each line and each stanza the thought which was in the author's mind when he wrote it.
One day at sunset, Snowbird, the young son of a king, came over the brow of a hill that stepped forward from a dark company of mountains and leaned over the shoreless sea which fills the West and drowns the North. All day he had been wandering alone, his mind heavy with wonder over many things. He had heard strange tales of late, tales about his heroic father and the royal clan, and how they were not like other men, but half divine. He had heard, too, of his own destiny,—that he also was to be a great king. What was Destiny, he wondered....
Then, as he wondered, he turned over and over in his mind all the names he could think of that he might choose for his own; for the time was come for him to put away the name of his childhood and to take on that by which he should be known among men.
He came over the brow of the hill, and out of the way of the mountain wind, and, being tired, lay down among the heather and stared across the gray wilderness of the sea. The sun set, and the invisible throwers of the nets trailed darkness across the waves and up the wild shores and over the faces of the cliffs. Stars climbed out of shadowy abysses, and the great chariots of the constellations rode from the West to the East and from the North to the South.
His eyes closed, ... but when he opened them again, he saw a great and kingly figure standing beside him. So great in stature, so splendid in kingly beauty, was the mysterious one who had so silently joined him, that he thought this must be one of the gods.
"Do you know me, my son?" said the kingly stranger.
The boy looked at him in awe and wonder, but unrecognizingly.
"Do you not know me, my son?" he heard again ... "for I am your father, Pendragon. But my home is yonder, and that is why I have come to you as a vision in a dream ..." and, as he spoke, he pointed to the constellation of theArth, or Bear, which nightly prowls through the vast abysses of the polar sky.
When the boy turned his gaze from the great constellation which hung in the dark wilderness overhead, he saw that he was alone again. While he yet wondered in great awe at what he had seen and heard, he felt himself float like a mist and become like a cloud, rise beyond the brows of the hills, and ascend the invisible stairways of the sky....
It seemed to him thereafter that a swoon came over him, in which he passed beyond the far-off blazing fires of strange stars. At last, suddenly, he stood on the verge ofArth,Arth Uthyr, the Great Bear. There he saw, with the vision of immortal, not of mortal, eyes, a company of most noble and majestic figures seated at what he thought a circular abyss, but which had the semblance of a vast table. Each of these seven great knights or lordly kings had a star upon his forehead, and these were stars of the mighty constellation of the Bear which the boy had seen night after night from his home among the mountains by the sea.
It was with a burning throb at his heart that he recognized in the King of all these kings no other than himself.
While he looked, in amazement so great that he could hear the pulse of his heart, as in the silence of a wood one hears the tapping of a woodpecker, he saw this mighty phantom self rise till he stood towering over all there, and heard a voice as though an ocean rose and fell through the eternal silences.
"Comrades in God," it said, "the time is come when that which is great shall become small."
And when the voice was ended, the mighty figure faded in the blue darkness, and only a great star shone where the uplifted dragon helm had brushed the roof of heaven. One by one the white lords of the sky followed in his mysterious way, till once more were to be seen only the stars of the Bear.
The boy dreamed that he fell as a falling meteor, and that he floated over land and sea as a cloud, and then that he sank as mist upon the hills of his own land.
A noise of wind stirred in his ears. He rose stumblingly, and stood, staring around him. He glanced upward and saw the stars of the Great Bear in their slow march round the Pole.... Then he remembered.
He went slowly down the hill, his mind heavy with thought. When he was come to his own place, lo! all the fierce chivalry of the land came out to meet him; for the archdruid had foretold that the great King to be had received his mystic initiation among the holy silences of the hills.
"I am no more Snowbird, the child," the boy said, looking at them fearless and as though already King. "Henceforth I am Arth-Urthyr,[62]for my place is in the Great Bear which we see yonder in the north."
So all there acclaimed him as Arthur, the wondrous one of the stars, the Great Bear.
"I am old," said his father, "and soon you shall be King, Arthur, my son. So ask now a great boon of me and it shall be granted to you."
Then Arthur remembered his dream.
"Father and King," he said, "when I am King after you, I shall make a new order of knights, who shall be pure as the Immortal Ones, and be tender as women, and simple as little children. But first I ask of you seven flawless knights to be of my chosen company. To-morrow let the wood wrights make for me a round table, such as that where we eat our roasted meats, but round and of a size whereat I and my chosen knights may sit at ease."
The king listened, and all there.
"So be it," said the king.
Then Arthur chose the seven flawless knights, and called them to him. "Ye are now Children of the Great Bear," he said, "and comrades and liegemen to me, Arthur, who shall be King of the West.
"And ye shall be known as the Knights of the Round Table. But no man shall make a mock of that name and live: and in the end that name shall be so great in the mouths and minds of men that they shall consider no glory of the world to be so great as to be the youngest and frailest of that knighthood."
And that is how Arthur, who three years later became King of the West, read the rune of the stars that are called the Great Bear, and took their name upon him, and from the strongest and purest and noblest of the land made Knighthood, such as the world had not seen, such as the world since has not seen.
FOOTNOTES:[61]A Gaelic legend, by Fiona Macleod.[62]PronouncedArth-Ur. In the ancient British language,Arthmeans Bear, andUrthyr, great, wondrous.
[61]A Gaelic legend, by Fiona Macleod.
[61]A Gaelic legend, by Fiona Macleod.
[62]PronouncedArth-Ur. In the ancient British language,Arthmeans Bear, andUrthyr, great, wondrous.
[62]PronouncedArth-Ur. In the ancient British language,Arthmeans Bear, andUrthyr, great, wondrous.
Expression: Read this selection very carefully to get at the true meaning of each sentence and each thought. What peculiarities do you notice in the style of the language employed? Talk about King Arthur, and tell what you have learned elsewhere about him and his knights of the Round Table. In what respects does this legend differ from some other accounts of his boyhood? Now reread the selection, picturing in your mind the peculiarities of place and time.
Expression: Read this selection very carefully to get at the true meaning of each sentence and each thought. What peculiarities do you notice in the style of the language employed? Talk about King Arthur, and tell what you have learned elsewhere about him and his knights of the Round Table. In what respects does this legend differ from some other accounts of his boyhood? Now reread the selection, picturing in your mind the peculiarities of place and time.
Antony.Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears:I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.The evil that men do lives after them;The good is oft interrèd with their bones;So let it be with Cæsar. The noble BrutusHath told you Cæsar was ambitious:If it were so, it was a grievous fault,And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest—For Brutus is an honorable man;So are they all, all honorable men—Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.He was my friend, faithful and just to me;But Brutus says he was ambitious,And Brutus is an honorable man.He hath brought many captives home to Rome,Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill;Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept;Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,And Brutus is an honorable man.You all did see, that on the Lupercal,I thrice presented him a kingly crown,Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,And, sure, he is an honorable man.I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,But here I am to speak what I do know.You all did love him once, not without cause;What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,And men have lost their reason.—Bear with me;My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,And I must pause till it come back to me.But yesterday the word of Cæsar mightHave stood against the world; now lies he there,And none so poor to do him reverence.O masters! If I were disposed to stirYour hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,I should do Brutus wrong and Cassius wrong,Who, you all know, are honorable men.I will not do them wrong; I rather chooseTo wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,Than I will wrong such honorable men.But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar,I found it in his closet; 'tis his will.Let but the commons hear this testament,—Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,—And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds,And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,And, dying, mention it within their wills,Bequeathing it as a rich legacyUnto their issue.Citizen.We'll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony.All.The will, the will! we will hear Cæsar's will.Ant.Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;It is not meet you know how Cæsar loved you.You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar,It will inflame you, it will make you mad.'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;For, if you should, oh, what would come of it!Cit.Read the will! we'll hear it, Antony!You shall read the will! Cæsar's will!Ant.Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile?I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it.I fear I wrong the honorable menWhose daggers have stabbed Cæsar. I do fear it.Cit.They were traitors! honorable men!All.The will! the testament!Ant.You will compel me, then, to read the will?Then make a ring about the corpse of Cæsar,And let me show you him that made the will.Shall I descend? And will you give me leave?All.Come down.2 Citizen.Descend. You shall have leave.
Antony.Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears:I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.The evil that men do lives after them;The good is oft interrèd with their bones;So let it be with Cæsar. The noble BrutusHath told you Cæsar was ambitious:If it were so, it was a grievous fault,And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest—For Brutus is an honorable man;So are they all, all honorable men—Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.He was my friend, faithful and just to me;But Brutus says he was ambitious,And Brutus is an honorable man.He hath brought many captives home to Rome,Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill;Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept;Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,And Brutus is an honorable man.You all did see, that on the Lupercal,I thrice presented him a kingly crown,Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,And, sure, he is an honorable man.I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,But here I am to speak what I do know.You all did love him once, not without cause;What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,And men have lost their reason.—Bear with me;My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,And I must pause till it come back to me.
But yesterday the word of Cæsar mightHave stood against the world; now lies he there,And none so poor to do him reverence.O masters! If I were disposed to stirYour hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,I should do Brutus wrong and Cassius wrong,Who, you all know, are honorable men.I will not do them wrong; I rather chooseTo wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,Than I will wrong such honorable men.
But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar,I found it in his closet; 'tis his will.Let but the commons hear this testament,—Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,—And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds,And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,And, dying, mention it within their wills,Bequeathing it as a rich legacyUnto their issue.
Citizen.We'll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony.
All.The will, the will! we will hear Cæsar's will.
Ant.Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;It is not meet you know how Cæsar loved you.You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar,It will inflame you, it will make you mad.'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;For, if you should, oh, what would come of it!
Cit.Read the will! we'll hear it, Antony!You shall read the will! Cæsar's will!
Ant.Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile?I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it.I fear I wrong the honorable menWhose daggers have stabbed Cæsar. I do fear it.
Cit.They were traitors! honorable men!
All.The will! the testament!
Ant.You will compel me, then, to read the will?Then make a ring about the corpse of Cæsar,And let me show you him that made the will.Shall I descend? And will you give me leave?
All.Come down.
2 Citizen.Descend. You shall have leave.