Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!Parents first season us; then schoolmastersDeliver us to laws; they send us boundTo rules of reason, holy messengers,Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,The sound of glory ringing in our ears;Without, our shame; within, our consciences;Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.Yet all these fences and their whole arrayOne cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.
Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!Parents first season us; then schoolmastersDeliver us to laws; they send us boundTo rules of reason, holy messengers,Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,The sound of glory ringing in our ears;Without, our shame; within, our consciences;Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.Yet all these fences and their whole arrayOne cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.
(George Herbert:Sin. 1631.)
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire;The birds in vain their amorous descant join,Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.These ears, alas! for other notes repine,A different object do these eyes require;My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine,And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;To warm their little loves the birds complain;I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,And weep the more because I weep in vain.
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire;The birds in vain their amorous descant join,Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.These ears, alas! for other notes repine,A different object do these eyes require;My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine,And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;To warm their little loves the birds complain;I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,And weep the more because I weep in vain.
(Gray:On the Death of Richard West. 1742.)
On the place of this sonnet in the eighteenth century, see p.277, above.
Oh it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,To make the shifting clouds be what you please,Or let the easily-persuaded eyesOwn each quaint likeness issuing from the mouldOf a friend's fancy; or, with head bent lowAnd cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold'Twixt crimson bank; and then, a traveler, goFrom mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land!Or listening to the tide, with closed sight,Be that blind bard who, on the Chian strandBy those deep sounds possessed with inward light,Beheld the Iliad and the OdysseeRise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.
Oh it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,To make the shifting clouds be what you please,Or let the easily-persuaded eyesOwn each quaint likeness issuing from the mouldOf a friend's fancy; or, with head bent lowAnd cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold'Twixt crimson bank; and then, a traveler, goFrom mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land!Or listening to the tide, with closed sight,Be that blind bard who, on the Chian strandBy those deep sounds possessed with inward light,Beheld the Iliad and the OdysseeRise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.
(Coleridge:Fancy in Nubibus. 1819.)
The sonnets of Coleridge, as has already been noted, were written under the influence of those of Bowles, and are not of the Italian type. He defined the sonnet as "a short poem in which some lonely feeling is developed," thus emphasizing, like Wordsworth, the idea of unity rather than of progressive structure.
Darkly, as by some gloomed mirror glassed,Herein at times the brooding eye beholdsThe great scarred visage of the pompous Past,But oftener only the embroidered foldsAnd soiled regality of his rent robe,Whose tattered skirts are ruined dynastiesAnd cumber with their trailing pride the globe,And sweep the dusty ages in our eyes;Till the world seems a world of husks and bonesWhere sightless Seers and Immortals dead,Kings that remember not their awful thrones,Invincible armies long since vanquished,And powerless potentates and foolish sagesLie 'mid the crumbling of the mossy ages.
Darkly, as by some gloomed mirror glassed,Herein at times the brooding eye beholdsThe great scarred visage of the pompous Past,But oftener only the embroidered foldsAnd soiled regality of his rent robe,Whose tattered skirts are ruined dynastiesAnd cumber with their trailing pride the globe,And sweep the dusty ages in our eyes;Till the world seems a world of husks and bonesWhere sightless Seers and Immortals dead,Kings that remember not their awful thrones,Invincible armies long since vanquished,And powerless potentates and foolish sagesLie 'mid the crumbling of the mossy ages.
(William Watson:History.)
FOOTNOTES:[35]It will perhaps be found of interest to reproduce the "Ten Commandments of the Sonnet" given by Mr. Sharp in his Introduction toSonnets of this Century(p. lxxviii):"1. The sonnet must consist of fourteen decasyllabic lines."2. Its octave, or major system, whether or not this be marked by a pause in the cadence after the eighth line, must (unless cast in the Shakespearian mould) follow a prescribed arrangement in the rhyme-sounds—namely, the first, fourth, fifth, and eighth lines must rhyme on the same sound, and the second, third, sixth, and seventh on another."3. Its sestet, or minor system, may be arranged with more freedom, but a rhymed couplet at the close is only allowable when the form is the English or Shakespearian."4. No terminal should also occur in any other portion of any other line in the same system; and the rhyme-sounds (1) of the octave should be harmoniously at variance, and (2) the rhyme-sounds of the sestet should be entirely distinct in intonation from those of the octave...."5. It must have no slovenliness of diction, no weak or indeterminate terminations, no vagueness of conception, and no obscurity."6. It must be absolutely complete in itself—i.e., it must be the evolution of one thought, or one emotion, or one poetically apprehended fact."7. It should have the characteristic of apparent inevitableness, and in expression be ample, yet reticent...."8. The continuity of the thought, idea, or emotion must be unbroken throughout."9. Continuous sonority must be maintained from the first phrase to the last."10. The end must be more impressive than the commencement."These rules of course represent the ideal of the strictest Italian form, and are by no means derived from the prevailing practice of English poets.[36]On the structure and history of the sonnet, see Schipper, as cited above; C. Tomlinson:The Sonnet, its Origin, Structure, and Place in Poetry(1874); K. Lentzner:Ueber das Sonett und seine Gestaltung in der englischen Dichtung bis Milton(1886); Leigh Hunt and S. A. Lee:The Book of the Sonnet(with introductory essay, 1867); W. Sharp:Sonnets of This Century(with essay, 1886); S. Waddington:English Sonnets by Poets of the Past, andEnglish Sonnets by Living Poets; Hall Caine:Sonnets of Three Centuries(1882); H. Corson:Primer of English Verse, chap. x.[37]In 1575, when Gascoigne wrote hisNotes of Instruction, he found it necessary to say: "Some thinke that all Poemes (being short) may be called Sonets, as in deede it is a diminutive worde derived ofSonare, but yet I can beste allowe to call those Sonnets whiche are of fouretene lynes, every line conteyning tenne syllables. The firste twelve do ryme in staves of foure lines by crosse meetre, and the last two ryming togither do conclude the whole." (Arber's Reprint, pp. 38, 39.) It is, of course, the English sonnet which Gascoigne thus describes.[38]Shakspere also introduced sonnets into some of his earlier plays:Love's Labor's Lost,All's Well that Ends Well,Romeo and Juliet, andHenry V.See Fleay'sChronicle of the English Drama, vol. ii. p. 224, and Schelling'sElizabethan Lyrics, p. xxx.
[35]It will perhaps be found of interest to reproduce the "Ten Commandments of the Sonnet" given by Mr. Sharp in his Introduction toSonnets of this Century(p. lxxviii):"1. The sonnet must consist of fourteen decasyllabic lines."2. Its octave, or major system, whether or not this be marked by a pause in the cadence after the eighth line, must (unless cast in the Shakespearian mould) follow a prescribed arrangement in the rhyme-sounds—namely, the first, fourth, fifth, and eighth lines must rhyme on the same sound, and the second, third, sixth, and seventh on another."3. Its sestet, or minor system, may be arranged with more freedom, but a rhymed couplet at the close is only allowable when the form is the English or Shakespearian."4. No terminal should also occur in any other portion of any other line in the same system; and the rhyme-sounds (1) of the octave should be harmoniously at variance, and (2) the rhyme-sounds of the sestet should be entirely distinct in intonation from those of the octave...."5. It must have no slovenliness of diction, no weak or indeterminate terminations, no vagueness of conception, and no obscurity."6. It must be absolutely complete in itself—i.e., it must be the evolution of one thought, or one emotion, or one poetically apprehended fact."7. It should have the characteristic of apparent inevitableness, and in expression be ample, yet reticent...."8. The continuity of the thought, idea, or emotion must be unbroken throughout."9. Continuous sonority must be maintained from the first phrase to the last."10. The end must be more impressive than the commencement."These rules of course represent the ideal of the strictest Italian form, and are by no means derived from the prevailing practice of English poets.
[35]It will perhaps be found of interest to reproduce the "Ten Commandments of the Sonnet" given by Mr. Sharp in his Introduction toSonnets of this Century(p. lxxviii):
"1. The sonnet must consist of fourteen decasyllabic lines.
"2. Its octave, or major system, whether or not this be marked by a pause in the cadence after the eighth line, must (unless cast in the Shakespearian mould) follow a prescribed arrangement in the rhyme-sounds—namely, the first, fourth, fifth, and eighth lines must rhyme on the same sound, and the second, third, sixth, and seventh on another.
"3. Its sestet, or minor system, may be arranged with more freedom, but a rhymed couplet at the close is only allowable when the form is the English or Shakespearian.
"4. No terminal should also occur in any other portion of any other line in the same system; and the rhyme-sounds (1) of the octave should be harmoniously at variance, and (2) the rhyme-sounds of the sestet should be entirely distinct in intonation from those of the octave....
"5. It must have no slovenliness of diction, no weak or indeterminate terminations, no vagueness of conception, and no obscurity.
"6. It must be absolutely complete in itself—i.e., it must be the evolution of one thought, or one emotion, or one poetically apprehended fact.
"7. It should have the characteristic of apparent inevitableness, and in expression be ample, yet reticent....
"8. The continuity of the thought, idea, or emotion must be unbroken throughout.
"9. Continuous sonority must be maintained from the first phrase to the last.
"10. The end must be more impressive than the commencement."
These rules of course represent the ideal of the strictest Italian form, and are by no means derived from the prevailing practice of English poets.
[36]On the structure and history of the sonnet, see Schipper, as cited above; C. Tomlinson:The Sonnet, its Origin, Structure, and Place in Poetry(1874); K. Lentzner:Ueber das Sonett und seine Gestaltung in der englischen Dichtung bis Milton(1886); Leigh Hunt and S. A. Lee:The Book of the Sonnet(with introductory essay, 1867); W. Sharp:Sonnets of This Century(with essay, 1886); S. Waddington:English Sonnets by Poets of the Past, andEnglish Sonnets by Living Poets; Hall Caine:Sonnets of Three Centuries(1882); H. Corson:Primer of English Verse, chap. x.
[36]On the structure and history of the sonnet, see Schipper, as cited above; C. Tomlinson:The Sonnet, its Origin, Structure, and Place in Poetry(1874); K. Lentzner:Ueber das Sonett und seine Gestaltung in der englischen Dichtung bis Milton(1886); Leigh Hunt and S. A. Lee:The Book of the Sonnet(with introductory essay, 1867); W. Sharp:Sonnets of This Century(with essay, 1886); S. Waddington:English Sonnets by Poets of the Past, andEnglish Sonnets by Living Poets; Hall Caine:Sonnets of Three Centuries(1882); H. Corson:Primer of English Verse, chap. x.
[37]In 1575, when Gascoigne wrote hisNotes of Instruction, he found it necessary to say: "Some thinke that all Poemes (being short) may be called Sonets, as in deede it is a diminutive worde derived ofSonare, but yet I can beste allowe to call those Sonnets whiche are of fouretene lynes, every line conteyning tenne syllables. The firste twelve do ryme in staves of foure lines by crosse meetre, and the last two ryming togither do conclude the whole." (Arber's Reprint, pp. 38, 39.) It is, of course, the English sonnet which Gascoigne thus describes.
[37]In 1575, when Gascoigne wrote hisNotes of Instruction, he found it necessary to say: "Some thinke that all Poemes (being short) may be called Sonets, as in deede it is a diminutive worde derived ofSonare, but yet I can beste allowe to call those Sonnets whiche are of fouretene lynes, every line conteyning tenne syllables. The firste twelve do ryme in staves of foure lines by crosse meetre, and the last two ryming togither do conclude the whole." (Arber's Reprint, pp. 38, 39.) It is, of course, the English sonnet which Gascoigne thus describes.
[38]Shakspere also introduced sonnets into some of his earlier plays:Love's Labor's Lost,All's Well that Ends Well,Romeo and Juliet, andHenry V.See Fleay'sChronicle of the English Drama, vol. ii. p. 224, and Schelling'sElizabethan Lyrics, p. xxx.
[38]Shakspere also introduced sonnets into some of his earlier plays:Love's Labor's Lost,All's Well that Ends Well,Romeo and Juliet, andHenry V.See Fleay'sChronicle of the English Drama, vol. ii. p. 224, and Schelling'sElizabethan Lyrics, p. xxx.
The term Ode is used of English poetry with considerable vagueness. The Century Dictionary defines the word thus: "A lyric poem expressive of exalted or enthusiastic emotion, especially one of complex or irregular metrical form; originally and strictly, such a composition intended to be sung." Compare with this the definition of Mr. Gosse, in his collection ofEnglish Odes: "Any strain of enthusiastic and exalted lyrical verse, directed to a fixed purpose, and dealing progressively with one dignified theme."
Viewed from the purely metrical standpoint, English odes are commonly either (a) regular Pindaric odes, imitative of the structure of the Greek ode, or (b) irregular, so-called "Pindaric" or "Cowleyan" odes. A third group may be made of forms based on the imitation of the choral odes of the Greek drama. There is also a class of odes called "Horatian," made up of simple lyrical stanzas; the name "ode" is applied here only because of the content of the poem or because of resemblance to the so-called odes (properlycarminaor songs) of Horace, and since these Horatian odes show no metrical peculiarities they will not be represented here.[39]
The characteristic effect of the ode is produced by the varying lengths of lines employed, and the varying distances at which the rimes answer one another. This variety, in the hands of a master of verse, is capable of splendid effectiveness, but it gives dangerous license to the unskilled writer.
III.1The Strophe, or TurnIt is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make men 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 of flower and light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures life may perfect be.III.2The Antistrophe, or Counter-turnCall, noble Lucius, then for wine,And let thy looks with gladness shine;Accept this garland, plant it on thy head,And think, nay know, thy Morison's not dead.He leap'd the present age,Possess'd with holy rage,To see that bright eternal day;Of which we priests and poets saySuch truths as we expect for happy men:And there he lives with memory, and Ben.III.3The Epode, or StandJonson, who sung this of him, ere he went,Himself, to rest,Or taste a part of that full joy he meantTo have express'd,In this bright asterism!—Where it were friendship's schism,Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,To separate these twi-Lights, the Dioscuri;And keep the one half from his Harry.But fate doth so alternate the design,Whilst that in heaven, this light on earth must shine.
III.1The Strophe, or Turn
It is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make men 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 of flower and light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures life may perfect be.
III.2The Antistrophe, or Counter-turn
Call, noble Lucius, then for wine,And let thy looks with gladness shine;Accept this garland, plant it on thy head,And think, nay know, thy Morison's not dead.He leap'd the present age,Possess'd with holy rage,To see that bright eternal day;Of which we priests and poets saySuch truths as we expect for happy men:And there he lives with memory, and Ben.
III.3The Epode, or Stand
Jonson, who sung this of him, ere he went,Himself, to rest,Or taste a part of that full joy he meantTo have express'd,In this bright asterism!—Where it were friendship's schism,Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,To separate these twi-Lights, the Dioscuri;And keep the one half from his Harry.But fate doth so alternate the design,Whilst that in heaven, this light on earth must shine.
(Ben Jonson:A Pindaric Ode on the death of Sir H. Morison. 1629.)
This ode of Jonson's is apparently the earliest, and remained for a long time the only, notable English ode based on the strict structure of the Greek original. The Greek ode was commonly divided into the strophe, the antistrophe, and the epode; the strophe and antistrophe being identical in structure, though varying in different odes, and the epode being of different structure. Jonson therefore followed the classical form carefully, and introduced English terms to express the original three divisions.
Professor Bronson observes, in his Introduction to the Odes of Collins: "It is a commonplace that the Pindaric Ode in English is an artificial exotic, of slight native force, and unable to reproduce the effects of the Greek original. The reason is obvious. The Greek odes were accompanied by music and dancing, the singers moving to one side during the strophe, retracing their steps during the antistrophe, ... and standing still during the epode. The ear was thus helped by the eye, and the divisions of the ode were distinct and significant. But in an English Pindaric the elaborate correspondences and differences between strophe, antistrophe, and epode are lost upon most readers, and even the critical reader derives from them a pleasure intellectual rather than sensuous." (Edition of Collins, Athenæum Press Series, Introduction, pp. lxxiv, lxxv.)
I1Daughter of Memory, immortal Muse,Calliope, what poet wilt thou choose,Of Anna's name to sing?To whom wilt thou thy fire impart,Thy lyre, thy voice, and tuneful art,Whom raise sublime on thy ethereal wing,And consecrate with dews of thy Castalian spring?I2Without thy aid, the most aspiring mindMust flag beneath, to narrow flights confin'd,Striving to rise in vain;Nor e'er can hope with equal laysTo celebrate bright Virtue's praise.Thine aid obtain'd, even I, the humblest swain,May climb Pierian heights, and quit the lowly plain.I3High in the starry orb is hung,And next Alcides' guardian arm,That harp to which thy Orpheus sung,Who woods and rocks and winds could charm;That harp which on Cyllene's shady hill,When first the vocal shell was found,With more than mortal skillInventor Hermes taught to sound:Hermes on bright Latona's son,By sweet persuasion won,The wondrous work bestow'd;Latona's son, to thineIndulgent, gave the gift divine:A god the gift, a god th' invention show'd.
I1
Daughter of Memory, immortal Muse,Calliope, what poet wilt thou choose,Of Anna's name to sing?To whom wilt thou thy fire impart,Thy lyre, thy voice, and tuneful art,Whom raise sublime on thy ethereal wing,And consecrate with dews of thy Castalian spring?
I2
Without thy aid, the most aspiring mindMust flag beneath, to narrow flights confin'd,Striving to rise in vain;Nor e'er can hope with equal laysTo celebrate bright Virtue's praise.Thine aid obtain'd, even I, the humblest swain,May climb Pierian heights, and quit the lowly plain.
I3
High in the starry orb is hung,And next Alcides' guardian arm,That harp to which thy Orpheus sung,Who woods and rocks and winds could charm;That harp which on Cyllene's shady hill,When first the vocal shell was found,With more than mortal skillInventor Hermes taught to sound:Hermes on bright Latona's son,By sweet persuasion won,The wondrous work bestow'd;Latona's son, to thineIndulgent, gave the gift divine:A god the gift, a god th' invention show'd.
(Congreve:A Pindaric Ode on the victorious progress of her Majesty's Arms. 1706.)
To Congreve is due the credit for the revival of the regular ode in the eighteenth century, after it had been long forgotten by English poets. Meantime the irregular form, devised by Cowley, had become popular; and against the license of this Congreve protested in hisDiscourse on the Pindaric Ode, prefixed to his Ode of 1706. (See Mr. Gosse's Introduction toEnglish Odes, p. xvii., and hisLife of Congreve, p. 158.)
Congreve said in his Discourse: "The following ode is an attempt towards restoring the regularity of the ancient lyric poetry, which seems to be altogether forgotten, or unknown, by our English writers. There is nothing more frequent among us than a sort of poems entitled Pindaric Odes, pretending to be written in imitation of the manner and style of Pindar, and yet I do not know that there is to this day extant, in our language, one ode contrived after his model.... The character of these late Pindarics is a bundle of rambling incoherent thoughts, expressed in a like parcel of irregular stanzas, which also consist of such another complication of disproportioned, uncertain, and perplexed verses and rhymes.... On the contrary, there is nothing more regular than the odes of Pindar, both as to the exact observation of the measures and numbers of his stanzas and verses, and the perpetual coherence of his thoughts...."Though there be no necessity that our triumphal odes should consist of the three afore-mentioned stanzas, yet if the reader can observe that the great variation of the numbers in the third stanza (call it epode, or what you please) has a pleasing effect in the ode, and makes him return to the first and second stanzas with more appetite than he could do if always cloyed with the same quantities and measures, I cannot see why some use may not be made of Pindar's example, to the great improvement of the English ode. There is certainly a pleasure in beholding anything that has art and difficulty in the contrivance, especially if it appears so carefully executed that the difficulty does not show itself till it is sought for...."Having mentioned Mr. Cowley, it may very well be expected that something should be said of him, at a time when the imitation of Pindar is the theme of our discourse. But there is that great deference due to the memory, great parts, and learning, of that gentleman, that I think nothing should be objected to the latitude he has taken in his Pindaric odes. The beauty of his verses is an atonement for the irregularity of his stanzas.... Yet I must beg leave to add that I believe those irregular odes of Mr. Cowley may have been the principal, though innocent, occasion of so many deformed poems since, which, instead of being true pictures of Pindar, have (to use the Italian painters' term) been only caricatures of him."
Congreve said in his Discourse: "The following ode is an attempt towards restoring the regularity of the ancient lyric poetry, which seems to be altogether forgotten, or unknown, by our English writers. There is nothing more frequent among us than a sort of poems entitled Pindaric Odes, pretending to be written in imitation of the manner and style of Pindar, and yet I do not know that there is to this day extant, in our language, one ode contrived after his model.... The character of these late Pindarics is a bundle of rambling incoherent thoughts, expressed in a like parcel of irregular stanzas, which also consist of such another complication of disproportioned, uncertain, and perplexed verses and rhymes.... On the contrary, there is nothing more regular than the odes of Pindar, both as to the exact observation of the measures and numbers of his stanzas and verses, and the perpetual coherence of his thoughts....
"Though there be no necessity that our triumphal odes should consist of the three afore-mentioned stanzas, yet if the reader can observe that the great variation of the numbers in the third stanza (call it epode, or what you please) has a pleasing effect in the ode, and makes him return to the first and second stanzas with more appetite than he could do if always cloyed with the same quantities and measures, I cannot see why some use may not be made of Pindar's example, to the great improvement of the English ode. There is certainly a pleasure in beholding anything that has art and difficulty in the contrivance, especially if it appears so carefully executed that the difficulty does not show itself till it is sought for....
"Having mentioned Mr. Cowley, it may very well be expected that something should be said of him, at a time when the imitation of Pindar is the theme of our discourse. But there is that great deference due to the memory, great parts, and learning, of that gentleman, that I think nothing should be objected to the latitude he has taken in his Pindaric odes. The beauty of his verses is an atonement for the irregularity of his stanzas.... Yet I must beg leave to add that I believe those irregular odes of Mr. Cowley may have been the principal, though innocent, occasion of so many deformed poems since, which, instead of being true pictures of Pindar, have (to use the Italian painters' term) been only caricatures of him."
(Discourse on the Pindaric Ode, in Chalmers'sEnglish Poets, vol. x. p. 300.)
Who shall awake the Spartan fife,And call in solemn sounds to lifeThe youths whose locks divinely spreading,Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?What new Alcæus, fancy-blest,Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,At Wisdom's shrine awhile its flame concealing(What place so fit to seal a deed renowned?),Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing,It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound?O goddess, in that feeling hour,When most its sounds would court thy ears,Let not my shell's misguided powerE'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.No, Freedom, no, I will not tellHow Rome before thy weeping face,With heaviest sound, a giant statue, fell,Push'd by a wild and artless raceFrom off its wide ambitious base,When Time his Northern sons of spoil awoke,And all the blended work of strength and grace,With many a rude repeated stroke,And many a barb'rous yell, to thousand fragments broke....Beyond the measure vast of thought,The works the wizard Time has wrought!The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand;No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary,He pass'd with unwet feet thro' all our land.To the blown Baltic then, they say,The wild waves found another way,Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding;Till all the banded West at once 'gan rise,A wide wild storm ev'n Nature's self confounding,With'ring her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise.This pillar'd earth so firm and wide,By winds and inward labors torn,In thunders dread was push'd aside,And down the should'ring billows borne.And see, like gems, her laughing train,The little isles on every side!Mona, once hid from those who search the main,Where thousand elfin shapes abide,And Wight, who checks the west'ring tide;For thee consenting Heaven has each bestowed,A fair attendant on her sovereign pride.To thee this blest divorce she ow'd,For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last abode!
Who shall awake the Spartan fife,And call in solemn sounds to lifeThe youths whose locks divinely spreading,Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?What new Alcæus, fancy-blest,Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,At Wisdom's shrine awhile its flame concealing(What place so fit to seal a deed renowned?),Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing,It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound?O goddess, in that feeling hour,When most its sounds would court thy ears,Let not my shell's misguided powerE'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.No, Freedom, no, I will not tellHow Rome before thy weeping face,With heaviest sound, a giant statue, fell,Push'd by a wild and artless raceFrom off its wide ambitious base,When Time his Northern sons of spoil awoke,And all the blended work of strength and grace,With many a rude repeated stroke,And many a barb'rous yell, to thousand fragments broke....
Beyond the measure vast of thought,The works the wizard Time has wrought!The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand;No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary,He pass'd with unwet feet thro' all our land.To the blown Baltic then, they say,The wild waves found another way,Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding;Till all the banded West at once 'gan rise,A wide wild storm ev'n Nature's self confounding,With'ring her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise.This pillar'd earth so firm and wide,By winds and inward labors torn,In thunders dread was push'd aside,And down the should'ring billows borne.And see, like gems, her laughing train,The little isles on every side!Mona, once hid from those who search the main,Where thousand elfin shapes abide,And Wight, who checks the west'ring tide;For thee consenting Heaven has each bestowed,A fair attendant on her sovereign pride.To thee this blest divorce she ow'd,For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last abode!
(Collins:Ode to Liberty, strophe and antistrophe. 1746.)
This ode consists of strophe, epode, antistrophe, and second epode. The antistrophe corresponds metrically to the strophe, as usual; the epodes are in four-stress couplets. It was Collins's habit to place the epode between the strophe and antistrophe, perhaps, as Professor Bronson suggests, in order that it may produce "an impression of its own analogous to that of the Greek epode, namely, an impression of relief and repose." Mr. Bronson says further of Collins's odes: "Collins was less scholarly than Gray, but he was bolder and more original; and consciously or unconsciously he so constructed his odes that their organic parts stand out clearly distinct and produce effects analogous to those produced by the Greek ode. In brief, his method was, first, to make large divisions of the thought correspond to the large divisions of the form; and, second, to throw out into relief the complex strophe and antistrophe by contrasting them with a simple epode. The reader may not perceive the minute correspondences in form between strophe and antistrophe, but he can hardly fail to feel that the two answer to one another in a general way." (Athenæum Press edition of Collins, Introduction, p. lxxv.)
III1Far from the sun and summer-gale,In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,What time, where lucid Avon strayed,To him the mighty Mother did unveilHer awful face. The dauntless ChildStretched forth his little arms, and smiled.This pencil take (she said) whose colors clearRichly paint the vernal year;Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy!This can unlock the gates of Joy,Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.III2Nor second he, that rode sublimeUpon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,The secrets of th' Abyss to spy,He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time;The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,Where Angels tremble while they gaze,He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,Clos'd his eyes in endless night.Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous carWide o'er the fields of glory bearTwo coursers of ethereal race,With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.III3Hark, his hands the lyre explore!Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'erScatters from her pictured urnThoughts that breathe, and words that burn.But ah! 'tis heard no more—Oh! Lyre divine, what daring spiritWakes thee now? tho' he inheritNor the pride, nor ample pinion,That the Theban Eagle bearSailing with supreme dominionThro' the azure deep of air;Yet oft before his infant eyes would runSuch forms as glitter in the Muse's rayWith orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun;Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant wayBeyond the limits of a vulgar fate,Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.
III1
Far from the sun and summer-gale,In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,What time, where lucid Avon strayed,To him the mighty Mother did unveilHer awful face. The dauntless ChildStretched forth his little arms, and smiled.This pencil take (she said) whose colors clearRichly paint the vernal year;Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy!This can unlock the gates of Joy,Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.
III2
Nor second he, that rode sublimeUpon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,The secrets of th' Abyss to spy,He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time;The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,Where Angels tremble while they gaze,He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,Clos'd his eyes in endless night.Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous carWide o'er the fields of glory bearTwo coursers of ethereal race,With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.
III3
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'erScatters from her pictured urnThoughts that breathe, and words that burn.But ah! 'tis heard no more—Oh! Lyre divine, what daring spiritWakes thee now? tho' he inheritNor the pride, nor ample pinion,That the Theban Eagle bearSailing with supreme dominionThro' the azure deep of air;Yet oft before his infant eyes would runSuch forms as glitter in the Muse's rayWith orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun;Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant wayBeyond the limits of a vulgar fate,Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.
(Gray:The Progress of Poesy.1757.)
Gray'sProgress of Poesyis probably to be regarded as the chief of all English odes of the regular Pindaric form. Mr. Lowell said, indeed, that it "overflies all other English lyrics like an eagle."The Bardis in precisely the same form, and shows the same skill in the wielding of the intricately varying melodies of the lines of different length.
Whom thunder's dismal noise,And all that Prophets and Apostles louder spake,And all the creatures' plain conspiring voice,Could not, whilst they liv'd, awake,This mightier sound shall makeWhen dead t' arise,And open tombs, and open eyes,To the long sluggards of five thousand years.This mightier sound shall wake its hearers' ears.Then shall the scatter'd atoms crowding comeBack to their ancient home.Some from birds, from fishes some,Some from earth, and some from seas,Some from beasts, and some from trees.Some descend from clouds on high,Some from metals upwards fly,And where th' attending soul naked and shivering stands,Meet, salute, and join their hands,As dispers'd soldiers at the trumpet's callHaste to their colors all.Unhappy most, like tortur'd men,Their joints new set, to be new-rack'd again,To mountains they for shelter pray;The mountains shake, and run about no less confus'd than they.Stop, stop, my Muse! allay thy vig'rous heat,Kindled at a hint so great.Hold thy Pindaric Pegasus closely in,Which does to rage begin,And this steep hill would gallop up with violent course;'Tis an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse,Fierce, and unbroken yet,Impatient of the spur or bit;Now prances stately, and anon flies o'er the place;Disdains the servile law of any settled pace;Conscious and proud of his own natural force,'Twill no unskilful touch endure,But flings writer and reader too that sits not sure.
Whom thunder's dismal noise,And all that Prophets and Apostles louder spake,And all the creatures' plain conspiring voice,Could not, whilst they liv'd, awake,This mightier sound shall makeWhen dead t' arise,And open tombs, and open eyes,To the long sluggards of five thousand years.This mightier sound shall wake its hearers' ears.Then shall the scatter'd atoms crowding comeBack to their ancient home.Some from birds, from fishes some,Some from earth, and some from seas,Some from beasts, and some from trees.Some descend from clouds on high,Some from metals upwards fly,And where th' attending soul naked and shivering stands,Meet, salute, and join their hands,As dispers'd soldiers at the trumpet's callHaste to their colors all.Unhappy most, like tortur'd men,Their joints new set, to be new-rack'd again,To mountains they for shelter pray;The mountains shake, and run about no less confus'd than they.
Stop, stop, my Muse! allay thy vig'rous heat,Kindled at a hint so great.Hold thy Pindaric Pegasus closely in,Which does to rage begin,And this steep hill would gallop up with violent course;'Tis an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse,Fierce, and unbroken yet,Impatient of the spur or bit;Now prances stately, and anon flies o'er the place;Disdains the servile law of any settled pace;Conscious and proud of his own natural force,'Twill no unskilful touch endure,But flings writer and reader too that sits not sure.
(Cowley:The Resurrection, strophes iii. and iv. 1656).
Cowley, as has already appeared, introduced the irregular ode into English poetry, calling it "Pindaric" under a misapprehension of the real structure of the Greek odes. He published fifteen "Pindarique Odes" in 1656 (see the Preface to these, in Grosart's edition of his works, vol. ii. p. 4). The present specimen illustrates the really not unskilful use which Cowley made of the varying cadences of the form, and also sets forth—in the amusing concluding lines—his own idea of its difficulties.
Under the influence of Cowley's odes, the new form speedily became popular. According to Dr. Johnson, "this lax and lawless versification so much concealed the deficiencies of the barren, and flattered the laziness of the idle, that it immediately over-spread our books of poetry; all the boys and girls caught the pleasing fashion, and they who could do nothing else could write like Pindar." (Life of Cowley.) Compare also the remarks of Mr. Gosse: "Until the days of Collins and Gray, the ode modelled upon Cowley was not only the universal medium for congratulatory lyrics and pompous occasional pieces, but it was almost the only variety permitted to the melancholy generations over whom the heroic couplet reigned supreme." (Seventeenth Century Studies, p. 216.)
It has been the habit of modern critics to treat the irregularities of the Cowleyan ode with no little contempt, and it is undoubtedly true that in the hands of small poets its liberties are dangerous; but it is also true that some of the greatest modern poets have adopted the form for some of their best work, and that they have generally preferred it to that of the regular Pindaric ode.
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,To raise the nations under ground;When in the valley of JehoshaphatThe judging God shall close the book of Fate,And there the last assizes keepFor those who wake and those who sleep;When rattling bones together flyFrom the four corners of the sky;When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead;The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,And foremost from the tomb shall bound,For they are covered with the lightest ground;And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing,Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shalt go,As harbinger of heaven, the way to show,The way which thou so well hast learn'd below.
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,To raise the nations under ground;When in the valley of JehoshaphatThe judging God shall close the book of Fate,And there the last assizes keepFor those who wake and those who sleep;When rattling bones together flyFrom the four corners of the sky;When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead;The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,And foremost from the tomb shall bound,For they are covered with the lightest ground;And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing,Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shalt go,As harbinger of heaven, the way to show,The way which thou so well hast learn'd below.
(Dryden:To the Pious Memory of Mistress Anne Killigrew, strophe x. 1686.)
See also specimen from theOde for St. Cecilia's Day, quoted above, p.52.
Dryden's odes for St. Cecilia's Day (especially theAlexander's Feast) are among the most highly esteemed of his poems; but parts, at least, of the ode on Mistress Killigrew are no less fine, and in this case we have a purely literary ode, whose irregularities are not designed—as in the case of the others—to fit choral rendering. The conclusion of the ode, here quoted, seems to owe something of both substance and form to the conclusion of Cowley's Resurrection Ode (see preceding specimen). Dr. Johnson called Dryden's Killigrew Ode "undoubtedly the noblest ode that our language ever has produced."
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial.He, with viny crown advancing,First to the lively pipe his hand addrest;But soon he saw the brisk awak'ning viol,Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.They would have thought, who heard the strain,They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,Amidst the festal sounding shades,To some unwearied minstrel dancing,While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round;Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,And he, amidst his frolic play,As if he would the charming air repay,Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial.He, with viny crown advancing,First to the lively pipe his hand addrest;But soon he saw the brisk awak'ning viol,Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.They would have thought, who heard the strain,They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,Amidst the festal sounding shades,To some unwearied minstrel dancing,While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round;Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,And he, amidst his frolic play,As if he would the charming air repay,Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.
(Collins:The Passions.1746.)
I marked Ambition in his war-array!I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry—"Ah! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stay!Groans not her chariot on its onward way?"Fly, mailed Monarch, fly!Stunned by Death's twice mortal mace,No more on murder's lurid faceThe insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye!Manes of the unnumbered slain!Ye that gasped on Warsaw's plain!Ye that erst at Ismail's tower,When human ruin choked the streams,Fell in conquest's glutted hour,Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams!Spirits of the uncoffined slain,Sudden blasts of triumph swelling,Oft, at night, in misty train,Rush around her narrow dwelling!The exterminating fiend is fled—(Foul her life, and dark her doom)—Mighty armies of the deadDance, like death-fires, round her tomb!Then with prophetic song relateEach some tyrant-murderer's fate!
I marked Ambition in his war-array!I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry—"Ah! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stay!Groans not her chariot on its onward way?"Fly, mailed Monarch, fly!Stunned by Death's twice mortal mace,No more on murder's lurid faceThe insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye!Manes of the unnumbered slain!Ye that gasped on Warsaw's plain!Ye that erst at Ismail's tower,When human ruin choked the streams,Fell in conquest's glutted hour,Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams!Spirits of the uncoffined slain,Sudden blasts of triumph swelling,Oft, at night, in misty train,Rush around her narrow dwelling!The exterminating fiend is fled—(Foul her life, and dark her doom)—Mighty armies of the deadDance, like death-fires, round her tomb!Then with prophetic song relateEach some tyrant-murderer's fate!
(Coleridge:Ode on the Departing Year, strophe iii. 1796.)
This ode was evidently intended to be in the regular Pindaric form, and was divided into strophes, antistrophes, and epodes; but it soon broke into irregularity. On Coleridge's odes see some remarks by Mr. Theodore Watts in the article on Poetry in theEncyclopædia Britannica.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,Hath had elsewhere its setting,And cometh from afar:Not in entire forgetfulness,And not in utter nakedness,But trailing clouds of glory do we comeFrom God, who is our home.Heaven lies about us in our infancy!Shades of the prison-house begin to closeUpon the growing boy,But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,He sees it in his joy;The youth, who daily farther from the eastMust travel, still is Nature's priest,And by the vision splendidIs on his way attended;At length the man perceives it die away,And fade into the light of common day....O joy! that in our embersIs something that doth live,That nature yet remembersWhat was so fugitive!The thought of our past years in me doth breedPerpetual benediction: not indeedFor that which is most worthy to be blest;Delight and liberty, the simple creedOf childhood, whether busy or at rest,With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—Not for these I raiseThe song of thanks and praise;But for those obstinate questioningsOf sense and outward things,Fallings from us, vanishings;Blank misgivings of a creatureMoving about in worlds not realized,High instincts before which our mortal natureDid tremble like a guilty thing surprised:But for those first affections,Those shadowy recollections,Which, be they what they may,Are yet the fountain light of all our day,Are yet a master light of all our seeing;Uphold us, cherish, and have power to makeOur noisy years seem moments in the beingOf the eternal Silence: truths that wakeTo perish never;Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,Nor man nor boy,Nor all that is at enmity with joy,Can utterly abolish or destroy!Hence in a season of calm weather,Though inland far we be,Our souls have sight of that immortal seaWhich brought us hither,Can in a moment travel thither,And see the children sport upon the shore,And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,Hath had elsewhere its setting,And cometh from afar:Not in entire forgetfulness,And not in utter nakedness,But trailing clouds of glory do we comeFrom God, who is our home.Heaven lies about us in our infancy!Shades of the prison-house begin to closeUpon the growing boy,But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,He sees it in his joy;The youth, who daily farther from the eastMust travel, still is Nature's priest,And by the vision splendidIs on his way attended;At length the man perceives it die away,And fade into the light of common day....O joy! that in our embersIs something that doth live,That nature yet remembersWhat was so fugitive!The thought of our past years in me doth breedPerpetual benediction: not indeedFor that which is most worthy to be blest;Delight and liberty, the simple creedOf childhood, whether busy or at rest,With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—Not for these I raiseThe song of thanks and praise;But for those obstinate questioningsOf sense and outward things,Fallings from us, vanishings;Blank misgivings of a creatureMoving about in worlds not realized,High instincts before which our mortal natureDid tremble like a guilty thing surprised:But for those first affections,Those shadowy recollections,Which, be they what they may,Are yet the fountain light of all our day,Are yet a master light of all our seeing;Uphold us, cherish, and have power to makeOur noisy years seem moments in the beingOf the eternal Silence: truths that wakeTo perish never;Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,Nor man nor boy,Nor all that is at enmity with joy,Can utterly abolish or destroy!Hence in a season of calm weather,Though inland far we be,Our souls have sight of that immortal seaWhich brought us hither,Can in a moment travel thither,And see the children sport upon the shore,And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
(Wordsworth:Intimations of Immortality, strophes v. and ix. 1807.)
In this poem the English ode may be said to have reached its high-water mark. Professor Corson observes: "The several metres are felt, in the course of the reading of the Ode, to be organic—inseparable from what each is employed to express.The rhymes, too, with their varying degrees of emphasis, according to the nearness or remoteness, and the length, of the rhyming verses, are equally a part of the expression.... The feelings of the reader of English poetry get to be set, so to speak, to the pentameter measure, as in that measure the largest portion of English poetry is written; and, accordingly, other measures derive some effect from that fact. In the theme-metre, generally, the more reflective portions of the Ode, its deeper tones, are expressed. The gladder notes come in the shorter metres.... Wordsworth never wrote any poem of which it can be more truly said than of his great Ode, 'Of the soul the body form doth take.'" (Primer of English Verse, pp. 32-34.)
Then gentle winds aroseWith many a mingled closeOf wild Æolian sound and mountain-odor keen;And where the Baian oceanWelters with airlike motion,Within, above, around its bowers of starry green,Moving the sea-flowers in those purple cavesEven as the ever stormless atmosphereFloats o'er the Elysian realm,It bore me like an Angel, o'er the wavesOf sunlight, whose swift pinnace of dewy airNo storm can overwhelm;I sailed, where ever flowsUnder the calm SereneA spirit of deep emotionFrom the unknown gravesOf the dead kings of Melody.Shadowy Aornos darkened o'er the helmThe horizontal ether; heaven stripped bareIts depths over Elysium, where the prowMade the invisible water white as snow;From that Typhæan mount, Inarime,There streamed a sunlight vapor, like the standardOf some ethereal host;Whilst from the coast,Louder and louder, gathering round, there wanderedOver the oracular woods and divine seaProphesyings which grew articulate—They seize me—I must speak them—be they fate!
Then gentle winds aroseWith many a mingled closeOf wild Æolian sound and mountain-odor keen;And where the Baian oceanWelters with airlike motion,Within, above, around its bowers of starry green,Moving the sea-flowers in those purple cavesEven as the ever stormless atmosphereFloats o'er the Elysian realm,It bore me like an Angel, o'er the wavesOf sunlight, whose swift pinnace of dewy airNo storm can overwhelm;I sailed, where ever flowsUnder the calm SereneA spirit of deep emotionFrom the unknown gravesOf the dead kings of Melody.Shadowy Aornos darkened o'er the helmThe horizontal ether; heaven stripped bareIts depths over Elysium, where the prowMade the invisible water white as snow;From that Typhæan mount, Inarime,There streamed a sunlight vapor, like the standardOf some ethereal host;Whilst from the coast,Louder and louder, gathering round, there wanderedOver the oracular woods and divine seaProphesyings which grew articulate—They seize me—I must speak them—be they fate!
(Shelley:Ode to Naples, strophe ii. 1819.)
Bury the Great DukeWith an empire's lamentation,Let us bury the Great DukeTo the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation,Mourning when their leaders fall,Warriors carry the warrior's pall,And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?Here, in streaming London's central roar.Let the sound of those he wrought for,And the feet of those he fought for,Echo round his bones for evermore.Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,As fits an universal woe,Let the long long procession go,And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,And let the mournful martial music blow;The last great Englishman is low....... We revere, and while we hearThe tides of Music's golden seaSetting toward eternity,Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,Until we doubt not that for one so trueThere must be other nobler work to doThan when he fought at Waterloo,And Victor he must ever be.For though the Giant Ages heave the hillAnd break the shore, and evermoreMake and break, and work their will;Though world on world in myriad myriads rollRound us, each with different powers,And other forms of life than ours,What know we greater than the soul?On God and Godlike men we build our trust.Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears:The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears:The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears;Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;He is gone who seemed so great.—Gone; but nothing can bereave himOf the force he made his ownBeing here, and we believe himSomething far advanced in state,And that he wears a truer crownThan any wreath that man can weave him.Speak no more of his renown,Lay your earthly fancies down,And in the vast cathedral leave him.God accept him, Christ receive him.
Bury the Great DukeWith an empire's lamentation,Let us bury the Great DukeTo the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation,Mourning when their leaders fall,Warriors carry the warrior's pall,And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?Here, in streaming London's central roar.Let the sound of those he wrought for,And the feet of those he fought for,Echo round his bones for evermore.
Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,As fits an universal woe,Let the long long procession go,And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,And let the mournful martial music blow;The last great Englishman is low....
... We revere, and while we hearThe tides of Music's golden seaSetting toward eternity,Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,Until we doubt not that for one so trueThere must be other nobler work to doThan when he fought at Waterloo,And Victor he must ever be.For though the Giant Ages heave the hillAnd break the shore, and evermoreMake and break, and work their will;Though world on world in myriad myriads rollRound us, each with different powers,And other forms of life than ours,What know we greater than the soul?On God and Godlike men we build our trust.Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears:The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears:The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears;Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;He is gone who seemed so great.—Gone; but nothing can bereave himOf the force he made his ownBeing here, and we believe himSomething far advanced in state,And that he wears a truer crownThan any wreath that man can weave him.Speak no more of his renown,Lay your earthly fancies down,And in the vast cathedral leave him.God accept him, Christ receive him.
(Tennyson:On the Death of the Duke of Wellington, strophes i, ii, iii, ix (in part). 1852.)
This ode of Tennyson's is one of the few poems in which he gave himself such liberty of form (compare some of the irregular measures ofMaud). It shows his usual skill in the adaptation of metrical effects to the purposes of description. Dr. Henry Van Dyke has suggested that the varying—almost lawless—movements of the opening lines are designed to suggest the surging of the crowd through the streets of London, before the entrance into the cathedral for the funeral.