Chapter 14

In Shelley’s great poem, Prometheus is not merely the Titan who, having stolen fire from heaven to benefit man, was chained to a pillar while an eagle tore at his vitals, he is the spirit of humanity. Man has (through superstition) given the god, Zeus, great powers which he uses to enslave and oppress man’s own mind and body. Ultimately the god is overthrown, Prometheus, the spirit of man, is released, and the world enters upon its progress towards perfection.This and the following quotations are from a collection of references to Mother-Earth.

This and the following quotations are from a collection of references to Mother-Earth.

Say, mysterious Earth! O say, great mother and goddess,Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was ungirdled,Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed thee and won thee!...Myriad myriads of lives teemed forth from the mighty embracement.Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impelled by thousand-fold instincts.Filled, as a dream, the wide waters; the rivers sang on their channels;Laughed on their shores the wide seas; the yearning ocean swelled upward;Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods, and the echoing mountains,Wandered bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossoming branches.S. T. Coleridge(Hymn to the Earth).

Say, mysterious Earth! O say, great mother and goddess,

Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was ungirdled,

Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed thee and won thee!...

Myriad myriads of lives teemed forth from the mighty embracement.

Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impelled by thousand-fold instincts.

Filled, as a dream, the wide waters; the rivers sang on their channels;

Laughed on their shores the wide seas; the yearning ocean swelled upward;

Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods, and the echoing mountains,

Wandered bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossoming branches.

S. T. Coleridge(Hymn to the Earth).

An imitation of Stolberg’sHymne an die Erde.

From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,As she dances about the sun.Shelley(The Cloud).

From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,As she dances about the sun.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,

As she dances about the sun.

Shelley(The Cloud).

For Nature ever faithful isTo such as trust her faithfulness.When the forest shall mislead me,When the night and morning lie,When sea and land refuse to feed me,’Twill be time enough to die.Then will yet my mother yieldA pillow in her greenest fieldNor the June flowers scorn to coverThe clay of their departed lover.Emerson(Woodnotes).

For Nature ever faithful is

To such as trust her faithfulness.

When the forest shall mislead me,

When the night and morning lie,

When sea and land refuse to feed me,

’Twill be time enough to die.

Then will yet my mother yield

A pillow in her greenest field

Nor the June flowers scorn to cover

The clay of their departed lover.

Emerson(Woodnotes).

Long have I loved what I behold,The night that calms, the day that cheers;The common growth of mother-earthSuffices me—her tears, her mirth,Her humblest mirth and tears.Wordsworth(Peter Bell).

Long have I loved what I behold,The night that calms, the day that cheers;The common growth of mother-earthSuffices me—her tears, her mirth,Her humblest mirth and tears.

Long have I loved what I behold,

The night that calms, the day that cheers;

The common growth of mother-earth

Suffices me—her tears, her mirth,

Her humblest mirth and tears.

Wordsworth(Peter Bell).

So mayst thou live, till like ripe fruit thou dropInto thy mother’s lap.Milton(Paradise Lost, XI, 535).

So mayst thou live, till like ripe fruit thou dropInto thy mother’s lap.

So mayst thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop

Into thy mother’s lap.

Milton(Paradise Lost, XI, 535).

SONG OF PROSERPINE.

Sacred Goddess, Mother EarthThou from whose immortal bosomGods, and men, and beasts have birth,Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom,Breathe thine influence most divineOn thine own child, Proserpine.If with mists of evening dewThou dost nourish these young flowersTill they grow, in scent and hue,Fairest children of the Hours,Breathe thine influence most divineOn thine own child, Proserpine.Shelley.

Sacred Goddess, Mother EarthThou from whose immortal bosomGods, and men, and beasts have birth,Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom,Breathe thine influence most divineOn thine own child, Proserpine.

Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth

Thou from whose immortal bosom

Gods, and men, and beasts have birth,

Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom,

Breathe thine influence most divine

On thine own child, Proserpine.

If with mists of evening dewThou dost nourish these young flowersTill they grow, in scent and hue,Fairest children of the Hours,Breathe thine influence most divineOn thine own child, Proserpine.

If with mists of evening dew

Thou dost nourish these young flowers

Till they grow, in scent and hue,

Fairest children of the Hours,

Breathe thine influence most divine

On thine own child, Proserpine.

Shelley.

Proserpine, daughter of Ceres, whilst gathering flowers with her playmates at Enna in Sicily, was carried off by Pluto, also called Dis, god of the dead. (For two-thirds, or, according to later writers, one-half of each year, she returns to the earth, bringing spring and summer.)That fair fieldOf Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy DisWas gathered; which cost Ceres all that painTo seek her through the world.(Paradise Lost, IV, 269).

That fair fieldOf Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy DisWas gathered; which cost Ceres all that painTo seek her through the world.(Paradise Lost, IV, 269).

That fair fieldOf Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy DisWas gathered; which cost Ceres all that painTo seek her through the world.

That fair field

Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,

Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis

Was gathered; which cost Ceres all that pain

To seek her through the world.

(Paradise Lost, IV, 269).

And ... the rich winds blow,And ... the waters go,And the birds for joy, and the trees for prayer,Bowing their heads in the sunny air....All make a music, gentle and strong,Bound by the heart into one sweet song;And amidst them all, the mother EarthSits with the children of her birth....Go forth to her from the dark and the dustAnd weep beside her, if weep thou must;If she may not hold thee to her breast,Like a weary infant, that cries for rest;At least she will press thee to her kneeAnd tell a low, sweet tale to thee,Till the hue to thy cheek, and the light to thine eyeStrength to thy limbs, and courage highTo thy fainting heart return amain.G. MacDonald(Phantastes).

And ... the rich winds blow,

And ... the waters go,

And the birds for joy, and the trees for prayer,

Bowing their heads in the sunny air....

All make a music, gentle and strong,

Bound by the heart into one sweet song;

And amidst them all, the mother Earth

Sits with the children of her birth....

Go forth to her from the dark and the dust

And weep beside her, if weep thou must;

If she may not hold thee to her breast,

Like a weary infant, that cries for rest;

At least she will press thee to her knee

And tell a low, sweet tale to thee,

Till the hue to thy cheek, and the light to thine eye

Strength to thy limbs, and courage high

To thy fainting heart return amain.

G. MacDonald(Phantastes).

Hold thee to her breast, give rest in death.

Ne deeth, allas; ne wol nat han my life;will not takeThus walke I, lyk a restèlees caityf,restless wretchAnd on the ground, which is my modres gate,mother’sI knokke with my staf, both erly and late,And seyè, “levè moder, leet me in!say, “Dear motherLo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin!waste away”Allas! whan shul my bonès be at reste?”Chaucer(1340-1400) (The Pardoner’s Tale).

Ne deeth, allas; ne wol nat han my life;will not take

Thus walke I, lyk a restèlees caityf,restless wretch

And on the ground, which is my modres gate,mother’s

I knokke with my staf, both erly and late,

And seyè, “levè moder, leet me in!say, “Dear mother

Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin!waste away”

Allas! whan shul my bonès be at reste?”

Chaucer(1340-1400) (The Pardoner’s Tale).

Like a shadow thrownSoftly and lightly from a passing cloud,Death fell upon him, while reclined he layFor noontide solace on the summer grass,The warm lap of his mother earth.Wordsworth(ExcursionVII, 286).

Like a shadow thrownSoftly and lightly from a passing cloud,Death fell upon him, while reclined he layFor noontide solace on the summer grass,The warm lap of his mother earth.

Like a shadow thrown

Softly and lightly from a passing cloud,

Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay

For noontide solace on the summer grass,

The warm lap of his mother earth.

Wordsworth(ExcursionVII, 286).

And O green bounteous Earth!Bacchante Mother! stern to thoseWho live not in thy heart of mirth;Death shall I shrink from, loving thee?Into the breast that gives the roseShall I with shuddering fall?G. Meredith(Ode to the Spirit of Earth in Autumn).

And O green bounteous Earth!Bacchante Mother! stern to thoseWho live not in thy heart of mirth;Death shall I shrink from, loving thee?Into the breast that gives the roseShall I with shuddering fall?

And O green bounteous Earth!

Bacchante Mother! stern to those

Who live not in thy heart of mirth;

Death shall I shrink from, loving thee?

Into the breast that gives the rose

Shall I with shuddering fall?

G. Meredith(Ode to the Spirit of Earth in Autumn).

THE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,From the deep cool bed of the river:The limpid water turbidly ran,And the broken lilies a-dying lay,And the dragon-fly had fled away,Ere he brought it out of the river.High on the shore sat the great god Pan,While turbidly flowed the river;And hacked and hewed as a great god can,With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeedTo prove it fresh from the river....“This is the way,” laughed the great god Pan,(Laughed while he sat by the river,)“The only way, since gods beganTo make sweet music, they could succeed.”Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,He blew in power by the river.Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!Piercing sweet by the river!Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!The sun on the hill forgot to die,And the lilies revived, and the dragon-flyCame back to dream on the river.Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,To laugh as he sits by the river,Making a poet out of a man:The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,—For the reed which grows nevermore againAs a reed with the reeds in the river.E. B. Browning

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,

From the deep cool bed of the river:

The limpid water turbidly ran,

And the broken lilies a-dying lay,

And the dragon-fly had fled away,

Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan,While turbidly flowed the river;And hacked and hewed as a great god can,With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeedTo prove it fresh from the river....

High on the shore sat the great god Pan,

While turbidly flowed the river;

And hacked and hewed as a great god can,

With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,

Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed

To prove it fresh from the river....

“This is the way,” laughed the great god Pan,(Laughed while he sat by the river,)“The only way, since gods beganTo make sweet music, they could succeed.”Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,He blew in power by the river.

“This is the way,” laughed the great god Pan,

(Laughed while he sat by the river,)

“The only way, since gods began

To make sweet music, they could succeed.”

Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,

He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!Piercing sweet by the river!Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!The sun on the hill forgot to die,And the lilies revived, and the dragon-flyCame back to dream on the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!

Piercing sweet by the river!

Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!

The sun on the hill forgot to die,

And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly

Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,To laugh as he sits by the river,Making a poet out of a man:The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,—For the reed which grows nevermore againAs a reed with the reeds in the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,

To laugh as he sits by the river,

Making a poet out of a man:

The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,—

For the reed which grows nevermore again

As a reed with the reeds in the river.

E. B. Browning

There is little merit in inventing a happy idea, or attractive situation, so long as it is only the author’s voice which we hear. As a being whom we have called into life by magic arts, as soon as it has received existence, acts independently of the master’s impulse, so the poet creates his persons, and then watches and relates what they do and say. Such creation is poetry in the literal sense of the term, and its possibility is an unfathomable enigma. The gushing fullness of speech belongs to the poet, and it flows from the lips of each of his magic beings in the thoughts and words peculiar to its nature.

Niebuhr(Letters, &c., Vol. III, 196).

Poetry is not like reasoning, a power to be exerted according to the determination of the will. A man cannot say, “I will compose poetry.” The greatest poet even cannot say it; for the mind in creation is as a fading coal, which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness; this power arises from within, like the colour of a flower which fades and changes as it is developed, and the conscious portions of our nature are unprophetic either of its approach or its departure. Could this influence be durable in its original purity and force, it is impossible to predict the greatness of the results; but, when composition begins, inspiration is already on the decline, and the most glorious poetry that has ever been communicated to the world is probably a feeble shadow of the original conceptions of the poet.

Shelley(A Defence of Poetry).

Who would loose,Though full of pain, this intellectual being,Those thoughts that wander through eternity,To perish rather, swallowed up and lostIn the wide womb of uncreated night?Milton(Paradise Lostii., 146)

Who would loose,Though full of pain, this intellectual being,Those thoughts that wander through eternity,To perish rather, swallowed up and lostIn the wide womb of uncreated night?

Who would loose,

Though full of pain, this intellectual being,

Those thoughts that wander through eternity,

To perish rather, swallowed up and lost

In the wide womb of uncreated night?

Milton(Paradise Lostii., 146)

“Loose”—by committing suicide.

When the white block of marble shines so solid and so costly, who remembers that it was once made up of decaying shell and rotting bones and millions of dying insect-lives, pressed to ashes ere the rare stone was?

(Chandos).

The madness that starves and is silent for an idea is an insanity, scouted by the world and the gods. For it is an insanity unfruitful—except to the future. And for the future, who cares—save those madmen themselves?

... The gods that most of all have pity on man, the gods of the Night and of the Grave.

Our eyes are set to the light, but our feet are fixed in the mire.

(Folle-Farine).

“If the cucumber be bitter, throw it away,” says Antoninus: do the same with a thought.... There is no cucumber so heavy that one cannot throw it over some wall.

Ouida(Tricotrin).

Antoninus, 120-180 A.D., the Roman emperor and Stoic philosopher, usually known by his first two names Marcus Aurelius, is the author of the well-knownMeditations. The quotation is from Bk. VIII., “The gourd is bitter; drop it, then! There are brambles in the path; then turn aside! It is enough. Do not go on to argue, Why pray have these things a place in the world?” etc.These quotations from Ouida may serve to illustrate the saying of Pliny the Elder, “No book is so bad but some good may be got out of it” (Pliny’s Letters, III., 10)—a saying which was no doubt true until printing let loose on the world such a multitude of worthless writers.

These quotations from Ouida may serve to illustrate the saying of Pliny the Elder, “No book is so bad but some good may be got out of it” (Pliny’s Letters, III., 10)—a saying which was no doubt true until printing let loose on the world such a multitude of worthless writers.

WHEN WE ALL ARE ASLEEP

When He returns, and finds the World so drear—All sleeping,—young and old, unfair and fair,Will He stoop down and whisper in each ear,“Awaken!” or for pity’s sake forbear,—Saying, “How shall I meet their frozen stareOf wonder, and their eyes so full of fear?How shall I comfort them in their despair,If they cry out, ‘Too late! let us sleep here’?”Perchance He will not wake us up, but whenHe sees us look so happy in our rest,Will murmur, “Poor dead women and dead men!Dire was their doom, and weary was their quest.Wherefore awake them into life again?Let them sleep on untroubled—it is best.”R. Buchanan.

When He returns, and finds the World so drear—

All sleeping,—young and old, unfair and fair,

Will He stoop down and whisper in each ear,

“Awaken!” or for pity’s sake forbear,—

Saying, “How shall I meet their frozen stare

Of wonder, and their eyes so full of fear?

How shall I comfort them in their despair,

If they cry out, ‘Too late! let us sleep here’?”

Perchance He will not wake us up, but when

He sees us look so happy in our rest,

Will murmur, “Poor dead women and dead men!

Dire was their doom, and weary was their quest.

Wherefore awake them into life again?

Let them sleep on untroubled—it is best.”

R. Buchanan.

CHORUS

Before the beginning of yearsThere came to the making of manTime, with a gift of tears;Grief, with a glass that ran;Pleasure, with pain for leaven;Summer, with flowers that fell;Remembrance fallen from heaven,And madness risen from hell;Strength without hands to smite;Love that endures for a breath;Night, the shadow of light,And life, the shadow of death.And the high gods took in handFire, and the falling of tears,And a measure of sliding sandFrom under the feet of the years;And froth and drift of the sea;And dust of the labouring earth;And bodies of things to beIn the houses of death and of birth;And wrought with weeping and laughter,And fashioned with loathing and love,With life before and afterAnd death beneath and above,For a day and a night and a morrow,That his strength might endure for a spanWith travail and heavy sorrow,The holy spirit of man.From the winds of the north and the southThey gathered as unto strife;They breathed upon his mouth,They filled his body with life;Eyesight and speech they wroughtFor the veils of the soul therein,A time for labour and thought,A time to serve and to sin;They gave him light in his ways,And love, and a space for delight,And beauty and length of days,And night, and sleep in the night.His speech is a burning fire;With his lips he travaileth;In his heart is a blind desire,In his eyes foreknowledge of death;He weaves, and is clothed with derision;Sows, and he shall not reap;His life is a watch or a visionBetween a sleep and a sleep.Swinburne(Atalanta in Calydon).

Before the beginning of years

There came to the making of man

Time, with a gift of tears;

Grief, with a glass that ran;

Pleasure, with pain for leaven;

Summer, with flowers that fell;

Remembrance fallen from heaven,

And madness risen from hell;

Strength without hands to smite;

Love that endures for a breath;

Night, the shadow of light,

And life, the shadow of death.

And the high gods took in handFire, and the falling of tears,And a measure of sliding sandFrom under the feet of the years;And froth and drift of the sea;And dust of the labouring earth;And bodies of things to beIn the houses of death and of birth;And wrought with weeping and laughter,And fashioned with loathing and love,With life before and afterAnd death beneath and above,For a day and a night and a morrow,That his strength might endure for a spanWith travail and heavy sorrow,The holy spirit of man.From the winds of the north and the southThey gathered as unto strife;They breathed upon his mouth,They filled his body with life;Eyesight and speech they wroughtFor the veils of the soul therein,A time for labour and thought,A time to serve and to sin;They gave him light in his ways,And love, and a space for delight,And beauty and length of days,And night, and sleep in the night.His speech is a burning fire;With his lips he travaileth;In his heart is a blind desire,In his eyes foreknowledge of death;He weaves, and is clothed with derision;Sows, and he shall not reap;His life is a watch or a visionBetween a sleep and a sleep.

And the high gods took in hand

Fire, and the falling of tears,

And a measure of sliding sand

From under the feet of the years;

And froth and drift of the sea;

And dust of the labouring earth;

And bodies of things to be

In the houses of death and of birth;

And wrought with weeping and laughter,

And fashioned with loathing and love,

With life before and after

And death beneath and above,

For a day and a night and a morrow,

That his strength might endure for a span

With travail and heavy sorrow,

The holy spirit of man.

From the winds of the north and the south

They gathered as unto strife;

They breathed upon his mouth,

They filled his body with life;

Eyesight and speech they wrought

For the veils of the soul therein,

A time for labour and thought,

A time to serve and to sin;

They gave him light in his ways,

And love, and a space for delight,

And beauty and length of days,

And night, and sleep in the night.

His speech is a burning fire;

With his lips he travaileth;

In his heart is a blind desire,

In his eyes foreknowledge of death;

He weaves, and is clothed with derision;

Sows, and he shall not reap;

His life is a watch or a vision

Between a sleep and a sleep.

Swinburne(Atalanta in Calydon).

She (the ship of Odysseus) came to the limits of the world, to the deep flowing Oceanus. There is the land and the city of the Cimmerians, shrouded in mist and cloud, and never does the shining sun look down on them with his rays, neither when he climbs up the starry heavens, nor when again he turns earthward from the firmament, but deadly night is outspread over miserable mortals. Thither we came and ran the ship ashore and took out the sheep; but for our part we held on our way along the stream of Oceanus, till we came to the place which Circe had declared to us.

There Perimedes and Eurylochus held the victims, but I drew my sharp sword from my thigh, and dug a pit, as it were a cubit in length and breadth, and about it poured a drink-offering to all the dead, first with mead and thereafter with sweet wine and for the third time with water.... When I had besought the tribes of the dead with vows and prayers, I took the sheep and cut their throats over the trench, and the dark blood flowed forth, and lo, the spirits of the dead that be departed gathered them from out of Erebus. Brides and youths unwed, and old men of many and evil days, and tender maidens with griefs yet freshat heart; and many there were, wounded with bronze-shod spears, men slain in fight with their bloody mail about them. And these many ghosts flocked together from every side about the trench with a wondrous cry, and pale fear gat hold on me.... I drew the sharp sword from my thigh and sat there, suffering not the strengthless heads of the dead to draw nigh to the blood, ere I had word of Teiresias....

Anon came up the soul of my mother dead, Anticleia, the daughter of Autolycus, the great-hearted, whom I left alive when I departed for sacred Ilios. At the sight of her I wept, and was moved with compassion, yet even so, for all my sore grief, I suffered her not to draw nigh to the blood, ere I had word of Teiresias.

Anon came the soul of Theban Teiresias, with a golden sceptre in his hand, and he knew me and spake unto me: “Son of Laertes of the seed of Zeus, Odysseus of many devices, what seekest thounow, wretched man—wherefore hast thou left the sunlight and come hither to behold the dead and a land desolate of joy? Nay, hold off from the ditch and draw back thy sharp sword, that I may drink of the blood and tell thee sooth.” So spake he, and I put up my silver-studded sword into the sheath, and when he had drunk the dark blood, even then did the noble seer speak unto me....

Odyssey, Bk. XI. (Butcher & Lang’s translation).

In this weird scene Odysseus is summoning the shade of Teiresias from the under-world. He has with his sword to keep off the host of spirits, including that of his own mother, whom the spilt blood has attracted—and the hero is himself terrified at the awful spectacle.What adds to the interest of such a passage is that to the ancient Greeks this was no imaginary picture but a statement of actual facts. It will be observed that the dead live in a dark land, “desolate of joy.”To the little-travelled Greeks the ocean was ariver.

What adds to the interest of such a passage is that to the ancient Greeks this was no imaginary picture but a statement of actual facts. It will be observed that the dead live in a dark land, “desolate of joy.”

To the little-travelled Greeks the ocean was ariver.

For—see your cellarage!There are forty barrels with Shakespeare’s brandSome five or six are abroach: the restStand spigoted, fauceted. Try and testWhat yourselves call best of the very best!How comes it that still untouched they stand?Why don’t you try tap, advance a stageWith the rest in cellarage?For—see your cellarage!There are four big butts of Milton’s brew,How comes it you make old drips and dropsDo duty, and there devotion stops?Leave such an abyss of malt and hopsEmbellied in butts which bungs still glue?You hate your bard! A fig for your rage!Free him from cellarage!R. Browning(Epilogue to Pacchiarotto and other Poems).

For—see your cellarage!

There are forty barrels with Shakespeare’s brand

Some five or six are abroach: the rest

Stand spigoted, fauceted. Try and test

What yourselves call best of the very best!

How comes it that still untouched they stand?

Why don’t you try tap, advance a stage

With the rest in cellarage?

For—see your cellarage!

There are four big butts of Milton’s brew,

How comes it you make old drips and drops

Do duty, and there devotion stops?

Leave such an abyss of malt and hops

Embellied in butts which bungs still glue?

You hate your bard! A fig for your rage!

Free him from cellarage!

R. Browning(Epilogue to Pacchiarotto and other Poems).

Though the seasons of man full of lossesMake empty the years full of youth,If but one thing be constant in crosses,Change lays not her hand upon truth;Hopes die, and their tombs are for tokenThat the grief as the joy of them endsEre time that breaks all men has brokenThe faith between friends.Though the many lights dwindle to one light,There is help if the heaven has one;Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlightAnd the earth dispossessed of the sun,They have moonlight and sleep for repayment,When, refreshed as a bride and set free,With stars and sea-winds in her raiment,Night sinks on the sea.Swinburne(Dedication, 1865).

Though the seasons of man full of losses

Make empty the years full of youth,

If but one thing be constant in crosses,

Change lays not her hand upon truth;

Hopes die, and their tombs are for token

That the grief as the joy of them ends

Ere time that breaks all men has broken

The faith between friends.

Though the many lights dwindle to one light,There is help if the heaven has one;Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlightAnd the earth dispossessed of the sun,They have moonlight and sleep for repayment,When, refreshed as a bride and set free,With stars and sea-winds in her raiment,Night sinks on the sea.

Though the many lights dwindle to one light,

There is help if the heaven has one;

Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlight

And the earth dispossessed of the sun,

They have moonlight and sleep for repayment,

When, refreshed as a bride and set free,

With stars and sea-winds in her raiment,

Night sinks on the sea.

Swinburne(Dedication, 1865).

It is hardly possible for a younger generation to realize the almost intoxicating effect produced upon us by Swinburne’s new melodies. Although thePoems and Balladswere largely erotic, the curious fact is that we were too much carried away by the beauty and swing of his verse to trouble about the sensual element in it. That element was in itself anartificialproduction and not a reflection of the poet’s own emotions, for he was free from sensuality. It was with us more a question ofmusic. Swinburne himself preferred a musical word or line to one that would more aptly express his meaning; and in the “Dedication,” from which the above verses are quoted, several lines will not bear analysis. However, this was one of our favourites among his poems.O daughters of dreams and of storiesThat life is not wearied of yet,Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores,Félise and Yolande and Juliette,Shall I find you not still, shall I miss you,When sleep, that is true or that seems,Comes back to me hopeless to kiss you,O daughters of dreams?They are past as a slumber that passes,As the dew of a dawn of old time;More frail than the shadows on glasses,More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.As the waves after ebb drawing seaward,When their hollows are full of the night,So the birds that flew singing to me-wardRecede out of sight.He asks that his wild “storm-birds of passion” may find a home in our calmer world:—In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers,Will you spare not a space for them thereMade green with the running of riversAnd gracious with temperate air;In the fields and the turreted cities,That cover from sunshine and rainFair passions and bountiful pitiesAnd loves without stain?In a land of clear colours and stories,In a region of shadowless hours,Where earth has a garment of gloriesAnd a murmur of musical flowers;In woods where the spring half uncoversThe flush of her amorous face,By the waters that listen for loversFor these is there place?Though the world of your hands be more graciousAnd lovelier in lordship of thingsClothed round by sweet art with the spaciousWarm heaven of her imminent wings,Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting,For the love of old loves and lost times;And receive in your palace of paintingThis revel of rhymes.Then come the final verses quoted above. These are somewhat detached in meaning from the rest, and form a sort ofEnvoi: “Whatever changes or passes, there is always some beautiful thing that survives.”As might be expected Swinburne was much parodied (and indeed in theHeptalogiaand in the poems lately published he parodied himself). The above poem has been cleverly parodied by a lawyer, Sir Frederick Pollock. (Although parodies go as far back as the Fifth Century B.C.I know of no other lawyer who,qualawyer, has successfully taken a hand in the game.) In his parody Pollock’s subject was the great changes effected by the Judicature Act, when the old Courts of Common Law, Chancery, and others were consolidated into one Supreme Court, and the various classes of business assigned to different “Divisions.” Also owing to changes in procedure, much of the old technical learning became obsolete. His last verse is as follows (compare with the second verse quoted above):Though the Courts that were manifold dwindleTo divers Divisions of one,And no fire from your face may rekindleThe light of old learning undone,We have suitors and briefs for our payment,While, so long as a Court shall hold pleas,We talk moonshine with wigs for our raiment,Not sinking the fees.

O daughters of dreams and of storiesThat life is not wearied of yet,Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores,Félise and Yolande and Juliette,Shall I find you not still, shall I miss you,When sleep, that is true or that seems,Comes back to me hopeless to kiss you,O daughters of dreams?They are past as a slumber that passes,As the dew of a dawn of old time;More frail than the shadows on glasses,More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.As the waves after ebb drawing seaward,When their hollows are full of the night,So the birds that flew singing to me-wardRecede out of sight.

O daughters of dreams and of stories

That life is not wearied of yet,

Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores,

Félise and Yolande and Juliette,

Shall I find you not still, shall I miss you,

When sleep, that is true or that seems,

Comes back to me hopeless to kiss you,

O daughters of dreams?

They are past as a slumber that passes,As the dew of a dawn of old time;More frail than the shadows on glasses,More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.As the waves after ebb drawing seaward,When their hollows are full of the night,So the birds that flew singing to me-wardRecede out of sight.

They are past as a slumber that passes,

As the dew of a dawn of old time;

More frail than the shadows on glasses,

More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.

As the waves after ebb drawing seaward,

When their hollows are full of the night,

So the birds that flew singing to me-ward

Recede out of sight.

He asks that his wild “storm-birds of passion” may find a home in our calmer world:—

In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers,Will you spare not a space for them thereMade green with the running of riversAnd gracious with temperate air;In the fields and the turreted cities,That cover from sunshine and rainFair passions and bountiful pitiesAnd loves without stain?In a land of clear colours and stories,In a region of shadowless hours,Where earth has a garment of gloriesAnd a murmur of musical flowers;In woods where the spring half uncoversThe flush of her amorous face,By the waters that listen for loversFor these is there place?Though the world of your hands be more graciousAnd lovelier in lordship of thingsClothed round by sweet art with the spaciousWarm heaven of her imminent wings,Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting,For the love of old loves and lost times;And receive in your palace of paintingThis revel of rhymes.

In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers,

Will you spare not a space for them there

Made green with the running of rivers

And gracious with temperate air;

In the fields and the turreted cities,

That cover from sunshine and rain

Fair passions and bountiful pities

And loves without stain?

In a land of clear colours and stories,In a region of shadowless hours,Where earth has a garment of gloriesAnd a murmur of musical flowers;In woods where the spring half uncoversThe flush of her amorous face,By the waters that listen for loversFor these is there place?

In a land of clear colours and stories,

In a region of shadowless hours,

Where earth has a garment of glories

And a murmur of musical flowers;

In woods where the spring half uncovers

The flush of her amorous face,

By the waters that listen for lovers

For these is there place?

Though the world of your hands be more graciousAnd lovelier in lordship of thingsClothed round by sweet art with the spaciousWarm heaven of her imminent wings,Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting,For the love of old loves and lost times;And receive in your palace of paintingThis revel of rhymes.

Though the world of your hands be more gracious

And lovelier in lordship of things

Clothed round by sweet art with the spacious

Warm heaven of her imminent wings,

Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting,

For the love of old loves and lost times;

And receive in your palace of painting

This revel of rhymes.

Then come the final verses quoted above. These are somewhat detached in meaning from the rest, and form a sort ofEnvoi: “Whatever changes or passes, there is always some beautiful thing that survives.”

As might be expected Swinburne was much parodied (and indeed in theHeptalogiaand in the poems lately published he parodied himself). The above poem has been cleverly parodied by a lawyer, Sir Frederick Pollock. (Although parodies go as far back as the Fifth Century B.C.I know of no other lawyer who,qualawyer, has successfully taken a hand in the game.) In his parody Pollock’s subject was the great changes effected by the Judicature Act, when the old Courts of Common Law, Chancery, and others were consolidated into one Supreme Court, and the various classes of business assigned to different “Divisions.” Also owing to changes in procedure, much of the old technical learning became obsolete. His last verse is as follows (compare with the second verse quoted above):

Though the Courts that were manifold dwindleTo divers Divisions of one,And no fire from your face may rekindleThe light of old learning undone,We have suitors and briefs for our payment,While, so long as a Court shall hold pleas,We talk moonshine with wigs for our raiment,Not sinking the fees.

Though the Courts that were manifold dwindle

To divers Divisions of one,

And no fire from your face may rekindle

The light of old learning undone,

We have suitors and briefs for our payment,

While, so long as a Court shall hold pleas,

We talk moonshine with wigs for our raiment,

Not sinking the fees.

Wulf died, as he had lived, a heathen. Placidia, who loved him well, as she loved all righteous and noble souls, had succeeded once in persuading him to accept baptism. Adolf himself acted as one of his sponsors; and the old warrior was in the act of stepping into the font, when he turned suddenly to the bishop and asked, ‘Where were the souls of his heathen ancestors?’ “In hell,” replied the worthy prelate. Wulf drew back from the font, and threw his bearskin cloak around him—“He would prefer, if Adolf had no objection, to go to his own people.” And so he died unbaptized, and went to his own place.

Charles Kingsley(Hypatia).

This story appears in several old chronicles (Notes and Queries, 7th Ser. X, 33), but the name should be Radbod. He was Duke or Chief of the Frisians, and the episode probably occurred in Heligoland, from which island he ruled his people.

I am thankful for small mercies. I compared notes with one of my friends who expects everything of the universe, and is disappointed when anything is less than the best; and I found that I begin at the other extreme, expecting nothing, and am always full of thanks for moderate goods.... In the morningI awake, and find the old world, wife, babes and mother, Concord and Boston, the dear old spiritual world, and even the dear old devil not far off. If we will take the good we find, asking no questions, we shall have heaping measures. The great gifts are not got by analysis. Everything good is on the highway.

R. W. Emerson(Essay onExperience).

The bee draws forth from fruit and flowerSweet dews, that swell his golden dower;But never injures by his kissThose who have made him rich in bliss.The moth, though tortured by the flame,Still hovers round and loves the same:Nor is his fond attachment less:“Alas!” he whispers, “can it be,Spite of my ceaseless tenderness,That I am doomed to death by thee?”Azy Eddin Elmogadessi(L. S. Costello’s translation).

The bee draws forth from fruit and flowerSweet dews, that swell his golden dower;But never injures by his kissThose who have made him rich in bliss.

The bee draws forth from fruit and flower

Sweet dews, that swell his golden dower;

But never injures by his kiss

Those who have made him rich in bliss.

The moth, though tortured by the flame,Still hovers round and loves the same:Nor is his fond attachment less:“Alas!” he whispers, “can it be,Spite of my ceaseless tenderness,That I am doomed to death by thee?”

The moth, though tortured by the flame,

Still hovers round and loves the same:

Nor is his fond attachment less:

“Alas!” he whispers, “can it be,

Spite of my ceaseless tenderness,

That I am doomed to death by thee?”

Azy Eddin Elmogadessi(L. S. Costello’s translation).

A pine-tree stands all lonelyOn a northern hill-top bare,And, wrapped in its snowy mantle,It slumbers peacefully there.Its dreams are of a palm-tree,Far-off in the morning land,Which in lone silence sorrowsOn a burning, rocky strand.Heinrich Heine(1797-1856)

A pine-tree stands all lonelyOn a northern hill-top bare,And, wrapped in its snowy mantle,It slumbers peacefully there.

A pine-tree stands all lonely

On a northern hill-top bare,

And, wrapped in its snowy mantle,

It slumbers peacefully there.

Its dreams are of a palm-tree,Far-off in the morning land,Which in lone silence sorrowsOn a burning, rocky strand.

Its dreams are of a palm-tree,

Far-off in the morning land,

Which in lone silence sorrows

On a burning, rocky strand.

Heinrich Heine(1797-1856)

Many a timeAt evening, when the earliest stars beganTo move along the edges of the hills,Rising or setting, would he stand aloneBeneath the trees or by the glimmering lake.... Then in that silence, while he hungListening, a gentle shock of mild surpriseHas carried far into his heart the voiceOf mountain torrents; or the visible sceneWould enter unawares into his mind,With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, receivedInto the bosom of the steady lake.Wordsworth(The Prelude, Bk. V).

Many a time

At evening, when the earliest stars began

To move along the edges of the hills,

Rising or setting, would he stand alone

Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake.

... Then in that silence, while he hung

Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise

Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene

Would enter unawares into his mind,

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received

Into the bosom of the steady lake.

Wordsworth(The Prelude, Bk. V).

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE GRINDER

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.“Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order;Bleak blows the blast—your hat has got a hole in’t,So have your breeches!“Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-road,what hard work ’tis crying all day ‘Knives andScissors to grind O!’”“Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?Did some rich man tyrannically use you?Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?Or the attorney?“Was it the squire, for killing of his game? orCovetous parson, for his tithes distraining?Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your littleAll in a lawsuit?(“Have you not read the ‘Rights of Man,’ by Tom Paine?)Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,Ready to fall, as soon as you have told yourPitiful story.”KNIFE-GRINDER.“Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, wereTorn in a scuffle.“Constables came up, for to take me intoCustody; they took me before the justice;Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish--stocks for a vagrant.“I should be glad to drink your Honour’s health inA pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;But for my part, I never love to meddleWith politics, sir.”FRIEND OF HUMANITY.“Igive thee sixpence! I will see thee damn’d first—Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance—Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,Spiritless outcast!”(Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel,and exit in a transport of Republicanenthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)George Canning(The Anti-Jacobin).

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.“Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order;Bleak blows the blast—your hat has got a hole in’t,So have your breeches!

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

“Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?

Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order;

Bleak blows the blast—your hat has got a hole in’t,

So have your breeches!

“Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-road,what hard work ’tis crying all day ‘Knives andScissors to grind O!’”

“Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,

Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-road,

what hard work ’tis crying all day ‘Knives and

Scissors to grind O!’”

“Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?Did some rich man tyrannically use you?Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?Or the attorney?

“Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?

Did some rich man tyrannically use you?

Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?

Or the attorney?

“Was it the squire, for killing of his game? orCovetous parson, for his tithes distraining?Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your littleAll in a lawsuit?

“Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or

Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?

Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little

All in a lawsuit?

(“Have you not read the ‘Rights of Man,’ by Tom Paine?)Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,Ready to fall, as soon as you have told yourPitiful story.”

(“Have you not read the ‘Rights of Man,’ by Tom Paine?)

Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,

Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story.”

KNIFE-GRINDER.“Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, wereTorn in a scuffle.

KNIFE-GRINDER.

“Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,

Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,

This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were

Torn in a scuffle.

“Constables came up, for to take me intoCustody; they took me before the justice;Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish--stocks for a vagrant.

“Constables came up, for to take me into

Custody; they took me before the justice;

Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-

-stocks for a vagrant.

“I should be glad to drink your Honour’s health inA pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;But for my part, I never love to meddleWith politics, sir.”

“I should be glad to drink your Honour’s health in

A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;

But for my part, I never love to meddle

With politics, sir.”

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.“Igive thee sixpence! I will see thee damn’d first—Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance—Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,Spiritless outcast!”

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

“Igive thee sixpence! I will see thee damn’d first—

Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance—

Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

Spiritless outcast!”

(Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel,and exit in a transport of Republicanenthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)

George Canning(The Anti-Jacobin).

Written in Sapphics and said to be a parody of a poem of Southey’s, which was afterwards suppressed.

I loved him, but my reason bade preferDuty to love, reject the tempter’s bribeOf rose and lily when each path diverged,And either I must pace to life’s far endAs love should lead me, or, as duty urged,Plod the worn causeway arm-in-arm with friend....But deep within my heart of hearts there hidEver the confidence, amends for all,That heaven repairs what wrong earth’s journey did,When love from life-long exile comes at call.R. Browning(Bifurcation, 1876)

I loved him, but my reason bade prefer

Duty to love, reject the tempter’s bribe

Of rose and lily when each path diverged,

And either I must pace to life’s far end

As love should lead me, or, as duty urged,

Plod the worn causeway arm-in-arm with friend....

But deep within my heart of hearts there hid

Ever the confidence, amends for all,

That heaven repairs what wrong earth’s journey did,

When love from life-long exile comes at call.

R. Browning(Bifurcation, 1876)

The lady prefers Duty to Love, but she will remain constant to her lover, and reunion with him in heaven will make amends for all. (In the remainder of the poem Browning puts the case of the lover who, although deserted, is expected to remain constant through life—and who falls. The lady had disobeyed Love, because of the hardship and trouble that would follow, and Browning, whose own married life had been a most happy one, says this was no excuse.)

We are scratched, or we are bittenBy the pets to whom we cling;Oh, my Love she is a kitten,And my heart’s a ball of string.Author not traced.

We are scratched, or we are bittenBy the pets to whom we cling;Oh, my Love she is a kitten,And my heart’s a ball of string.

We are scratched, or we are bitten

By the pets to whom we cling;

Oh, my Love she is a kitten,

And my heart’s a ball of string.

Author not traced.

Some man of qualityWho—breathing musk from lace-work and brocade,His solitaire amid the flow of frill,Powdered peruke on nose, and bag at back,And cane dependent from the ruffled wrist.—Harangues in silvery and selectest phrase,’Neath waxlight in a glorified saloonWhere mirrors multiply the girandole.R. Browning(The Ring and the Book, I).

Some man of quality

Who—breathing musk from lace-work and brocade,

His solitaire amid the flow of frill,

Powdered peruke on nose, and bag at back,

And cane dependent from the ruffled wrist.—

Harangues in silvery and selectest phrase,

’Neath waxlight in a glorified saloon

Where mirrors multiply the girandole.

R. Browning(The Ring and the Book, I).

This and the next five quotations are word-pictures (see p. 85).

“Oh, what are you waiting for here, young man?What are you looking for over the bridge?”A little straw hat with streaming blue ribbons;—And here it comes dancing over the bridge!James Thomson(B.V.) (Sunday up the River).

“Oh, what are you waiting for here, young man?What are you looking for over the bridge?”A little straw hat with streaming blue ribbons;—And here it comes dancing over the bridge!

“Oh, what are you waiting for here, young man?

What are you looking for over the bridge?”

A little straw hat with streaming blue ribbons;

—And here it comes dancing over the bridge!

James Thomson(B.V.) (Sunday up the River).

Down in yonder greenè fieldThere lies a knight slain under his shield;His hounds they lie down at his feet,So well do they their master keep.Anon.(The Three Ravens).

Down in yonder greenè fieldThere lies a knight slain under his shield;His hounds they lie down at his feet,So well do they their master keep.

Down in yonder greenè field

There lies a knight slain under his shield;

His hounds they lie down at his feet,

So well do they their master keep.

Anon.(The Three Ravens).

When we cam’ in by Glasgow toun,We were a comely sight to see;My Love was clad in the black velvet,And I mysel’ in cramasie.crimsonAnon.(O waly, waly, up the bank).

When we cam’ in by Glasgow toun,We were a comely sight to see;My Love was clad in the black velvet,And I mysel’ in cramasie.crimson

When we cam’ in by Glasgow toun,

We were a comely sight to see;

My Love was clad in the black velvet,

And I mysel’ in cramasie.crimson

Anon.(O waly, waly, up the bank).

They see the HeroesSitting in the dark shipOn the foamless, long-heaving,Violet sea,At sunset nearingThe Happy Islands.M. Arnold(The Strayed Reveller).

They see the HeroesSitting in the dark shipOn the foamless, long-heaving,Violet sea,At sunset nearingThe Happy Islands.

They see the Heroes

Sitting in the dark ship

On the foamless, long-heaving,

Violet sea,

At sunset nearing

The Happy Islands.

M. Arnold(The Strayed Reveller).

Like one, that on a lonesome roadDoth walk in fear and dread,And having once turned round, walks onAnd turns no more his head;Because he knows a frightful fiendDoth close behind him tread.Coleridge(The Ancient Mariner).

Like one, that on a lonesome roadDoth walk in fear and dread,And having once turned round, walks onAnd turns no more his head;Because he knows a frightful fiendDoth close behind him tread.

Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round, walks on

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

Coleridge(The Ancient Mariner).

The above are from a series of word-pictures (see p. 85.)

We take cunning for a sinister or crooked wisdom; and certainly there is a great difference between a cunning man and a wise man—not only in point of honesty, but in point of ability.

Bacon.

Cunning, being the ape of wisdom, is the most distant from it that can be. And as an ape for the likeness it has to a man—wanting what really should make him so—is by so much the uglier, cunning is only the want of understanding, which, because it cannot compass its ends by direct ways, would do it by a trick and circumvention.

John Locke(Some Thoughts Concerning Education, 1693).

A rogue is a roundabout fool; a foolin circumbendibus.

S. T. Coleridge.

It is only by a wide comparison of facts that the wisest full-grown men can distinguish well-rolled barrels from more supernal thunder.

George Eliot(Mill on the Floss).

Let its teaching (the teaching of scientific and other books of information, the “literature of knowledge”) be even partially revised, let it be expanded, nay, even let its teaching be but placed in a better order, and instantly it is superseded. Whereas the feeblest works in the literature of power (poetry and what is generally known asliterature), surviving at all, survive as finished and unalterable amongst men.... The Iliad, the Prometheus of Æschylus—the Othello or King Lear—the Hamlet or Macbeth—and the Paradise Lost, are triumphant for ever, as long as the languages exist in which they speak or can be taught to speak. They nevercantransmigrate into new incarnations. To reproducethesein new forms, or variations, even if in some things they should be improved, would be to plagiarize. A good steam engine is properly superseded by a better. But one lovely pastoral valley is not superseded by another, nor a statue of Praxiteles by a statue of Michael Angelo.

De Quincey(Alexander Pope).

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