"The moving accident is not my trade,To freeze the blood I have no ready arts;'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts."
"The moving accident is not my trade,To freeze the blood I have no ready arts;'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts."
—Hart-Leap Well, Part II.
"Every great poet," he said, "is a teacher; I wish either to be considered as a teacher or as nothing."
And he avowed that the purpose of his poetry was "to console the afflicted; to add sunshine to daylight by making the happy happier; to teach the young and the gracious of every ageto see, to think and feel, and therefore to become more actively and securely virtuous."
"Love had he found in huts where poor men lie,His daily teachings had been woods and rills,The silence that is in the starry sky,The sleep that is among the lonely hills."
"Love had he found in huts where poor men lie,His daily teachings had been woods and rills,The silence that is in the starry sky,The sleep that is among the lonely hills."
"Wordsworth," says John Campbell Shairp, "was the first who, both in theory and practice, shook off the trammels of the so-called poetic diction which had tyrannized over English poetry for more than a century. This diction of course exactly represented the half-courtly, half-classical mode of thinking and feeling. As Wordsworth rebelled against this conventionality of spirit, so against the outward expression of it. The whole of the stock phrases and used-up metaphors he discarded, and returned to living language of natural feeling, as it is used by men, instead of the dead form of it which had got stereotyped in books. And just as in his subjects he had taken in from the waste much virgin soil, so in his diction he appropriated for poetic use a large amount of words, idioms, metaphors, till then by the poets disallowed. His shorter poems, both the earlier and the later, are, for the most part, very models of natural, powerful, and yet sensitive English; the language being, like a garment, woven out of, and transparent with, the thought."
Other Poems to be Read:We are Seven; The Pet Lamb; To a Highland Girl; Laodamia; Matthew; The Fountain; The Wishing Gate; To the Small Celandine; "Three Years She Grew"; "She was a Phantom of Delight"; At the Grave of Burns.
References:Shairp'sStudies in Poetry and Philosophy; Hazlitt'sEnglish Poets; De Quincey'sMiscellaneous Works;Literature and Life, by E. P. Whipple;Wordsworth(English Men of Letters), by Goldwin Smith;Yesterdays with Authors, by James T. Fields;Among My Books, Second Series, by J. R. Lowell; Matthew Arnold's Introduction to the Poems of William Wordsworth.
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,And the owls have awaken'd the crowing cock,Tu—whit!——Tu—whoo!And hark, again! the crowing cock,How drowsily it crew.Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;From her kennel beneath the rockShe maketh answer to the clock,Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;Ever and aye, by shine and shower,Sixteen short howls, not over loud;Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.Is the night chilly and dark?The night is chilly, but not dark.The thin gray cloud is spread on high,It covers but not hides the sky.The moon is behind, and at the full;And yet she looks both small and dull.The night is chill, the cloud is gray:'Tis a month before the month of May,And the Spring comes slowly up this way.The lovely lady, Christabel,Whom her father loves so well,What makes her in the wood so late,A furlong from the castle gate?She had dreams all yesternightOf her own betrothed knight;Dreams that made her moan and leapAs on her bed she lay in sleep;And she in the midnight wood will prayFor the weal of her lover that's far away.She stole along, she nothing spoke,The sighs she heaved were soft and low,And naught was green upon the oakBut moss and rarest mistletoe:She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,And in silence prayeth she.The lady sprang up suddenly,The lovely lady, Christabel!It moaned as near as near can be,But what it is she cannot tell.—On the other side it seems to beOf the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.The night is chill; the forest bare;Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?There is not wind enough in the airTo move away the ringlet curlFrom the lovely lady's cheek—There is not wind enough to twirlThe one red leaf, the last of its clan,That dances as often as dance it can,Hanging so light, and hanging so high,On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.Hush, beating heart of Christabel!Jesu, Maria, shield her well!She folded her arms beneath her cloak,And stole to the other side of the oak.What sees she there?There she sees a damsel bright,Drest in a silken robe of white,That shadowy in the moonlight shone:The neck that made that white robe wan,Her stately neck and arms were bare;Her blue-vein'd feet unsandal'd were,And wildly glitter'd here and there,The gems entangled in her hair.I guess, 'twas frightful there to seeA lady so richly clad as she—Beautiful exceedingly!"Mary, mother, save me now!"(Said Christabel,) "And who art thou?"The lady strange made answer meet,And her voice was faint and sweet:—"Have pity on my sore distress,I scarce can speak for weariness:Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!"Said Christabel, "How camest thou here?"And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,Did thus pursue her answer meet:—"My sire is of a noble line,And my name is Geraldine:Five warriors seized me yestermorn,Me, even me, a maid forlorn:They choked my cries with force and fright,And tied me on a palfrey white.The palfrey was as fleet as wind,And they rode furiously behind.They spurred amain, their steeds were white:And once we cross'd the shade of night.As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,I have no thought what men they be;Nor do I know how long it is(For I have lain entranced I wis)Since one, the tallest of the five,Took me from the palfrey's back,A weary woman, scarce alive.Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke:He placed me underneath this oak;He swore they would return with haste;Whither they went I cannot tell—I thought I heard, some minutes past,Sounds as of a castle bell.Stretch forth thy hand" (thus ended she),"And help a wretched maid to flee."Then Christabel stretch'd forth her handAnd comforted fair Geraldine;"O well, bright dame! may you commandThe service of Sir Leoline;And gladly our stout chivalryWill he send forth and friends withalTo guide and guard you safe and freeHome to your noble father's hall."She rose: and forth with steps they pass'dThat strove to be, and were not, fast.Her gracious stars the lady blest,And thus spake on sweet Christabel:"All our household are at rest,The hall is silent as the cell;Sir Leoline is weak in health,And may not well awaken'd be,But we will move as if in stealth,And I beseech your courtesy,This night, to share your couch with me."They cross'd the moat, and ChristabelTook the key that fitted well;A little door she open'd straight,All in the middle of the gate;The gate that was iron'd within and without,Where an army in battle array had march'd out.The lady sank, belike through pain,And Christabel with might and mainLifted her up, a weary weight,Over the threshold of the gate:Then the lady rose again,And moved, as she were not in pain.So free from danger, free from fear,They cross'd the court: right glad they were.And Christabel devoutly criedTo the lady by her side;"Praise we the Virgin all divineWho hath rescued thee from thy distress!""Alas, alas!" said Geraldine,"I cannot speak for weariness."So free from danger, free from fear,They cross'd the court: right glad they were.Outside her kennel the mastiff oldLay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.The mastiff old did not awake,Yet she an angry moan did make!And what can ail the mastiff bitch?Never till now she utter'd yellBeneath the eye of Christabel.Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:For what can ail the mastiff bitch?They pass'd the hall, that echoes still,Pass as lightly as you will!The brands were flat, the brands were dying,Amid their own white ashes lying;But when the lady pass'd, there cameA tongue of light, a fit of flame;And Christabel saw the lady's eye,And nothing else saw she thereby,Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall."O softly tread," said Christabel,"My father seldom sleepeth well."Sweet Christabel her feet both bare,And, jealous of the listening air,They steal their way from stair to stair,Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,And now they pass the Baron's room,And still as death, with stifled breath!And now have reach'd her chamber door;And now doth Geraldine press downThe rushes of the chamber floor.The moon shines dim in the open air,And not a moonbeam enters here.But they without its light can seeThe chamber carved so curiously,Carved with figures strange and sweet,All made out of the carver's brain,For a lady's chamber meet:The lamp with twofold silver chainIs fasten'd to an angel's feet.The silver lamp burns dead and dim;But Christabel the lamp will trim.She trimm'd the lamp, and made it bright,And left it swinging to and fro,While Geraldine, in wretched plight,Sank down upon the floor below."O weary lady, Geraldine,I pray you, drink this cordial wine!It is a wine of virtuous powers;My mother made it of wild flowers.""And will your mother pity me,Who am a maiden most forlorn?"Christabel answered—"Woe is me!She died the hour that I was born.I have heard the gray-hair'd friar tell,How on her death-bed she did say,That she should hear the castle-bellStrike twelve upon my wedding-day.O mother dear! that thou wert here!""I would," said Geraldine, "she were!"But soon with altered voice, said she—"Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!I have power to bid thee flee."Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?Why stares she with unsettled eye?Can she the bodiless dead espy?And why with hollow voice cries she,"Off, woman, off! this hour is mine—Though thou her guardian spirit be,Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me."Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,And raised to heaven her eyes so blue—"Alas!" said she, "this ghastly ride—Dear lady! it hath wilder'd you!"The lady wiped her moist cold brow,And faintly said, "'Tis over now!"Again the wild-flower wine she drank:Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,And from the floor whereon she sank,The lofty lady stood upright:She was most beautiful to see,Like a lady of a far countrée.And thus the lofty lady spake—"All they who live in the upper sky,Do love you, holy Christabel!And you love them, and for their sakeAnd for the good which me befell,Even I in my degree will try,Fair maiden, to requite you well.But now unrobe yourself; for IMust pray, ere yet in bed I lie."Quoth Christabel, "So let it be!"And as the lady bade, did she.Her gentle limbs did she undress,And lay down in her loveliness.But through her brain of weal and woeSo many thoughts move to and fro,That vain it were her lids to close;So half-way from the bed she rose,And on her elbow did reclineTo look at the lady Geraldine.Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd,And slowly roll'd her eyes around;Then drawing in her breath aloudLike one that shudder'd, she unboundThe cincture from beneath her breast;Her silken robe and inner vest,Dropt to her feet, and full in view,Behold! her bosom and half her side—A sight to dream of, not to tell!O shield her! shield sweet Christabel.Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;Ah! what a stricken look was hers!Deep from within seems half-wayTo lift some weight with sick assay,And eyes the maid and seeks delay;Then suddenly as one defiedCollects herself in scorn and pride,And lay down by the maiden's side!—And in her arms the maid she took,Ah, well-a-day!And with low voice and doleful lookThese words did say:"In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spellWhich is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrowThis mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;But vainly thou warrest,For this is alone inThy power to declare,That in the dim forestThou heardest a low moaning,And foundest a bright lady, surpassingly fair:And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,To shield her and shelter her from the damp air."
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,And the owls have awaken'd the crowing cock,Tu—whit!——Tu—whoo!And hark, again! the crowing cock,How drowsily it crew.
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;From her kennel beneath the rockShe maketh answer to the clock,Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;Ever and aye, by shine and shower,Sixteen short howls, not over loud;Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
Is the night chilly and dark?The night is chilly, but not dark.The thin gray cloud is spread on high,It covers but not hides the sky.The moon is behind, and at the full;And yet she looks both small and dull.The night is chill, the cloud is gray:'Tis a month before the month of May,And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
The lovely lady, Christabel,Whom her father loves so well,What makes her in the wood so late,A furlong from the castle gate?She had dreams all yesternightOf her own betrothed knight;Dreams that made her moan and leapAs on her bed she lay in sleep;And she in the midnight wood will prayFor the weal of her lover that's far away.
She stole along, she nothing spoke,The sighs she heaved were soft and low,And naught was green upon the oakBut moss and rarest mistletoe:She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,And in silence prayeth she.
The lady sprang up suddenly,The lovely lady, Christabel!It moaned as near as near can be,But what it is she cannot tell.—On the other side it seems to beOf the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare;Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?There is not wind enough in the airTo move away the ringlet curlFrom the lovely lady's cheek—There is not wind enough to twirlThe one red leaf, the last of its clan,That dances as often as dance it can,Hanging so light, and hanging so high,On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!Jesu, Maria, shield her well!She folded her arms beneath her cloak,And stole to the other side of the oak.What sees she there?
There she sees a damsel bright,Drest in a silken robe of white,That shadowy in the moonlight shone:The neck that made that white robe wan,Her stately neck and arms were bare;Her blue-vein'd feet unsandal'd were,And wildly glitter'd here and there,The gems entangled in her hair.I guess, 'twas frightful there to seeA lady so richly clad as she—Beautiful exceedingly!
"Mary, mother, save me now!"(Said Christabel,) "And who art thou?"
The lady strange made answer meet,And her voice was faint and sweet:—"Have pity on my sore distress,I scarce can speak for weariness:Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!"Said Christabel, "How camest thou here?"And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,Did thus pursue her answer meet:—"My sire is of a noble line,And my name is Geraldine:Five warriors seized me yestermorn,Me, even me, a maid forlorn:They choked my cries with force and fright,And tied me on a palfrey white.The palfrey was as fleet as wind,And they rode furiously behind.They spurred amain, their steeds were white:And once we cross'd the shade of night.As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,I have no thought what men they be;Nor do I know how long it is(For I have lain entranced I wis)Since one, the tallest of the five,Took me from the palfrey's back,A weary woman, scarce alive.Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke:He placed me underneath this oak;He swore they would return with haste;Whither they went I cannot tell—I thought I heard, some minutes past,Sounds as of a castle bell.Stretch forth thy hand" (thus ended she),"And help a wretched maid to flee."
Then Christabel stretch'd forth her handAnd comforted fair Geraldine;"O well, bright dame! may you commandThe service of Sir Leoline;And gladly our stout chivalryWill he send forth and friends withalTo guide and guard you safe and freeHome to your noble father's hall."
She rose: and forth with steps they pass'dThat strove to be, and were not, fast.Her gracious stars the lady blest,And thus spake on sweet Christabel:"All our household are at rest,The hall is silent as the cell;Sir Leoline is weak in health,And may not well awaken'd be,But we will move as if in stealth,And I beseech your courtesy,This night, to share your couch with me."
They cross'd the moat, and ChristabelTook the key that fitted well;A little door she open'd straight,All in the middle of the gate;The gate that was iron'd within and without,Where an army in battle array had march'd out.The lady sank, belike through pain,And Christabel with might and mainLifted her up, a weary weight,Over the threshold of the gate:Then the lady rose again,And moved, as she were not in pain.
So free from danger, free from fear,They cross'd the court: right glad they were.And Christabel devoutly criedTo the lady by her side;"Praise we the Virgin all divineWho hath rescued thee from thy distress!""Alas, alas!" said Geraldine,"I cannot speak for weariness."So free from danger, free from fear,They cross'd the court: right glad they were.
Outside her kennel the mastiff oldLay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.The mastiff old did not awake,Yet she an angry moan did make!And what can ail the mastiff bitch?Never till now she utter'd yellBeneath the eye of Christabel.Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:For what can ail the mastiff bitch?
They pass'd the hall, that echoes still,Pass as lightly as you will!The brands were flat, the brands were dying,Amid their own white ashes lying;But when the lady pass'd, there cameA tongue of light, a fit of flame;And Christabel saw the lady's eye,And nothing else saw she thereby,Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall."O softly tread," said Christabel,"My father seldom sleepeth well."
Sweet Christabel her feet both bare,And, jealous of the listening air,They steal their way from stair to stair,Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,And now they pass the Baron's room,And still as death, with stifled breath!And now have reach'd her chamber door;And now doth Geraldine press downThe rushes of the chamber floor.
The moon shines dim in the open air,And not a moonbeam enters here.But they without its light can seeThe chamber carved so curiously,Carved with figures strange and sweet,All made out of the carver's brain,For a lady's chamber meet:The lamp with twofold silver chainIs fasten'd to an angel's feet.
The silver lamp burns dead and dim;But Christabel the lamp will trim.She trimm'd the lamp, and made it bright,And left it swinging to and fro,While Geraldine, in wretched plight,Sank down upon the floor below.
"O weary lady, Geraldine,I pray you, drink this cordial wine!It is a wine of virtuous powers;My mother made it of wild flowers."
"And will your mother pity me,Who am a maiden most forlorn?"Christabel answered—"Woe is me!She died the hour that I was born.I have heard the gray-hair'd friar tell,How on her death-bed she did say,That she should hear the castle-bellStrike twelve upon my wedding-day.O mother dear! that thou wert here!""I would," said Geraldine, "she were!"
But soon with altered voice, said she—"Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!I have power to bid thee flee."Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?Why stares she with unsettled eye?Can she the bodiless dead espy?And why with hollow voice cries she,"Off, woman, off! this hour is mine—Though thou her guardian spirit be,Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me."
Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,And raised to heaven her eyes so blue—"Alas!" said she, "this ghastly ride—Dear lady! it hath wilder'd you!"The lady wiped her moist cold brow,And faintly said, "'Tis over now!"
Again the wild-flower wine she drank:Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,And from the floor whereon she sank,The lofty lady stood upright:She was most beautiful to see,Like a lady of a far countrée.
And thus the lofty lady spake—"All they who live in the upper sky,Do love you, holy Christabel!And you love them, and for their sakeAnd for the good which me befell,Even I in my degree will try,Fair maiden, to requite you well.But now unrobe yourself; for IMust pray, ere yet in bed I lie."
Quoth Christabel, "So let it be!"And as the lady bade, did she.Her gentle limbs did she undress,And lay down in her loveliness.
But through her brain of weal and woeSo many thoughts move to and fro,That vain it were her lids to close;So half-way from the bed she rose,And on her elbow did reclineTo look at the lady Geraldine.
Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd,And slowly roll'd her eyes around;Then drawing in her breath aloudLike one that shudder'd, she unboundThe cincture from beneath her breast;Her silken robe and inner vest,Dropt to her feet, and full in view,Behold! her bosom and half her side—A sight to dream of, not to tell!O shield her! shield sweet Christabel.
Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;Ah! what a stricken look was hers!Deep from within seems half-wayTo lift some weight with sick assay,And eyes the maid and seeks delay;Then suddenly as one defiedCollects herself in scorn and pride,And lay down by the maiden's side!—And in her arms the maid she took,Ah, well-a-day!And with low voice and doleful lookThese words did say:"In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spellWhich is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrowThis mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;But vainly thou warrest,For this is alone inThy power to declare,That in the dim forestThou heardest a low moaning,And foundest a bright lady, surpassingly fair:And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,To shield her and shelter her from the damp air."
The first part of the unfinished poem, "Christabel," was written in 1797, the second part which, however, left the story apparently as incomplete as before, in 1808. The two parts were first published in 1816. The poem is a picture of white innocence, purity, and truth, pursued and persecuted by the powers of evil. Its incompleteness seems to enhance its interest. "Completion could scarcely have failed to lessen its reality, for the reader could not have endured, neither could the poet's own theory have endured, the sacrifice of Christabel, the triumph of evil over good; and had she triumphed, there is a vulgar well-being in victory which has nothing to do with such a strain."
"Such is the unfinished and unfinishable tale of Christabel—a poem which, despite its broken notes and over-brevity, has raised its author to the highest rank of poets, and which in itself is at once one of the sweetest, loftiest, most spiritual utterances that has ever been framed in English words. We know of no existing poem in any language to which we can compare it. It stands by itself exquisite, celestial, ethereal,—a song of the spheres,—yet full of such pathos and tenderness and sorrowful beauty as only humanity can give."—Blackwood's Magazine, 1871.
It is worthy of note that "Christabel" was the immediate inspiration of Scott's "Lay of the Last Minstrel." "It is to Mr. Coleridge," says Sir Walter, "that I am bound to make the acknowledgment due from the pupil to his master." "But certainly," says Hales, "Scott himself never succeeded in surrounding any one of his works with so fine an atmosphere of glamour and romance."
The language and metrical arrangement of this poem are not only peculiar but are in full accord with the weird and fantastic conception of the piece as a whole. The versification is based upon a principle not commonly practised—that of counting the number of accentuated words in a line instead of the number of syllables. Though the latter varies from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents never exceed four. The result is an irregular, but strangely beautiful harmony of a kind that can hardly be attained through the ordinary methods of versification.
This poem is to be studied for its exquisite beauty, for the true poetic qualities which it possesses and which distinguish it from mere verse. Hence, no explanatory notes are given with reference to any particular passage, nor is it desirable that it should be analyzed with a view to grammatical or philological study. It should be read and reread until the student is thoroughly in accord with the poetic spirit which breathes in and vivifies the entire production. "It was indolence, no doubt, that left the tale half told—indolence and misery—and a poetic instinct higher than all the better impulses of industry and virtuous gain. The subject by its very nature was incomplete; it had to be left a lovely, weird suggestion—a vision for every eye that could see."
Samuel Taylor Coleridgewas born at Ottery Saint Mary, October 21, 1772. He was educated at Christ's Hospital and at Jesus College, Cambridge. At the age of twenty-two he left the University without having taken a degree. He was an intimate friend of Charles Lamb and Southey, and with the latter formed a wild scheme for the founding of a "Pantisocratic State" in America, which, however, was soon abandoned. His first book of poetry was published in 1794. In 1796 he and Charles Lamb published a volume of poems together. He soon afterwards became acquainted with Wordsworth, and in 1798 the two brought out their famous volume ofLyrical Ballads, containing some of Wordsworth's bestpieces and Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner." "Christabel," after lying in manuscript for several years, was published in 1816, three editions being issued within twelve months. Coleridge's chief poems were published in 1817 in a collection entitledSibylline Leaves, so called, he says, "in allusion to the fragmentary and wildly scattered state in which they had long been suffered to remain." At about the same time he was received into the house of Mr. Gillman, a surgeon residing at Highgate, in order to be cured if possible of his excessive use of opium. Here he produced his more important prose works,Aids to Reflection, andOn the Constitution of Church and State; and here he died, July 25, 1834.
Coleridge was forever planning and designing,—beginning a work and leaving its completion until to-morrow—which never came. He devoted his attention only sparingly to poetry—and that chiefly during his youth. Later in life he was occupied with political, social, and religious questions. "He was a living Hamlet, full of the most splendid thoughts and the noblest purposes, but a most incompetent doer." "His mind," wrote Southey, "is a perpetual St. Vitus's dance—eternal activity without action."
"Of Coleridge's best verses," says Swinburne, "I venture to affirm that the world has nothing like them, and can never have; that they are of the highest kind, and of their own. They are jewels of the diamond's price, flowers of the rose's rank, but unlike any rose or diamond known."
"His best work is but little," says Stopford Brooke, "but of its kind it is perfect and unique. . . . All that he did excellently might be bound up in twenty pages, but it should be bound in pure gold."
Other Poems to be Read:The Rime of the Ancient Mariner; Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni; Ode to France; Genevieve.
References:Swinburne'sStudies and Essays; Shairp'sStudies in Poetry; Carlyle'sReminiscences; Coleridge'sBiographia Literaria; De Quincey'sEssays;Coleridge(English Men of Letters), by H. D. Traill; Hazlitt'sEnglish Poets; Hunt'sImagination and Fancy; Chorley'sAuthors of England; Walter Pater'sApprecia.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near it,Pourest thy full heartIn profuse1strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still, and higher,From the earth thou springestLike a cloud of fire;The deep blue thou wingest,2And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden lightningOf the sunken sun,3O'er which clouds are brightening,Thou dost float and run,Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heaven,In the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains4out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.What thou art we know not;—What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wrought5To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:Like a glow-worm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aërial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflowered,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite6or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymeneal,7Or triumphal chaunt,Matched with thine would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?With thy clear keen joyanceLangour cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.Waking or asleep;Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream—Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and after,And pine for what is not:8Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught:Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet if we could scornHate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.Better than all measuresOf delight and sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near it,Pourest thy full heartIn profuse1strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still, and higher,From the earth thou springestLike a cloud of fire;The deep blue thou wingest,2And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightningOf the sunken sun,3O'er which clouds are brightening,Thou dost float and run,Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heaven,In the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains4out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;—What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wrought5To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aërial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflowered,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite6or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal,7Or triumphal chaunt,Matched with thine would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyanceLangour cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep;Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream—Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,And pine for what is not:8Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught:Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scornHate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measuresOf delight and sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
This is perhaps the most perfect lyric of its kind in the English language. Every verse is worthy of careful study, and it should be read and reread until its exquisite melody is felt and the subtle thoughts which itembodies fully understood. Yet there is little in the poem which requires annotation—the lark's song itself admits of no explanation.
"For sweetness the 'Ode to a Skylark' is inferior only to Coleridge, in rapturous passion to no man. It is like the bird it sings,—enthusiastic, enchanting, profuse, continuous, and alone,—small, but filling the heavens."—Leigh Hunt.
"Has any one, since Shakespeare and Spenser, lighted on such tender and such grand ecstasies?"—Taine.
The skylark is very generally distributed over the northern portions of the Old World, but is not found in America. Its song in the morning may often be heard when the bird is so high as to be entirely out of sight, and although not finely modulated is remarkably cheerful and prolonged. A person who is accustomed to the song can tell by its variations whether it be ascending, stationary, or descending.
1.profuse.Accent here on the first syllable. From Lat.profundo, to pour forth.
2.Explain the figures of rhetoric employed in this line. The meaning ofblue; ofwingest.
3.sunken sun.The sun is not yet above the horizon, but the bird has risen so high that it is visible to him, and he "floats and runs" in its golden light.
4.What is the meaning ofrains? ofrainin the next stanza?
5.wrought.Influenced. A.-S.worhte,wyrcan, to work.
6.sprite.Spirit. In the first stanza he calls the lark a spirit and says it never was a bird; here he calls it "bird or sprite."
7.Chorus hymeneal.See note on "Prothalamion," page241.
8.Compare this thought with the ideas contained in Wordsworth's "Ode on the Intimations of Immortality."
pine.From A.-S.pinan, to pain. Our wordpainis derived from the same root.
From the forests and highlandsWe come, we come;From the river-girt islands,Where loud waves are dumbListening to my sweet pipings.The wind in the reeds and the rushes,The bees on the bells of thyme,The birds on the myrtle-bushes,The cicale above in the lime,And the lizards below in the grass,Were as silent as ever old Tmolus1was,Listening to my sweet pipings.Liquid Peneus2was flowing,And all dark Tempe layIn Pelion's shadow, outgrowingThe light of the dying day,Speeded by my sweet pipings.The Sileni3and Sylvans and Fauns,And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,To the edge of the moist river-lawns,And the brink of the dewy caves,And all that did then attend and follow,Were silent with love,—as you now, Apollo,4With envy of my sweet pipings.I sang of the dancing stars,I sang of the dædal5earth,And of heaven, and the Giant wars,6And love, and death, and birth,And then I changed my pipings,—Singing how down the vale of MænalusI pursued a maiden,7and clasped a reed:Gods and men, we are all deluded thus;It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.All wept—as I think both ye now would,If envy or age had not frozen your blood—At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
From the forests and highlandsWe come, we come;From the river-girt islands,Where loud waves are dumbListening to my sweet pipings.The wind in the reeds and the rushes,The bees on the bells of thyme,The birds on the myrtle-bushes,The cicale above in the lime,And the lizards below in the grass,Were as silent as ever old Tmolus1was,Listening to my sweet pipings.
Liquid Peneus2was flowing,And all dark Tempe layIn Pelion's shadow, outgrowingThe light of the dying day,Speeded by my sweet pipings.The Sileni3and Sylvans and Fauns,And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,To the edge of the moist river-lawns,And the brink of the dewy caves,And all that did then attend and follow,Were silent with love,—as you now, Apollo,4With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,I sang of the dædal5earth,And of heaven, and the Giant wars,6And love, and death, and birth,And then I changed my pipings,—Singing how down the vale of MænalusI pursued a maiden,7and clasped a reed:Gods and men, we are all deluded thus;It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.All wept—as I think both ye now would,If envy or age had not frozen your blood—At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
Pan, as described in the Homeric hymns, is "lord of all the hills and dales": sometimes he ranges along the tops of the mountains; sometimes pursues the game in the valleys, roams through the woods, or floats along the streams; or drives his sheep into a cave, and there plays on his reeds music not to be excelled by that of the sweetest singing birds; and
"With him the clear-singing mountain-nymphsMove quick their feet, by the dark-watered springIn the soft mead, where crocus, hyacinths,Fragrant and blooming, mingle with the grassConfused, and sing, while echo peals aroundThe mountain's top."
"With him the clear-singing mountain-nymphsMove quick their feet, by the dark-watered springIn the soft mead, where crocus, hyacinths,Fragrant and blooming, mingle with the grassConfused, and sing, while echo peals aroundThe mountain's top."
Keats, in "Endymion," thus apostrophizes Pan:
"O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears,While ever and anon to his shorn peersA ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,When snouted wild-boars routing tender cornAnger our huntsmen: Breather round our farms,To keep off mildews, and all weather harms:Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,That come a-swooning over hollow grounds,And wither drearily on barren moors:Dread opener of the mysterious doorsLeading to universal knowledge—see,Great son of Dryope,The many that are come to pay their vowsWith leaves about their brows!"
"O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears,While ever and anon to his shorn peersA ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,When snouted wild-boars routing tender cornAnger our huntsmen: Breather round our farms,To keep off mildews, and all weather harms:Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,That come a-swooning over hollow grounds,And wither drearily on barren moors:Dread opener of the mysterious doorsLeading to universal knowledge—see,Great son of Dryope,The many that are come to pay their vowsWith leaves about their brows!"
1.Tmolus.It was Tmolus who acted as umpire in the musical contest between Pan and Apollo. This contest is directly referred to throughout this poem.
2.Peneus.The chief river of Thessaly. It flows through the Vale of Tempe, and between the mountains Ossa and Pelion, emptying finally into the Ægean Sea. (See map of ancient Greece.)
3.Sileni.A name applied to the older satyrs. They were fond of wine and of every kind of sensual pleasure, and hence represented the luxuriant powers of nature, and were connected with the worship of Bacchus.
Sylvans.Deities of the fields and forests.
Fauns.Gods of the shepherds, flocks, and fields. A faun was usually represented as half man and half goat.
4.Apollo.One of the chief divinities of the Greeks; the god of music and song, of prophecy, of the flocks and herds, of the founding of towns, and of the sun. He was the son of Zeus and Leto, and was born on the island of Delos. His favorite oracle was at Delphi.
5.dædal.Labyrinthine, wonderful. From Dædalus, a famous Athenian architect, who designed the labyrinth at Crete in which the Minotaur was kept.
6.Giant wars.The wars of the Titans,—the contest in which Zeus overcame and deposed his father, Chronos, and made himself supreme ruler of the universe. The Titans, who were opposed to him, were overcome, and hurled into the lowest depths of Tartarus.
Mænalus.A mountain in Arcadia, celebrated as the favorite haunt of Pan.
7.maiden.Syrinx, a nymph of Arcadia, devoted to the service of Artemis. "As she was returning one day from the chase, Pan saw and loved her; but when he would address her, she fled. The god pursued. She reached the river Ladon, and, unable to cross it, implored the aid of her sister nymphs; and when Pan thought to grasp the object of his pursuit, he found his arms filled with reeds. At that moment the wind began to agitate the reeds and produced a low musical sound. The god took the hint, cut seven of the twigs, and formed from them hissyrinx, or pastoral pipe." See Ovid'sMetamorphoses.