The poem was much translated and contributed to the growing popularity of mock-heroic in Europe. Description The poem satirises a small incident by comparing it to the epic world of the gods. It was based on an actual event recounted to the poet by Pope's friend, John Caryll. Arabella Fermor and her suitor, Lord Petre, were both from aristocratic recusant Cathol.
It is a direct attack on Thomas Shadwell, another prominent poet of the time. It opens with the lines: Bust of Mac Flecknoe from an 18th century edition of Dryden's poems All human things are subject to decay, And when fate summons, monarchs must obey Written about , but not published until see in poetry , "Mac Flecknoe" is the outcome of a series of disagreements between Thomas Shadwell and Dryden. Their quarrel blossomed from the following disagreements: "1 their different estimates of the genius of Ben Jonson, 2 the preference of Dryden for comedy of wit and repartee and of Shadwell, the chief disciple of Jonson, for humors comedy, 3 a sharp disagreement over the true purpose of comedy, 4 contention over the value of rhymed plays, and 5 plagiarism.
Alexander Pope, author of The Dunciad The Dunciad is a landmark mock-heroic narrative poem by Alexander Pope published in three different versions at different times from to The poem celebrates a goddess Dulness and the progress of her chosen agents as they bring decay, imbecility, and tastelessness to the Kingdom of Great Britain. Versions The first version — the "three book" Dunciad — was published in anonymously.
The second version, the Dunciad Variorum, was published anonymously in The New Dunciad, in a new fourth book conceived as a sequel to the previous three, appeared in , and The Dunciad in Four Books, a revised version of the original three books and a slightly revised version of the fourth book with revised commentary was published in with a new character, Bays, replacing Theobald as the "hero".
Origins Pope told Joseph Spence in Spence's Anecdotes that he had been working on a general satire of Dulness, with characters of contemporary Grub Street scribblers,. Cover of the first edition of La Secchia rapita by Tassoni, printed in the maps Ronciglione in La secchia rapita The stolen bucket is a mock-heroic epic poem by Alessandro Tassoni based on the real life event, the War of the Bucket which was first published in see in poetry ; it tells of a war between the Italian cities of Modena and Bologna over the possession of a wooden bucket that later influenced Alexander Pope's The Rape of the Lock.
Brand and Pertile p. The poem is the third longest of Chaucer's works, after The Canterbury Tales and Troilus and Criseyde, and is possibly the first significant work in English to use the iambic pentameter or decasyllabic couplets which he later used throughout The Canterbury Tales.
This form of the heroic couplet would become a significant part of English literature no doubt inspired by Chaucer. The prologue describes how Chaucer is reprimanded by the god of love and his queen, Alceste, for his works—such as Troilus and Criseyde—depicting women in a poor light. Criseyde is made to seem inconstant in love in that earlier work, and Alceste demands a poem of Chaucer extolling the virtues of women and their good deeds.
For thy trespas, and understond hit here: Thou shalt, whyl that thou livest, yeer by yere, The moste party of thy tyme spende In making of a glorious Legende Of Gode Wommen, maidenes and wyves, That weren trewe in lovinge al h. The Hasty-Pudding is a mock-heroic poem by Joel Barlow. First published in in The New-York Magazine, it is now commonly anthologized.
The poem, on the literal level, celebrates the simple life exemplified in the new America by hasty pudding or cornmeal mush. In three cantos the principal division known from epic and heroic poetry he celebrates the mythical origin of corn, its production, and its consumption within the homely setting of the American farmer. That there are different levels of reading the poem is made clear by its many allusions to contemporary political, philosophical, and religious writers, and by the position of the narrator.
According to Leo Lemay, Barlow's poem "concerns literature, mythology, politics, and culture": Like Alexander Pope in An Essay on Criticism, Barlow argues that an Age of Poetry can be discerned in the "ancient traditions" of country folk, and the poem's language of taste the taste and consumption of hasty pudding reflects a critique of artificial eight. Ysengrimus is a Latin fabliau and mock epic, an anthropomorphic series of fables written in or , possibly by the poet Nivardus.
Its chief character is Isengrin the Wolf, and it describes how his various schemes are overcome by the trickster figure Reynard the Fox. The author Little is known of the author. All that can be said of him with any certainty is that he lived in the twelfth century, and was closely connected to Ghent. The text is anonymous in the manuscripts containing the whole poem. Florilegia and medieval catalogues give the author's name variously as "Magister Nivardus", "Balduinus Cecus" Baldwin the Blind , and "Bernard".
The Ysengrimus is the most extensive anthropomorphic beast fable extant in Latin, and it. Composed in the s, the line narrative poem is a beast fable and mock epic based on an incident in the Reynard cycle. The story of Chanticleer and the Fox became further popularised in Britain through this means. The tale and framing narrative The prologue clearly links the story with the previous Monk's Tale, a series of short accounts of toppled despots, criminals and fallen heroes which prompts an interruption from the knight.
The host upholds the knight's complaint and orders the monk to change his story. The monk refuses, saying he has no lust to pleye, and so the Host calls on the Nun's Priest to give the next tale. There is no substantial depiction of this character in Chaucer's General Prologue, but in the tale's epilogue the Host is moved to. Harpocration, also writes that it is attributed to Homer. McFingal: a modern epic poem. Or, The town-meeting is a mock epic poem written by American poet John Trumbull.
This first canto was divided into two, and with a third and a fourth canto was published in References Trumbull, John Mythology As the story goes, Scylla was the daughter of Nisus Nisos the King of Megara, who possessed a single lock of purple hair which granted him and the city invincibility. When Minos, the King of Crete, invaded Nisus's kingdom, Scylla saw him from the city's battlements and fell in love with him. In order to win Minos's heart, she decided that she would grant him victory in battle by removing the lock from her father's head and presented it to Minos.
Disgusted with her lack of filial devotion, he left Megara immediately. Scylla did not give up easily and started swimming after Minos's boat. She nearly reached him but a sea eagle, into which her father had been metamorphosed after death, drowned her. Scylla was transformed into a seabird ciris , relentlessly pursued by her father, who was transformed into a sea eagle haliaeetus.
Ottava rima is a rhyming stanza form of Italian origin. Originally used for long poems on heroic themes, it later came to be popular in the writing of mock-heroic works. Its earliest known use is in the writings of Giovanni Boccaccio. The ottava rima stanza in English consists of eight iambic lines, usually iambic pentameters. The form is similar to the older Sicilian octave, but evolved separately and is unrelated. The Sicilian octave is derived from the medieval strambotto and was a crucial step in the development of the sonnet, whereas the ottava rima is related to the canzone, a stanza form.
History Italian Boccaccio used ottava rima for a number of minor poems and, most significantly, for two of his major works, the Teseide and the Filostrato c. These two poems defined the form as the main one to be used for epic poetry in Italian for the next two centuries. For instance, ottava rim. Amores is Ovid's first completed book of poetry, written in elegiac couplets. It was first published in 16 BC in five books, but Ovid, by his own account, later edited it down into the three-book edition that survives today.
The book follows the popular model of the erotic elegy, as made famous by figures such as Tibullus or Propertius, but is often subversive and humorous with these tropes, exaggerating common motifs and devices to the point of absurdity. While several literary scholars have called the Amores a major contribution to Latin love elegy, they are not generally considered among Ovid's finest works and "are most often dealt with summarily in a prologue to a fuller discussion of one of the other works". It has been argued that she is a poetic construct copying the puella-archetype from other works in the love elegy genre.
The name Corinna may have been a typically Ovidian pun based on the Greek w. The tale is one of two—together with The Tale of Melibee—told by the fictive Geoffrey Chaucer as he travels with the pilgrims on the journey to Canterbury Cathedral. The tale concerns the adventures of the knight "Sir Thopas" and his quest to win the elf-queen. Frame The tale is one of two told by the fictive Chaucer, along with the Tale of Melibee, who figures as one of the pilgrims who are on a journey to the shrine of Thomas Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.
The pilgrims are involved in a story-telling contest on the behest of the Host Middle English: Hooste , Harry Bailly, the winner of which will receive a free meal at The Tabard Inn on their return. Sir Thopas comes after the Prioress's Tale, a poem which is exemplary of the miracle of the Virgin genre and which tells the story of a child martyr killed by Jews.
Seemingly wishing to counter the sombre mood that this tale. Alexander Pope 21 May — 30 May is regarded as the greatest English poet of his age, the early eighteenth century. He is best known for his satirical and discursive poetry—to include The Rape of the Lock, The Dunciad, and An Essay on Criticism—as well as for his translation of Homer. After Shakespeare, he is the second most quoted writer in the English language, as per The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, with some of his verses having even become popular idioms in common parlance e.
He is a master of the heroic couplet. As the poet and his family were Catholics, they fell subject to prohibitive measures which effectively reversed the prosperity of their ilk after the abdication of Charles the II; one of which banned them from living within ten miles of London and another from attending public school or university. For this reason, except for a fe.
Illumination from a manuscript of the Roman de Renart, end of the 13th century Reynard the Fox is a literary cycle of medieval allegorical Dutch, English, French and German fables. The first extant versions of the cycle date to the second half of the 12th century. The genre is very popular throughout the Late Middle Ages, and in chapbook form throughout the Early Modern period.
The stories are largely concerned with the main character Reynard Dutch: Reinaert; French: Renart; German: Reineke or Reinicke; Latin: Renartus , an anthropomorphic red fox and trickster figure. His adventures usually involve him deceiving other anthropomorphic animals for his own advantage or trying to avoid their retaliatory efforts. His main enemy and victim across the cycle is his uncle, the wolf Isengrim or Ysengrim.
While the character of Reynard appears in later works, the core stories were written during the Middle Ages by multiple authors and are often seen as parodies of medieval literature such as courtly love stories. Cercopes was a slapstick, epic poem attributed to Homer, written circa the 7th or 8th century BC. The contents of this poem have been lost.
The surviving fragments of this work are published under Hesiod's works in the Loeb Classical Library. Comprising 11, lines, 15 books and over myths, the poem chronicles the history of the world from its creation to the deification of Julius Caesar within a loose mythico-historical framework. Although meeting the criteria for an epic, the poem defies simple genre classification by its use of varying themes and tones. Ovid took inspiration from the genre of metamorphosis poetry, and some of the Metamorphoses derives from earlier treatment of the same myths; however, he diverged significantly from all of his models.
Numerous episodes from the poem have been depicted in acclaimed works of sculpture, painting, and music. Although interest in Ovid faded after the Renaissance, t. Burlesque on Ben-Hur, c. It has been applied retrospectively to works of Chaucer and Shakespeare and to the Graeco-Roman classics. An example of musical burlesque is Richard Strauss's Burleske for piano and orchestra. Examples of theatrical burlesques include W. Gilbert's Robert the Devil and the A. Torr — Meye. Joan of Arc, the subject of the controversial poem.
Voltaire, writer of The Maid of Orleans. It was first published in , but Voltaire had written it over a century beforehand; while he had started writing the text in , he never completed it. An epic and scandalous satire concerning the life of the not-yet-canonised Joan of Arc "the Maid of Orleans" , the poem was outlawed, burned and banned throughout a great portion of Europe during the 18th and 19th centuries.
Hudibrastic is a type of English verse named for Samuel Butler's Hudibras, published in parts from to Description Instead of pentameter, the lines were written in iambic tetrameter. The rhyme scheme is the same as in heroic verse aa, bb, cc, dd, etc. Further description The rhyme of "swear for" wit. And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou! Such was the scene—what now remaineth here? Which sages venerate and bards adore, As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. Let such approach this consecrated land, And pass in peace along the magic waste: But spare its relics—let no busy hand Deface the scenes, already how defaced!
Not for such purpose were these altars placed. For thee, who thus in too protracted song Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng Of louder minstrels in these later days: To such resign the strife for fading bays— Ill may such contest now the spirit move Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise, Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, And none are left to please where none are left to love.
Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one! What is my being? How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, And clings to thoughts now better far removed! But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. Then must I plunge again into the crowd, And follow all that Peace disdains to seek? Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak!
What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled, And then we parted,—not as now we part, But with a hope. Once more upon the waters! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Since my young days of passion—joy, or pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, And both may jar: it may be, that in vain I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, So that it wean me from the weary dream Of selfish grief or gladness—so it fling Forgetfulness around me—it shall seem To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou, Soul of my thought! Yet am I changed; though still enough the same In strength to bear what time cannot abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate.
His had been quaffed too quickly, and he found The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again, And from a purer fount, on holier ground, And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain! Still round him clung invisibly a chain Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen, And heavy though it clanked not; worn with pain, Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, Entering with every step he took through many a scene.
But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek To wear it? But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held Little in common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quelled, In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled, He would not yield dominion of his mind To spirits against whom his own rebelled; Proud though in desolation; which could find A life within itself, to breathe without mankind.
Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, Till he had peopled them with beings bright As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, And human frailties, were forgotten quite: Could he have kept his spirit to that flight, He had been happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal, envying it the light To which it mounts, as if to break the link That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields! And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! How in an hour the power which gave annuls Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit, And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free? Did nations combat to make ONE submit; Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we Pay the Wolf homage? Did ye not hear it? But hark!
They come! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, And saw around me the wild field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring.
They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn: The tree will wither long before it fall: The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall In massy hoariness; the ruined wall Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; The bars survive the captive they enthral; The day drags through though storms keep out the sun; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:.
There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Whose spirit anithetically mixed One moment of the mightiest, and again On little objects with like firmness fixed; Extreme in all things! Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy, Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled With a sedate and all-enduring eye; When Fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child, He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.
But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, And THERE hath been thy bane; there is a fire And motion of the soul, which will not dwell In its own narrow being, but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire; And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. This makes the madmen who have made men mad By their contagion! One breast laid open were a school Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule:. Their breath is agitation, and their life A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, That should their days, surviving perils past, Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast With sorrow and supineness, and so die; Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.
He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind, Must look down on the hate of those below. There Harold gazes on a work divine, A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine, And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells From grey but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells.
And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, Or holding dark communion with the cloud. There was a day when they were young and proud, Banners on high, and battles passed below; But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow.
Beneath these battlements, within those walls, Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, Doing his evil will, nor less elate Than mightier heroes of a longer date. A wider space, an ornamented grave? Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave. In their baronial feuds and single fields, What deeds of prowess unrecorded died! And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, With emblems well devised by amorous pride, Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on Keen contest and destruction near allied, And many a tower for some fair mischief won, Saw the discoloured Rhine beneath its ruin run.
But thou, exulting and abounding river! Making thy waves a blessing as they flow Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever, Could man but leave thy bright creation so, Nor its fair promise from the surface mow With the sharp scythe of conflict,—then to see Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me Even now what wants thy stream?
A thousand battles have assailed thy banks, But these and half their fame have passed away, And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks: Their very graves are gone, and what are they? Nor was all love shut from him, though his days Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. It is in vain that we would coldly gaze On such as smile upon us; the heart must Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust Hath weaned it from all worldlings: thus he felt, For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.
And he had learned to love,—I know not why, For this in such as him seems strange of mood,— The helpless looks of blooming infancy, Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued, To change like this, a mind so far imbued With scorn of man, it little boots to know; But thus it was; and though in solitude Small power the nipped affections have to grow, In him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow. And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, Which unto his was bound by stronger ties Than the church links withal; and, though unwed, THAT love was pure, and, far above disguise, Had stood the test of mortal enmities Still undivided, and cemented more By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; But this was firm, and from a foreign shore Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour!
Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy wert THOU with me! The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round; The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To Nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!
Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long, delighted, The stranger fain would linger on his way; Thine is a scene alike where souls united Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, Where Nature, not too sombre nor too gay, Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year. Adieu to thee again! There can be no farewell to scene like thine; The mind is coloured by thy every hue; And if reluctantly the eyes resign Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine!
But these recede. Above me are the Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche—the thunderbolt of snow! All that expands the spirit, yet appals, Gathers around these summits, as to show How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.
But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, There is a spot should not be passed in vain,— Morat! And there—oh! Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, The mirror where the stars and mountains view The stillness of their aspect in each trace Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue: There is too much of man here, to look through With a fit mind the might which I behold; But soon in me shall Loneliness renew Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old, Ere mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold.
To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind; All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil In one hot throng, where we become the spoil Of our infection, till too late and long We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.
Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love Earth only for its earthly sake? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care, Kissing its cries away as these awake;— Is it not better thus our lives to wear, Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to inflict or bear? I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to me, High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture: I can see Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee, And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.
And thus I am absorbed, and this is life: I look upon the peopled desert Past, As on a place of agony and strife, Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring, Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. And when, at length, the mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form, Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be Existent happier in the fly and worm,— When elements to elements conform, And dust is as it should be, shall I not Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?
The bodiless thought? Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part Of me and of my soul, as I of them? Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion? But he was frenzied,—wherefore, who may know? Since cause might be which skill could never find; But he was frenzied by disease or woe To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show. They made themselves a fearful monument! The wreck of old opinions—things which grew, Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all earth shall view.
But good with ill they also overthrew, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild Upon the same foundation, and renew Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled, As heretofore, because ambition was self-willed. But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt On one another; Pity ceased to melt With her once natural charities. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? Clear, placid Leman!
It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen. Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;. He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
Ye stars! All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — All heaven and earth are still: from the high host Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast, All is concentered in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence. The sky is changed! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder!
Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue; And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night:—Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! But where of ye, O tempests! Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?
Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me,—could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe—into one word, And that one word were lightning, I would speak; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contained no tomb,— And glowing into day: we may resume The march of our existence: and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman!
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought; Thy trees take root in love; the snows above The very glaciers have his colours caught, And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks. All things are here of HIM; from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore, Where the bowed waters meet him, and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude.
A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-formed and many coloured things, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, And innocently open their glad wings, Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.
Thus far have I proceeded in a theme Renewed with no kind auspices:—to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be, and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, With a proud caution, love or hate, or aught,— Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,— Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, Is a stern task of soul:—No matter,—it is taught.
And for these words, thus woven into song, It may be that they are a harmless wile,— The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, or that of others, for a while. I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee,— Nor coined my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud In worship of an echo; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.
My daughter! The child of love,—though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements, and thine no less. As yet such are around thee; but thy fire Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher. Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased. States fall, arts fade—but Nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! The beings of the mind are not of clay; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray And more beloved existence: that which Fate Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, First exiles, then replaces what we hate; Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.
Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay My ashes in a soil which is not mine, My spirit shall resume it—if we may Unbodied choose a sanctuary. My name from out the temple where the dead Are honoured by the nations—let it be— And light the laurels on a loftier head!
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; And, annual marriage now no more renewed, The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood! Mark yet sees his lion where he stood Stand, but in mockery of his withered power, Over the proud place where an Emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower.
Before St. For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, Thy choral memory of the bard divine, Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot Is shameful to the nations,—most of all, Albion! I can repeople with the past—and of The present there is still for eye and thought, And meditation chastened down, enough; And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought; And of the happiest moments which were wrought Within the web of my existence, some From thee, fair Venice!
Existence may be borne, and the deep root Of life and sufferance make its firm abode In bare and desolate bosoms: mute The camel labours with the heaviest load, And the wolf dies in silence. Not bestowed In vain should such examples be; if they, Things of ignoble or of savage mood, Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay May temper it to bear,—it is but for a day. All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed, Even by the sufferer; and, in each event, Ends:—Some, with hope replenished and rebuoyed, Return to whence they came—with like intent, And weave their web again; some, bowed and bent, Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time, And perish with the reed on which they leant; Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, According as their souls were formed to sink or climb.
And how and why we know not, nor can trace Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, Which out of things familiar, undesigned, When least we deem of such, calls up to view The spectres whom no exorcism can bind,— The cold—the changed—perchance the dead—anew, The mourned, the loved, the lost—too many! The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! And even since, and now, fair Italy! Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee?
Or, it may be, with demons, who impair The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey In melancholy bosoms, such as were Of moody texture from their earliest day, And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, Deeming themselves predestined to a doom Which is not of the pangs that pass away; Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. And Tasso is their glory and their shame.
Hark to his strain! The miserable despot could not quell The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell Where he had plunged it. Glory without end Scattered the clouds away—and on that name attend. The tears and praises of all time, while thine Would rot in its oblivion—in the sink Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line Is shaken into nothing; but the link Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn— Alfonso! Oh, victor unsurpassed in modern song!
Each year brings forth its millions; but how long The tide of generations shall roll on, And not the whole combined and countless throng Compose a mind like thine? Though all in one Condensed their scattered rays, they would not form a sun. O Italia! Oh God! For time hath not rebuilt them, but upreared Barbaric dwellings on their shattered site, Which only make more mourned and more endeared The few last rays of their far-scattered light, And the crushed relics of their vanished might.
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, These sepulchres of cities, which excite Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. Rome—Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, In the same dust and blackness, and we pass The skeleton of her Titanic form, Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. Yet, Italy!
Europe, repentant of her parricide, Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A softer feeling for her fairy halls. Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps To laughing life, with her redundant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps, Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn.
We gaze and turn away, and know not where, Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart Reels with its fulness; there—for ever there— Chained to the chariot of triumphal Art, We stand as captives, and would not depart. Appearedst thou not to Paris in this guise? Or to more deeply blest Anchises? And gazing in thy face as toward a star, Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, Feeding on thy sweet cheek!
I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, The artist and his ape, to teach and tell How well his connoisseurship understands The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell: Let these describe the undescribable: I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream Wherein that image shall for ever dwell; The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. These are four minds, which, like the elements, Might furnish forth creation:—Italy!
Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rents Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, And hath denied, to every other sky, Spirits which soar from ruin:—thy decay Is still impregnate with divinity, Which gilds it with revivifying ray; Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. But where repose the all Etruscan three— Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, The Bard of Prose, creative spirit!
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Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust? Ungrateful Florence! That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech? What is her pyramid of precious stones? Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones Of merchant-dukes?
Like to a forest felled by mountain winds; And such the storm of battle on this day, And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, An earthquake reeled unheededly away! None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, And yawning forth a grave for those who lay Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet.
But thou, Clitumnus! Both publishers eagerly accepted the proposal. Scott was much nettled by these observations. Compare the following lines p. Query: Which of Mr. Southey, on his Dactylics:—. Coleridge, March 31, A marginal note in pencil. He had been a favourite in society before Byron appeared on the scene, but there is no record of any intimacy or acquaintance before But I liked him. As a writer, he is memorable chiefly for his sponsorship of German literature. Lewis , i. Lockhart , pp. His election as M. He was a favourite with the Prince Regent, at whose instance he was appointed a Master in Chancery in Sterne even considers them as indicative of qualities the most amiable.
The Translator does not wish to deem. He is, however, aware of the danger to which such a confession exposes him—but he flies for protection to the temple of Aurea Venus. His biography of Milton appeared in , of Cowper in —4, of Romney in I feel induced now to describe, for the benefit of posterity, the pedigree of a Dandy in He has also written much Comedy in rhyme, Epistles, etc. Pratt, once a Bath bookseller, now a London author, has written as much, to as little purpose, as any of his scribbling contemporaries.
His pseudonym was Courtney Melmoth.
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He was a patron of the cobbler-poet, Blacket. Lisle Bowles — As it chanced, the last word rested with him, and it was a generous one. Among other exquisite lines we have the following:—. That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss; very much astonished, as well they might be, at such a phenomenon. Bowles, with reference to Pope. Whilst I was writing that publication, in and , Mr. Hobhouse was desirous that I should express our mutual opinion of Pope, and of Mr. He did it. On reprinting the work, as I put my name to it, I omitted Mr. The lines supplied by Hobhouse are here subjoined:—.
Pye has been at him too! I saw some letters of this fellow Jh. Cottle to an unfortunate poetess, whose productions, which the poor woman by no means thought vainly of, he attacked so roughly and bitterly, that I could hardly regret assailing him, even were it unjust, which it is not—for verily he is an ass.
He published a vindication of his work in He was assistant keeper of Mss. After all, the Bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable genius. Wordsworth, and Southey, it is natural to feel some disgust at the undistinguishing voracity which can swallow down these. He is remembered chiefly as the writer of some admirable hymns. The first four lines of the above, which have been erased, are to be found on p. Lines — appear for the first time in the Fifth Edition.
Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk Farm. The duel was prevented by the interference of the Magistracy; and on examination, the balls of the pistols were found to have evaporated.
Glossary of Poetic Terms from BOB'S BYWAY
This incident gave occasion to much waggery in the daily prints. It was first printed in the Fifth Edition:—]. Moore published at the time a disavowal of the statements in the newspapers, as far as regarded himself; and, in justice to him, I mention this circumstance. As I never heard of it before, I cannot state the particulars, and was only made acquainted with the fact very lately. November 4, It was to be apprehended, that the many unhappy criminals executed in the front might have rendered the Edifice more callous.
She is said to be of the softer sex, because her delicacy of feeling on this day was truly feminine, though, like most feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish. His grandfather purchased Gight, the property which Mrs. This may have been an additional reason for the introduction of his name. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. At the time when Byron was writing his satire, he was M. Hallam is incensed because he is falsely accused, seeing that he never dineth at Holland House.
Hallam will tell me who did review it, the real name shall find a place in the text; provided, nevertheless, the said name be of two orthodox musical syllables, and will come into the verse: till then, Hallam must stand for want of a better.
The article in question was written by Dr. Brougham, in No. The article, which appeared in Oct. A Goddess, therefore, has been called for the purpose; and great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only communication he ever held, or is likely to hold, with anything heavenly. However that may be, we know from good authority, that the manuscripts are submitted to her perusal—no doubt, for correction. He had written some eight or ten popular plays before he was twenty-one. Having made a large fortune, he finally retired from the stage in , and passed the last fifty years of his life in retirement, surviving his fame by more than half a century.
Reynolds, and prominent in his comedies, living and defunct. The text alludes to his endeavour to introduce the language of ordinary life on the stage. Was this worthy of his sire? Norton, and the Duchess of Somerset, was author of several plays. An amusing companion, and a favourite at Court, he was appointed Lieutenant of the Yeomen of the Guard, and examiner of plays by Royal favour, but his reckless mode of life kept him always in difficulties.
Siddons was worth them all put together. George afterwards Sir Lumley Skeffington — According to Capt. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury Lane theatre—as such, Mr. Skeffington is much indebted to him. Angelica Catalani circ. She remained in England for eight years — Her large salary was one of the causes which provoked the O. A gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lost in the Argyle Rooms several thousand pounds at Backgammon.
A pleasant thing for the wives and daughters of those who are blessed or cursed with such connections, to hear the Billiard—Balls rattling in one room, and the dice in another! That this is the case I myself can testify, as a late unworthy member of an Institution which materially affects the morals of the higher orders, while the lower may not even move to the sound of a tabor and fiddle, without a chance of indictment for riotous behaviour. It was Billy Way who lost the money.
I knew him, and was a subscriber to the Argyle at the time of this event. Greville, who has a small party at his private assembly rooms at the Argyle, will receive from 10 to 12 [p. He was a gallant and successful officer: his faults were the faults of a sailor—as such, Britons will forgive them. Some hireling in the papers forged a tale about an agonized voice, etc. On mentioning the circumstance to Mr. Powell on Feb. Powell of all blame; in this transaction I alone am culpable. He was M. He held a good social position, but his intimate friends were actors and playwrights.
Jordan as Augusta. I must naturally be the last person to be pointed on defects or maladies. It is to be hoped his Lordship will be permitted to bring forward anything for the Stage—except his own tragedies. Line Payne, —7. Lewis, and there were others. See note 1, p. He was brought into notice by S. Miss Milbanke, afterwards Lady Byron, wrote Sept. I was yesterday in his company for the first time, and was much pleased with his manners and conversation. He is extremely diffident, his deportment is mild, and his countenance animated melancholy and of a satirical turn.
His poems certainly display a superior genius and an enlarged mind.
Robert Bloomfield was brought up by his elder brothers— Nathaniel a tailor, and George a shoemaker. The author was T. His elegance is really wonderful—there is no such a thing as a vulgar line in his book. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume. His tendency to epilepsy was increased by over-work at Cambridge.
It arrests the attention too often, and so prevents the rapidity necessary to pathos. The scenery is its sole recommendation. Lamb and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of Southey and Co. An estrangement between Coleridge and Lloyd resulted in a quarrel with Lamb, and a drawing together of Lamb, Lloyd, and Southey. Besides, I do not step aside to vituperate the earl: no—his works come fairly in review with those of other Patrician Literati. I have heard that some persons conceive me to be under obligations to Lord Carlisle : if so, I shall be most particularly happy to learn what they are, and when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated and publicly acknowledged.
What I have humbly advanced as an opinion on his printed things, I am prepared to support, if necessary, by quotations from Elegies, Eulogies, Odes, Episodes, and certain facetious and dainty tragedies bearing his name and mark:—. The Rev. If this unfortunate young man would exchange the magazines for the mathematics, and endeavour to take a decent degree in his university, it might eventually prove more serviceable than his present salary.
These have since been abundantly scurrilous upon the [town] of Newcastle, his native spot, Mr. Mathias and Anacreon Moore. What these men had done to offend Mr. Hewson Clarke is not known, but surely the town in whose markets he had sold meat, and in whose weekly journal he had written prose deserved better treatment. We recommend the young man to abandon the magazines for mathematics, and to believe that a high degree at Cambridge will be more advantageous, as well as profitable in the end, than his present precarious gleanings.
To the tune of Lachin y gair. In August, iii. There is no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion; the breed is still in high perfection. We see no reason to doubt the truth of this statement, as a large stock of the same breed are to be found there at this day. Lines , , are inserted in MS. James T. Hodgson George Richards, D. When Byron meditated a tour to India in , Portland declined to write on his behalf to the Directors of the East India Company, and couched his refusal in terms which Byron fancied to be offensive.
Fresh from the scenes, he speaks with authority.