The master of the district school
Held at the fire his favored place;
Its warm glow lit a laughing face
Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared
The uncertain prophecy of beard.
He teased the mitten-blinded cat,
Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat,
Sang songs, and told us what befalls
In classic Dartmouth's college halls.
Born the wild Northern hills among,
From whence his yeoman father wrung
By patient toil subsistence scant,
Not competence and yet not want,
He early gained the power to pay
His cheerful, self-reliant way;
Could doff at ease his scholar's gown
To peddle wares from town to town;
Or through the long vacation's reach
In lonely lowland districts teach,
Where all the droll experience found
At stranger hearths in boarding round,
The moonlit skater's keen delight,
The sleigh-drive through the frosty night,
The rustic party, with its rough
Accompaniment of blind-man's-buff,
And whirling plate, and forfeits paid,
His winter task a pastime made.
Happy the snow-locked homes wherein
He tuned his merry violin,
Or played the athlete in the barn,
Or held the good dame's winding yarn,
Of mirth-provoking versions told
Of classic legends rare and old,
Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome
Had all the commonplace of home,
And little seemed at best the odds
'Twixt Yankee peddlers and old gods;
Where Pindus-born Arachthus took
The guise of any grist-mill brook,
And dread Olympus at his will
Became a huckleberry hill.
A careless boy that night he seemed;
But at his desk he had the look
And air of one who wisely schemed,
And hostage from the future took
In trainèd thought and lore of book.
Another guest that winter night
Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light.
Unmarked by time, and yet not young,
The honeyed music of her tongue
And words of meekness scarcely told
A nature passionate and bold,
Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide,
Its milder features dwarfed beside
Her unbent will's majestic pride.
She sat among us, at the best,
A not unfeared, half-welcome guest,
Rebuking with her cultured phrase
Our homeliness of words and ways.
A certain pard-like, treacherous grace
Swayed the lithe limbs and dropped the lash,
Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash;
And under low brows, black with night,
Rayed out at times a dangerous light;
The sharp heat-lightnings of her face
Presaging ill to him whom Fate
Condemned to share her love or hate.
A woman tropical, intense
In thought and act, in soul and sense,
She blended in a like degree
The vixen and the devotee,
Revealing with each freak or feint
The temper of Petruchio's Kate,
The raptures of Siena's saint.
Her tapering hand and rounded wrist
Had facile power to form a fist;
The warm, dark languish of her eyes
Was never safe from wrath's surprise.
Brows saintly calm and lips devout
Knew every change of scowl and pout;
And the sweet voice had notes more high
And shrill for social battle-cry.
Since then what old cathedral town
Has missed her pilgrim staff and gown,
What convent-gate has held its lock
Against the challenge of her knock!
Through Smyrna's plague-hushed thoroughfares,
Up sea-set Malta's rocky stairs,
Gray olive slopes of hills that hem
Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem,
Or startling on her desert throne
The crazy Queen of Lebanon
With claims fantastic as her own,
Her tireless feet have held their way;
And still, unrestful, bowed and gray,
She watches under Eastern skies,
With hope each day renewed and fresh,
The Lord's quick coming in the flesh,
Whereof she dreams and prophesies!
Where'er her troubled path may be,
The Lord's sweet pity with her go!
The outward wayward life we see,
The hidden springs we may not know.
Nor is it given us to discern
What threads the fatal sisters spun,
Through what ancestral years has run
The sorrow with the woman born,
What forged her cruel chain of moods,
What set her feet in solitudes,
And held the love within her mute,
What mingled madness in the blood,
A lifelong discord and annoy,
Water of tears with oil of joy,
And hid within the folded bud
Perversities of flower and fruit.
It is not ours to separate
The tangled skein of will and fate,
To show what metes and bounds should stand
Upon the soul's debatable land,
And between choice and Providence
Divide the circle of events;
But He who knows our frame is just,
Merciful and compassionate,
And full of sweet assurances
And hope for all the language is,
That He remembereth we are dust!
At last the great logs, crumbling low,
Sent out a dull and duller glow,
The bull's-eye watch, that hung in view,
Ticking its weary circuit through,
Pointed with mutely-warning sign
Its black hand to the hour of nine.
That sign the pleasant circle broke:
My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke,
Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray,
And laid it tenderly away,
Then roused himself to safely cover
The dull red brand with ashes over.
And while, with care, our mother laid
The work aside, her steps she stayed
One moment, seeking to express
Her grateful sense of happiness
For food and shelter, warmth and health,
And love's contentment more than wealth,
With simple wishes (not the weak,
Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek,
But such as warm the generous heart,
O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its part)
That none might lack, that bitter night,
For bread and clothing, warmth and light.
Within our beds awhile we heard
The wind that round the gables roared,
With now and then a ruder shock,
Which made our very bedsteads rock.
We heard the loosened clapboards tost,
The board-nails snapping in the frost;
And on us, through the unplastered wall,
Felt the lightsifted snow-flakes fall;
But sleep stole on, as sleep will do
When hearts are light and life is new;
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew,
Till in the summer-land of dreams
They softened to the sound of streams,
Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars,
And lapsing waves on quiet shores.
Next morn we wakened with the shout
Of merry voices high and clear;
And saw the teamsters drawing near
To break the drifted highways out.
Down the long hillside treading slow
We saw the half-buried oxen go,
Shaking the snow from heads uptost,
Their straining nostrils white with frost.
Before our door the straggling train
Drew up, an added team to gain.
The elders threshed their hands a-cold,
Passed, with the cider-mug, their jokes
From lip to lip; the younger folks
Down the loose snow-banks, wrestling, rolled,
Then toiled again the cavalcade
O'er windy hill, through clogged ravine,
And woodland paths that wound between
Low drooping-pine-boughs winter-weighed.
From every barn a team afoot,
At every house a new recruit,
Where, drawn by Nature's subtlest law,
Haply the watchful young men saw
Sweet doorway pictures of the curls
And curious eyes of merry girls,
Lifting their hands in mock defense
Against the snow-balls' compliments,
And reading in each missive tost
The charm which Eden never lost.
We heard once more the sleigh-bells' sound;
And, following where the teamsters led,
The wise old Doctor went his round,
Just pausing at our door to say,
In the brief autocratic way
Of one who, prompt at Duty's call,
Was free to urge her claim on all,
That some poor neighbor sick abed
At night our mother's aid would need.
For, one in generous thought and deed,
What mattered in the sufferer's sight
The Quaker matron's inward light,
The Doctor's mail of Calvin's creed?
All hearts confess the saints elect
Who, twain, in faith, in love agree,
And melt not in an acid sect
The Christian pearl of charity!
So days went on: a week had passed
Since the great world was heard from last.
The Almanac we studied o'er,
Read and reread our little store
Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score;
One harmless novel, mostly hid
From younger eyes, a book forbid,
And poetry, (or good or bad,
A single book was all we had,)
Where Ellwood's meek, drab-skirted Muse,
A stranger to the heathen Nine,
Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine,
The wars of David and the Jews.
At last the floundering carrier bore
The village paper to our door.
Lo! broadening outward as we read,
To warmer zones the horizon spread;
In panoramic length unrolled
We saw the marvel that it told.
Before us passed the painted Creeks,
And daft McGregor on his raids
In Costa Rica's everglades.
And up Taygetus winding slow
Rode Ypsilanti's Mainote Greeks,
A Turk's head at each saddle bow!
Welcome to us its week-old news,
Its corner for the rustic Muse,
Its monthly gauge of snow and rain,
Its record, mingling in a breath
The wedding bell and dirge of death;
Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale,
The latest culprit sent to jail;
Its hue and cry of stolen and lost,
Its vendue sales and goods at cost,
And traffic calling loud for gain.
We felt the stir of hall and street,
The pulse of life that round us beat;
The chill embargo of the snow
Was melted in the genial glow;
Wide swung again our ice-locked door,
And all the world was ours once more!
Clasp, Angel of the backward look
And folded wings of ashen gray
And voice of echoes far away,
The brazen covers of thy book;
The weird palimpsest old and vast,
Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past;
Where, closely mingling, pale and glow
The characters of joy and woe;
The monographs of outlived years,
Or smile-illumined or dim with tears,
Green hills of life that slope to death,
And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees
Shade off to mournful cypresses
With the white amaranths underneath.
Even while I look, I can but heed
The restless sands' incessant fall,
Importunate hours that hours succeed,
Each clamorous with its own sharp need,
And duty keeping pace with all.
Shut down and clasp the heavy lids;
I hear again the voice that bids
The dreamer leave his dream midway
For larger hopes and graver fears:
Life greatens in these later years,
The century's aloe flowers today!
Yet, haply, in some lull of life,
Some Truce of God which breaks its strife,
The worldling's eyes shall gather dew,
Dreaming in throngful city ways
Of winter joys his boyhood knew;
And dear and early friends--the few
Who yet remain--shall pause to view
These Flemish pictures of old days;
Sit with me by the homestead hearth,
And stretch the hands of memory forth
To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze!
And thanks untraced to lips unknown
Shall greet me like the odors blown
From unseen meadows newly mown,
Or lilies floating in some pond,
Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond;
The traveler owns the grateful sense
Of sweetness near, he knows not whence,
And, pausing, takes with forehead bare
The benediction of the air.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What does "snow-bound" mean?
Find a line in the poem which explains the title.
Where is the scene of the poem laid? Find lines in the poem that tell you
this.
Of whom did the circle gathered around the fire consist?
What members of the family are not described in the poem? Why?
Which one of the group can you see most plainly? Why?
Select the lines which please you most in the description of each.
Read four lines which show that the evening's pleasure was not disturbed by
the storm.
In what respects does the room described differ from one in your home?
How long was the family "snow-bound"?
Of what did their library consist?
What does Whittier tell us about the brook?
What other poem have you read which describes a brook in Winter? By whom
was it written?
What messenger put the household again in touch with the outside world?
What did he bring?
Explain, what Whittier means by saying the family looked on nothing they
could call their own after the heavy snow?
What is the meaning of the reference to "Pisa's leaning miracle"?
Who was Aladdin?
What were his "lamp's supernal powers"?
What effect did the moonlight have upon the night?
Of what are cypress trees a symbol?
What do the stars shining through the cypress trees symbolize?
What is the voice which Whittier says bids the dreamer leave his dream!
What lines do you think best show the poet's appreciation of beauty in
nature?
Choose the lines which you like best as showing his deep affections.
Read lines which show his faith.
Of what is the poet thinking when he speaks of the "restless sands'
incessant fall"?
To what mythological characters does he refer when he speaks of the
"threads the fatal sisters spun"?
What mythological characters are meant by "the heathen Nine"?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Apollonius"
"Hermes"
"Egypt's Amun"
"Surrey hills"
"silhouette"
"White of Selborne"
"clean-winged hearth."
"Petruchio'a Kate"
"Siena's saint"
"cranes of Nilua"
* * * * *
THE SHIP-BUILDERS
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
The sky is ruddy in the east,
The earth is gray below,
And, spectral in the river-mist,
The ship's white timbers show.
Then let the sounds of measured stroke
And grating saw begin;
The broad-axe to the gnarled oak,
The mallet to the pin!
Hark!--roars the bellows, blast on blast,
The sooty smithy jars,
And fire-sparks, rising far and fast,
Are fading with the stars.
All day for us the smith shall stand
Beside that flashing forge;
All day for us his heavy hand
The groaning anvil scourge.
From far-off hills, the panting team
For us is toiling near;
For us the raftsmen down the stream
Their island barges steer.
Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke
In forests old and still,--
For us the century-circled oak
Falls crashing down his hill.
Up!--up!--in nobler toil than ours
No craftsmen bear a part:
We make of Nature's giant powers
The slaves of human Art.
Lay rib to rib and beam to beam,
And drive the treenails free;
Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam
Shall tempt the searching sea!
Where'er the keel of our good ship
The sea's rough field shall plough,--
Where'er her tossing spars shall drip
With salt-spray caught below--
That ship must heed her master's beck,
Her helm obey his hand,
And seamen tread her reeling deck
As if they trod the land.
Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak
Of Northern ice may peel;
The sunken rock and coral peak
May grate along her keel;
And know we well the painted shell
We give to wind and wave,
Must float, the sailor's citadel,
Or-sink, the sailor's grave!
Ho!--strike away the bars and blocks,
And set the good ship free!
Why lingers on these dusty rocks
The young bride of the sea?
Look! how she moves adown the grooves,
In graceful beauty now!
How lowly on the breast she loves
Sinks down her virgin prow!
God bless her! wheresoe'er the breeze
Her snowy wing shall fan,
Aside the frozen Hebrides,
Or sultry Hindostan!
Where'er, in mart or on the main,
With peaceful flag unfurled,
She helps to wind the silken chain
Of commerce round the world!
Be hers the Prairie's golden grain,
The Desert's golden sand,
The clustered fruits of sunny Spain,
The spice of Morning-land!
Her pathway on the open main
May blessings follow free,
And glad hearts--welcome back again
Her white sails from the sea!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What time of day is indicated in the first and second stanzas?
What tells you this?
How does the smith "scourge" the anvil?
What effect does the poet fancy this has upon the anvil?
Which of these two thoughts do you suppose first occurred to the poet?
What are the "island barges"?
What is a "century-circled oak"? Did you ever see one?
What is Whittier's idea of a shipbuilder's work?
In what way would a "yawning seam" tempt the sea?
What is the "painted shell"?
How is a ship launched?
What other poem have you read which describes the launching of a ship? Who
wrote it?
Which poem do you like better? Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.,
"gnarled oak"
"faithless joint"
"coral peak"
"the sailor's citadel"
"snowy wing"
"Desert's golden sand"
"spice of Morningland"
* * * * *
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Oliver Wendell Holmes's birth year, 1809, was made memorable on both sides
of the Atlantic by the births of Lincoln, Tennyson, Poe, and Gladstone. His
father, of colonial descent, was a Congregational minister at Cambridge. On
his mother's side--the Wendells or Vondels--he was of Dutch descent.
Holmes was brought up very simply in the old gambrel-roofed house, half
parsonage and half farm house. He read the "New England Primer," "Pilgrim's
Progress" and such poems as were to be found in the early school books.
Later he was a student at Harvard, a member of the class of 1829, which,
while not to be compared for literary genius with the Bowdoin class of
1825, was one of Harvard's most famous classes. Not long after his
graduation, the class of 1829 began to held annual dinners and Holmes was
regularly called upon to furnish an ode for the occasion. It was on the
thirtieth anniversary that he wrote and recited "The Boys." In 1889, at the
sixtieth anniversary, he wrote the last class poem, "After the Curfew."
It was in the first year after his graduation that his verses went into
type and then he says he had his first attack of "lead poisoning." After
leaving Harvard he studied law for a while and then turned to medicine and
surgery, spending two years in study in Paris. It is a singular coincidence
and shows his double work in life, that in 1836 when he published his first
volume of poems he also took his degree as doctor of medicine. As a
physician he was always deeply interested in the problems of heredity and
he wrote several novels in which inherited characteristics play an
important part.
It was in September, 1830, that Holmes chanced to read in a newspaper of
the proposal of the Navy Department to dismantle the frigate Constitution,
which had done such good service in 1812 but which was then lying, old and
unseaworthy, in the navy yard at Charleston. He wrote at once with a lead
pencil on a scrap of paper the stirring verses "Old Ironsides" and sent
them to the Boston Daily Advertiser, from which they were copied in all the
papers of the country. The frigate was converted into a school-ship, and
Oliver Wendell Holmes became known as a poet.
On every public occasion which could be enlivened or dignified by a special
poem, Dr. Holmes was called upon. Such a position is a trying one and one
to which only men with a sense of humor are often called. The doctor rarely
refused to respond; so that nearly one-half of his verse is of this
occasional character. Much of his verse is in lighter vein, but of the
serious, surest in their hold upon his readers are "The Last Leaf" and "The
Chambered Nautilus." But Holmes, while he had a genuine gift of song, was
no persistent singer like Longfellow or Whittier, and so he reached almost
the age of fifty without feeling that the reading public had any special
interest in him. Then in 1857, when the Atlantic Monthly was established,
and Lowell took the editorship only on condition that Holmes would be a
contributor, he wrote the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table." In this role
of talker, comfortable, brilliant, and witty, Holmes made friends wherever
the Autocrat was read.
Holmes's intellect remained bright and he continued an active worker into
extreme old age. In 1890 he published his last volume, "Over the Teacups."
As one by one this brilliant company of New England writers left the world,
Holmes sang to each a farewell song. When his own time came he was really
"The Last Leaf upon the Tree." The end came peacefully as he was talking to
his son, October 7, 1894.
* * * * *
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main--
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings,
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed--
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
Prom thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What does the word nautilus mean?
What thought must have been in the mind of those who gave the chambered
nautilus this name?
Who does Holmes tell us have given expression to this fancy?
Can you think of any bodies of water which might be called "enchanted
gulfs"?
Give reasons for your answer.
What are coral reefs? Where are they found?
What kind of beings--were "sea-maids" supposed to be?
What are they more commonly called?
To whom is the poet speaking?
What name do we give to such a speech?
How does the soul build mansions?
In what directions must a dome be extended to make it "more vast"?
What does the poet mean by the "outgrown shell" of the soul?
What is the lesson of the poem?
Which stanza do you like best? Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl"
"dim dreaming life"
"sunless crypt"
"caves of thought"
"lustrous coil"
"cast from her lap forlorn"
"low-vaulted past"
"irised ceiling"
"life's unresting sea"
* * * * *
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE: OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"
A LOGICAL STORY
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it----ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,--
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
_Georgius Secundus_ was then alive,--
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot,--
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking, still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,--
Above or below, or within or without,--
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise _breaks down_, but doesn't _wear out_.
But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell _yeou_,")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it _couldn_' break daown.
--"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,--
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"--
Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace, bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."--
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew."
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;--
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;--
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then came fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)
First of November,--the Earthquake-day.--
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn't be--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub _encore_.
And yet, _as a whole_, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be _worn out_!
First of November, fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text,--
Had got to _fifthly_, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,--
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock--
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground.
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,--
All at once, and nothing first,--
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
How does Holmes account for the fact "that a chaise breaks down, but
doesn't wear out"?
What kind of chaise did the Deacon decide to build?
On what principle did he expect to do this?
Read the lines in which the Deacon states the result of his experience with
chaises.
What do you think of his reasoning?
To what besides the building of a chaise might this principle be applied?
To what does the poet compare the breaking down of the chaise?
Read lines which show the serious side of the poet's nature.
Read the lines by means of which he passes from seriousness to jest.
Do you think Holmes expects his readers to believe this story? Give reason
for your answer.
What was his purpose in writing it?
What has the reading of this poem done for you?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Georgius Secundus"
"Lisbon earthquake day"
"from the German hive"
"Braddock's army"
* * * * *
OLD IRONSIDES
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky:
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar:--
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;--
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
O better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave:
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: Old Ironsides was the name given the frigate Constitution. It
was proposed by the Secretary of the Navy to dispose of the ship as it had
become unfit for service. Popular sentiment did not approve of this. It was
said a ship which was the pride of the nation should continue to be the
property of the Navy and be rebuilt for service when needed. Holmes wrote
this poem at the time of this discussion.
Notes and Questions.
Of what does the first stanza treat?
The second?
What does the third stanza tell you?
To what does "tattered ensign" refer?
What is "The meteor of the ocean air"?
What is meant by lines 15 and 16?
Where does Holmes say should be the grave of Old Ironsides? Why?
Explain lines 23 and 24.
Which lines do you like best? Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"sweep the clouds"
"conquered knee"
"mighty deep"
"vanquished foe"
"The god of storms"
"threadbare sail"
"victor's tread"
"shattered hulk"
* * * * *
THE BOYS
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite!
Old Time is a liar! We're twenty tonight!
We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?
He's tipsy,--young jackanapes!--show him the door!
"Gray temples at twenty?"--Yes! _white_ if we please;
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!
Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close,--you will see not a sign of a flake!
We want some new garlands for those we have shed,--
And these are white roses in place of the red.
We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
Of talking (in public) as if we were old:--
That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge";
It's a neat little fiction,--of course it's all fudge.
That fellow's the "Speaker,"--the one on the right;
"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you tonight?
That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff;
There's the "Reverend" What's his name?--don't make me laugh.
That boy with the grave mathematical look
Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was _true!_
So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!
There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."
And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,--
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,--
Just read on his medal, "My country, ... of thee!"
You hear that boy laughing?--You think he's all fun;
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!
Yes, we're boys,--always playing with tongue or with pen,--
And I sometimes have asked,--Shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?
Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE BOYS.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: This poem was read by Oliver Wendell Holmes at a reunion of his
college class thirty years after their graduation.
Notes and Questions.
Who were "the boys"?
What was the "Almanac's cheat"?
What catalogue do you think Holmes meant?
How could it be interpreted as showing spite against "the boys"?
How did the poet defend "gray temples at twenty"?
What was the significance in early times of the garland or wreath upon the
head?
What do you think the garlands which the poet imagines his classmates "have
shed" represent?
Of what does Holmes say their new garlands were made?
What might the "new garlands" represent?
What fancy does the poet carry out in the next stanza?
What song did the "nice youngster" write?
What is his full name?
What word is omitted from the line of the song quoted by Holmes?
How do you think Holmes felt toward the laughing "boy"? Why do you think
so?
Can you name anything besides, "tongue and pen" with which men may be said
to play?
What time of life is meant by the "gold"? By the "gray"?
How much of this poem is fun?
Which stanza do you like best? Why?
What do you know about Oliver Wendell Holmes from this poem?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Royal Society"
"three-decker brain"
"excellent pith"
"life-lasting toys"
* * * * *
THE LAST LEAF
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said,--
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago,--
That he had a Roman nose
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What was the office of the Crier?
What has done away with the necessity for such service?
At what time was the costume described in the seventh stanza worn?
What great men can you mention who are pictured in this dress?
What makes the description of the old man so vivid?
How does he resemble "the last leaf on the tree"?
Of whom is Holmes thinking when he says "Let them smile"?
What is added to the picture of the last leaf by the words "Is the spring"?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"pruning knife of Time"
"mossy marbles"
* * * * *
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL was born at Cambridge in the beautiful house known as
Elmwood. He was more fortunate than most Americans, for in this same house
he lived and died. The dwelling at Elmwood was like Craigie House, an
historic place of Revolutionary memories. The secluded, ample grounds made
a fine rural refuge for a youth of poetic fancies. Nor was there only
wealth for the nature-lover of outdoors; there were also treasures for the
lover of books within. The Lowell library was the accumulation of several
generations of scholarly men, and Lowell from early youth was familiar with
books which Whittier even in the studious leisure of old age never looked
into.
Lowell was twelve years younger than Longfellow and was a sophomore when
Longfellow went to Harvard as professor of Romance languages. At Harvard
Lowell distinguished himself especially in literary matters. In the last
year of his residence he was one of the editors of the college magazine and
was also elected class poet. Although he studied law, he was never
attracted to the practice of it.
Lowell, like Whittier, could turn from the heat and strife of public
affairs to the solace of pure poetry. Inspired by the legend of the Holy
Grail, he wrote within forty-eight hours, so we are told, the poem of
knightly aspiration and brotherly love, "The Vision of Sir Launfal."
In 1856, upon Longfellow's resignation, Lowell was appointed professor of
Romance Languages at Harvard, and, like Longfellow, he remained for twenty
years. In 1857 a new magazine to which Holmes had given the name "Atlantic
Monthly" was established and Lowell was its first editor.
In 1877 Lowell was appointed minister to Spain, where Irving had been sent
more than thirty years before; and in 1880 he was transferred to the court
of St. James. Here he distinguished himself by tact, courtesy, and wisdom
and won the admiration of the English people.
Returning to America in 1885 Lowell continued to write, and delivered
addresses when his strength would permit. He spent his time among his books
and lived peacefully at Elmwood, where he died in 1891 at the age of
seventy-two.
* * * * *
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
PRELUDE TO PART FIRST
Over his keys the musing organist.
Beginning doubtfully and far away,
First lets his fingers wander as they list,
And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay:
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument
Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent
Along the wavering vista of his dream.
* * * * *
Not only around our infancy
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
We Sinais climb and know it not.
Over our manhood bend the skies;
Against our fallen and traitor lives
The great winds utter prophecies;
With our faint hearts the mountain strives;
Its arms outstretched, the Druid wood
Waits with its benedicite;
And to our age's drowsy blood
Still shouts the inspiring sea.
Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;
The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us.
We bargain for the graves we lie in;
At the Devil's booth are all things sold,
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking:
'Tis heaven alone that is given away,
'Tis only God may be had for the asking;
No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by the poorest comer.
And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,--
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,--
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how:
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,--
'Tis the natural way of living:
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake;
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.
What wonder if Sir Launfal now
Remembered the keeping of his vow?
PART FIRST
I.
"My golden spurs now bring to me,
And bring to me my richest mail,
For tomorrow I go over land and sea
In search of the Holy Grail;
Shall never a bed for me be spread,
Nor shall a pillow be under my head,
Till I begin my vow to keep;
Here on the rushes will I sleep,
And perchance there may come a vision true
Ere day create the world anew."
Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,
Slumber fell like a cloud on him,
And into his soul the vision flew.
II.
The crows flapped over by twos and threes,
In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees,
The little birds sang as if it were
The one day of summer in all the year,
And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees;
The castle alone in the landscape lay
Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray:
'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree,
And never its gates might opened be,
Save to lord or lady of high degree;
Summer besieged it on every side,
But the churlish stone her assaults defied;
She could not scale the chilly wall,
Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall
Stretched left and right,
Over the hills and out of sight;
Green and broad was every tent,
And out of each a murmur went
Till the breeze fell off at night.
III.
The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,
And through the dark arch a charger sprang,
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight,
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright
It seemed the dark castle had gathered all
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall
In his siege of three hundred summers long,
And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf,
Had cast them forth: so, young and strong,
And lightsome as a locust-leaf,
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail,
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.
IV.
It was morning on hill and stream and tree,
And morning in the young knight's heart;
Only the castle moodily
Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free,
And gloomed by itself apart;
The season brimmed all other things up
Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup.
V.
As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate,
He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same,
Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate;
And a loathing over Sir Launfal came;
The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,
The flesh 'neath his armor did shrink and crawl,
And midway its leap his heart stood still
Like a frozen waterfall;
For this man, so foul and bent of stature,
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,
And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,--
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.
VI.
The leper raised not the gold from the dust:
"Better to me the poor man's crust,
Better the blessing of the poor,
Though I turn me empty from his door;
That is no true alms which the hand can hold;
He gives nothing but worthless gold
Who gives from a sense of duty;
But he who gives but a slender mite,
And gives to that which is out of sight,
That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty
Which runs through all and doth all unite,--
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms,
The heart outstretches its eager palms,
For a god goes with it and makes it store
To the soul that was starving in darkness before."
PRELUDE TO PART SECOND
Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,
From the snow five thousand summers old;
On open wold and hilltop bleak
It had gathered all the cold,
And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek;
It carried a shiver everywhere
From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;
The little brook heard it and built a roof
'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof;
All night by the white stars' frosty gleams
He groined his arches and matched his beams;
Slender and clear were his crystal spars
As the lashes of light that trim the stars;
He sculptured every summer delight
In his halls and chambers out of sight;
Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt
Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt,
Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees
Bending to counterfeit a breeze;
Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew
But silvery mosses that downward grew;
Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief
With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf;
Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear
For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here
He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops
And hung them thickly with diamond-drops,
That crystalled the beams of moon and sun,
And made a star of every one:
No mortal builder's most rare device
Could match this winter-palace of ice;
'Twas as if every image that mirrored lay
In his depths serene through the summer day,
Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky,
Lest the happy model should be lost,
Had been mimicked in fairy masonry
By the elfin builders of the frost.
Within the hall are song and laughter,
The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly,
And sprouting is every corbel and rafter
With lightsome green of ivy and holly;
Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide
Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide;
The broad flame-pennons droop and flap
And belly and tug as a flag in the wind;
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap,
Hunted to death in its galleries blind;
And swift little troops of silent sparks,
Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear,
Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks
Like herds of startled deer.
But the wind without was eager and sharp,
Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp,
And rattles and wrings
The icy strings,
Singing, in dreary monotone,
A Christmas carol of its own,
Whose burden still, as he might guess,
Was "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!"
The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch
As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch,
And he sat in the gateway and saw all night
The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold,
Through the window-slits of the castle old,
Build out its piers of ruddy light
Against the drift of the cold.
PART SECOND
I.
There was never a leaf on bush or tree,
The bare boughs rattled shudderingly;
The river was dumb and could not speak,
For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun;
A single crow on the tree-top bleak
From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun;
Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold.
As if her veins were sapless and old,
And she rose up decrepitly
For a last dim look at earth and sea.
II.
Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate,
For another heir in his earldom sate;
An old, bent man, worn out and frail,
He came back from seeking the Holy Grail;
Little he recked of his earldom's loss,
No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross,
But deep in his soul the sign he wore,
The badge of the suffering and the poor.
III.
Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare
Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air,
For it was just at the Christmas time;
So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime,
And sought for a shelter from cold and snow
In the light and warmth of long ago;
He sees the snake-like caravan crawl
O'er the edge of the desert, black and small,
Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one,
He can count the camels in the sun,
As over the red-hot sands they pass
To where, in its slender necklace of grass,
The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade,
And with its own self like an infant played,
And waved its signal of palms.
IV.
"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms;"--
The happy camels may reach the spring,
But Sir Launfal sees naught save the grewsome thing,
The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone,
That cowers beside him, a thing as lone
And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas
In the desolate horror of his disease.
V.
And Sir Launfal said, "I behold in thee
An image of Him who died on the tree;
Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns,
Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns,
And to thy life were not denied
The wounds in the hands and feet and side:
Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me;
Behold, through him, I give to Thee!"
VI.
Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes
And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he
Remembered in what a haughtier guise
He had flung an alms to leprosie,
When he caged his young life up in gilded mail
And set forth in search of the Holy Grail.
The heart within him was ashes and dust;
He parted in twain his single crust,
He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink,
And gave the leper to eat and drink:
'Twas a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread,
'Twas water out of a wooden bowl,--
Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed,
And 'twas red wine he drank with his thirsty soul.
VII.
As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face,
A light shone round about the place;
The leper no longer crouched at his side,
But stood before him glorified,
Shining and tall and fair and straight
As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,--
Himself the Gate whereby men can
Enter the temple of God in Man.
VIII.
His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine,
And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine,
That mingle their softness and quiet in one
With the shaggy unrest they float down upon;
And the voice that was calmer than silence said,
"Lo, it is I, be not afraid!
In many climes, without avail,
Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail;
Behold, it is here,--this cup which thou
Didst fill at the streamlet for Me but now;
This crust is My body broken for thee;
This water His blood that died on the tree;
The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,
In whatso we share with another's need:
Not what we give, but what we share,--
For the gift without the giver is bare;
Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,--
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me."
IX.
Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound:--
"The Grail in my castle here is found!
Hang my idle armor up on the wall,
Let it be the spider's banquet-hall;
He must be fenced with stronger mail
Who would seek and find the Holy Grail."
X.
The castle gate stands open now,
And the wanderer is welcome to the hall
As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough;
No longer scowl the turrets tall,
The Summer's long siege at last is o'er;
When the first poor outcast went in at the door,
She entered with him in disguise,
And mastered the fortress by surprise;
There is no spot she loves so well on ground,
She lingers and smiles there the whole year round;
The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land
Has hall and bower at his command;
And there's no poor man in the North Countree
But is lord of the earldom as much as he.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Into what two parts does the poem divide?
What purpose does the prelude to each part serve?
What were the conditions under which Sir Launfal set out in search of the
Holy Grail?
How did the sight of the leper affect the young knight when he "flashed
forth" from his castle?
How did the leper explain his refusal of the alms tossed him?
What picture does the prelude to Part Second give you? Contrast it with
that of the prelude to Part First.
Describe Sir Launfal's appearance on his return from his quest.
What had he lost while on his search?
What had he gained?
Describe the second meeting with the leper.
How much of this story was a dream? Explain why you think so.
With what line does Lowell begin the account of Sir Launfal's vision?
What effect did the dream or vision have upon Sir Launfal?
What do you think is the great lesson of this poem?
Of whom is Sir Launfal a type?
What does the cold grim castle represent?
Find lines in the prelude to Part First which show the first stirring of
Sir Launfal's spiritual nature. What influences prompted this?
Why did Lowell choose a leper to confront Sir Launfal?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"We Sinais climb and know it not"
"Behold it is here--the Grail in my castle here is found"
"With our faint hearts the mountain strives"
"Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune"
"For a god goes with it"
"Himself the Gate whereby men can Enter the temple of God in Man"
"She entered with him in disguise"
"He must be fenced with stronger mail"
* * * * *
YUSSOUF
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
A stranger came one night to Yussouf's tent,
Saying, "Behold one outcast and in dread,
Against whose life the bow of power is bent,
Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head;
I come to thee for shelter and for food,
To Yussouf, called through all our tribes 'The Good.'"
"This tent is mine," said Yussouf, "but no more
Than it is God's; come in, and be at peace;
Freely shalt thou partake of all my store
As I of His who buildeth over these
Our tents His glorious roof of night and day,
And at whose door none ever yet heard 'Nay.'"
So Yussouf entertained his guest that night,
And, waking him ere day, said: "Here is gold;
My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight;
Depart before the prying day grow bold."
As one lamp lights another, nor grows less,
So nobleness enkindleth nobleness.
That inward light the stranger's face made grand,
Which shines from all self-conquest; kneeling low,
He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf's hand,
Sobbing: "O, Sheik, I cannot leave thee so;
I will repay thee; all this thou hast done
Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son!"
"Take thrice the gold," said Yussouf, "for with thee
Into the desert, never to return,
My one black thought shall ride away from me;
First-born, for whom by day and night I yearn,
Balanced and just are all of God's decrees;
Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep in peace!"
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Where do you think the scene of this poem was laid? Give the reason for
your answer.
What do you know of the habits of people who live in tents?
What virtues would men living in this way most admire? Why?
How do you think Yussouf had won his title of "The Good"?
To what does the stranger compare himself?
What does the bending of the bow signify?
To what tribes does the stranger refer?
What do you learn of Yussouf's character from the second and third stanzas?
What emotions made the stranger's face "grand"?
What do you suppose Yussouf's "one black thought" had been?
How did he avenge his son?
When does Yussouf show himself most noble?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"prying day"
"self-conquest"
"nobleness enkindleth nobleness"
"for whom by day and night I yearn"
* * * * *
SIDNEY LANIER
Sidney Lanier is a poet of the South who year by year appeals to a larger
number of lovers of good literature. He was born in Georgia of Huguenot and
Scotch ancestry and when only a small lad showed great talent and love for
music. His mother encouraged him in this, and from beginning with clapping
bones it was not long before he learned to play on the guitar, banjo,
violin, and flute. On the Christmas when he was seven years old he was
given a small one-keyed flute, and from that time on the flute became his
favorite instrument. When he grew to manhood he became first flutist in the
Baltimore orchestra. So passionately fond was he of music that he could
scarcely decide between that and poetry as his choice for a profession.
He was graduated from a Georgia college at the age of eighteen, and in the
following year, 1861, he enlisted in the Southern army. His younger
brother, Clifford, of whom he was very fond, also enlisted, and when
opportunities for promotion came to both they declined rather than be
separated. They engaged in many battles, but Sidney Lanier found time, even
during the war, to continue his study. In 1864 he was taken prisoner, while
doing duty as a signal officer, and spent five months in Point Lookout
prison. He came home from the hardships of war broken in health, so that
from that time on his life was one fierce struggle against disease.
From the time when as a boy he spent hours in his father's library reading
the tales of King Arthur, the stories of romantic chivalry were of
absorbing interest to him. He understood and loved boys, for he had four of
his own, and for these he has written "The Boy's Froissart," "The Boy's
King Arthur" and the "Knightly Legends of Wales."
In 1879 he was appointed lecturer on English literature at the Johns
Hopkins University, and his prospects were at last brightening when two
years later he died. During the last seven years of his life, struggling
ever with poverty and pain, he wrote his one volume of poetry. His poems
show his great faith--indeed, his poem, "The Marshes of Glynn," is religion
set to music.
* * * * *
THE MARSHES OF GLYNN
SIDNEY LANIER
O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine,
While the riotous noonday sun of the June day long did shine
Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine;
But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest,
And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West,
And the slant yellow beam down the wood aisle doth seem
Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream,--
Aye, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of the oak,
And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome sound of the stroke
Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low,
And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know,
And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within,
That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn
Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore
When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness sore,
And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable pain
Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain,--
Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face
The vast, sweet visage of space.
To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn,
Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the dawn,
For a mete and a mark
To the forest dark:--
So:
Affable live oak, leaning low,--
Thus--with your favor--soft, with a reverent hand,
(Not lightly touching your person, lord of the land!)
Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand
On the firm-packed sand,
Free
By a world of marsh, that borders a world of sea.
Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmering band
Of the sand beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of the
land.
Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight,
Softly the sand beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light.
And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high?
The world lies east: how ample the marsh and the sea and the sky!
A league and a league of marsh grass, waist-high, broad in the blade,
Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade,
Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain,
To the terminal blue of the main.
Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea?
Somehow my soul seems suddenly free
From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin,
By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn.
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,
Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won
God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain
And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.
As the marsh hen secretly builds on the watery sod,
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God!
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh hen flies
In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies:
By so many roots as the marsh grass sends in the sod
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God:
Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.
And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea
Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood tide must be:
Look how the grace of the sea doth go
About and about through the intricate channels that flow
Here and there,
Everywhere,
Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying
lanes,
And the marsh is meshed with a million veins,
That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow
In the rose-and-silver evening glow.
Farewell, my lord Sun!
The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run
'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh grass stir;
Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whir;
Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run;
And the sea and the marsh are one.
How still the plains of the waters be!
The tide is in his ecstasy;
The tide is at its highest height:
And it is night.
And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep
Roll in on the souls of men,
But who will reveal to our waking ken
The forms that swim and the shapes that creep
Under the waters of sleep?
And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in
On the length and the breadth of the marvelous marshes of Glynn.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What can you tell of the coastal plain in Georgia?
What effect on the poet had the "dusks of the oak" at noon?
At sunset what appealed more strongly to him?
How does the poet account for his lack of fear of the marshes now?
In the marsh region what is "lord of the land"?
What characteristics of the marshes does the poet point out?
What comparisons are found in lines fifty to fifty-five?
To what does the poet compare the extent of the marshes of Glynn?
In this region when does the flood tide come? What tells you?
Which picture in the poem do you like best?
Explain: "Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whir."
What is the meaning of the last nine lines?
Do you like this poem? Why? What can you tell of the author?
Point out parts that you like best.
Find examples of alliteration.
Why does the poet repeat "I am drawn"?
Select lines that are especially beautiful.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"glimmering"
"Vanishing"
"swerving"
"Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream"
"Bending your beauty aside"
"intricate channels"
"uttermost creeks"
"Glynn"--a county in Georgia which borders on the Atlantic.
"live oak"--a species of oak found along the coasts of the southern states.
"catholic man"--a broad-minded man.
"braided dusks"--shadows of branches crossing one another.
"woven shades"--shadows interlacing.
"riotous noonday sun"--beating down hard.
"ye held me fast in your heart"--attracted and delighted me.
"I held you fast in mine"--loved, enjoyed.
"riot is rest"--the heat of the day is past, all is quiet.
"a-wait"--waiting.
"ponderous gate"--vast western horizon at sunset.
"wood aisle"--path of sun's rays in the woods at sunset.
"drunken the soul of the oak"--absorbed its strength.
"scythe of time"--symbol of death.
"trowel of trade"--symbol of industry.
"belief overmasters doubt"--inner confidence, faith takes the place of
uncertainty.
"I know that I know"--become self-confident thro' a Power greater than
self.
"My spirit grows to a lordly great compass within"--My soul becomes its own
confident guide, relying on a Power greater than self.
"When length was fatigue"--tiresome to look at--he was unable to understand
it.
"breadth was but bitterness sore"--so vast as to be disappointing and
beyond his ability to know and control.
"drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain"--The vastness of the
marshes filled him with fear and awe.
"sweet visage of space"--He came to love the view of the marshes.
"belt of the dawn"--the line where the gray beach and the woods come
together is like the horizon at daybreak.
"For a mete and a mark"--a line to measure and distinguish the limits of
the marsh.
"affable live oak"--friendly, kindly.
"lord of the land"--the oak tree.
"sinuous southward"--irregular line connecting wood and marsh.
"fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of the land"--the line which
marks the coming together of the marsh and the land--"the shimmering band."
"gray looping of light"--the light reflected or thrown back from the woods
in the dim distance.
"terminal blue of the main"--the sea coast, the coast line.
"weighing of fate"--serious thoughts of the future.
"publish yourselves"--to show or to expose.
"offer yourselves"--the sea overruns the marsh.
"Tolerant plains"--generous, broad, liberal.
"mightily won God out of Knowledge"--won thro' kindness and love, and
broad-mindedness.
"good out of infinite pain"--was helped by suffering to become noble and
true.
"build me a nest on the greatness of God"--to establish himself on the
principles of the great Power.
"lay me a-hold on the greatness of God"--to lay hold of this Heavenly
beauty and goodness and greatness.
"liberal marshes"--great, broad. Thro' these he learned the beauty of
greatness and of broad-mindedness in man, and from that to the greatness of
God was but a natural step.
"sea lends large"--sends its waters out in tides over the marsh country
twice a day.
"grace of the sea"--the generous waters of the sea.
"rosy and silvery essences"--relates to the color of the water in the
channel, as determined by the setting sun's rays.
"passeth a hurrying sound of wings"--a sound of wings hurrying past.
"is in his ecstasy"--the tide has reached its highest point--it is the
moment of accomplishment; the task is finished.
"Vast of the Lord"--The influence of God upon men is compared to that of
the tides of the sea upon the marshes.
"waking ken"--Who can tell us the meaning of our dreams?
* * * * *