Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,
The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun--the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between--
The venerable woods--rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings,--yet the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep,--the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man,
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
EXPRESSION: Observe that this poem is written in blank verse. In
what respects does it differ from other forms of verse? Read it
with great care, observing the marks of punctuation and giving to
each passage the proper inflections and emphasis. Compare it with
some other poems you have read.
II
One Sunday evening, in the summer of 1848, Edgar Allan Poe was visiting
at the house of a friend in New York city. The day was warm, and the
windows of the conservatory where he was sitting were thrown wide open
to admit the breeze. Mr. Poe was very despondent because of many sorrows
and disappointments, and he was plainly annoyed by the sound of some
near-by church bells pealing the hour of worship.
"I have made an agreement with a publisher to write a poem for him," he
said, "but I have no inspiration for such a task. What shall I do?"
His friend Mrs. Shew gave him an encouraging reply, and invited him to
drink tea with her. Then she placed paper and ink before him and
suggested that, if he would try to write, the required inspiration would
come.
"No," he answered; "I so dislike the noise of bells to-night, I cannot
write. I have no subject--I am exhausted."
Mrs. Shew then wrote at the top of the sheet of paper, _The Bells, by E.
A. Poe_, and added a single line as a beginning:
"The bells, the little silver bells."
The poet accepted the suggestion, and after some effort finished the
first stanza. Then Mrs. Shew wrote another line:
"The heavy iron bells."
This idea was also elaborated by Mr. Poe, who copied off the two stanzas
and entitled them _The Bells, by Mrs. M. L. Shew_. He went home,
pondering deeply upon the subject; the required inspiration was not long
lacking; and in a few days the completed poem was ready to be submitted
to the publisher.
THE BELLS
Hear the sledges with the bells--
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight,
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rime,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically swells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding bells--
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtledove that listens while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the riming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells--
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire
And a resolute endeavor
Now--now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells,
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang and crash and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells,
Of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells!
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells.
Hear the tolling of the bells--
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people--ah, the people--
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone:
They are neither man nor woman;
They are neither brute nor human;
They are ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells,
And he dances and he yells,
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rime,
To the paean of the bells--
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rime,
To the throbbing of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rime,
To the rolling of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells,--
To the tolling of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells!
III
In the early part of the nineteenth century Fitz-Greene Halleck was
regarded as one of the greatest of American poets. He is now, however,
remembered chiefly as the author of a single poem, "Marco Bozzaris,"
published in 1827. This poem has been described, perhaps justly, as "the
best martial lyric in the English language."
It was written at a time when the people of Greece were fighting for
their independence; and it celebrates the heroism of the young Greek
patriot, Marco Bozzaris, who was killed while leading a desperate but
successful night attack upon the Turks, August 20, 1823. As here
presented, it is slightly abridged.
MARCO BOZZARIS
At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;
In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring:
Then pressed that monarch's throne--a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.
At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Plataea's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.
An hour passed on--the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke--to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke--to die midst flame, and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and saber stroke,
And death shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:
"Strike--till the last armed foe expires;
Strike--for your altars and your fires;
Strike--for the green graves of your sires;
God--and your native land!"
They fought--like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
They conquered--but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,
Like flowers at set of sun.
* * * * *
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee--there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
She wore no funeral weeds for thee,
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,
The heartless luxury of the tomb;
But she remembers thee as one
Long-loved and for a season gone.
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch and cottage-bed....
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's:
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.
EXPRESSION: Talk with your teacher about these three poems, and the
proper manner of reading each. Learn all that you can about their
authors.
THE INDIAN[53]
Think of the country for which the Indians fought! Who can blame them?
As Philip looked down from his seat on Mount Hope and beheld the lovely
scene which spread beneath at a summer sunset,--the distant hilltops
blazing with gold, the slanting beams streaming across the waters, the
broad plains, the island groups, the majestic forests,--could he be
blamed, if his heart burned within him, as he beheld it all passing, by
no tardy process, from beneath his control, into the hands of the
stranger?
As the river chieftains--the lords of the waterfalls and the
mountains--ranged this lovely valley, can it be wondered at, if they
beheld with bitterness the forest disappearing beneath the settler's
ax--the fishing places disturbed by his sawmills?
Can we not imagine the feelings, with which some strong-minded savage
chief, who should have ascended the summit of the Sugarloaf Mountain, in
company with a friendly settler, contemplating the progress already made
by the white man and marking the gigantic strides with which he was
advancing into the wilderness, should fold his arms, and say:--
"White man, there is an eternal war between me and thee. I quit not the
land of my fathers, but with my life. In those woods where I bent my
youthful bow, I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will
still glide unrestrained in my bark canoe; by those dashing waterfalls I
will still lay up my winter's store of food; on these fertile meadows I
will still plant my corn.
"Stranger! the land is mine. I understand not these paper rights. I gave
not my consent, when, as thou sayest, these broad regions were
purchased, for a few baubles, of my fathers. They could sell what was
theirs; they could sell no more. How could my father sell that which the
Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon? He knew not what he
did.
"The stranger came, a timid suppliant; he asked to lie down on the red
man's bearskin, and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a
little piece of land to raise corn for his women and children. Now he is
become strong and mighty and bold, and spreads out his parchment over
the whole, and says, 'It is mine!'
"Stranger, there is no room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made
us to live together. There is poison in the white man's cup; the white
man's dog barks at the red man's heels.
"If I should leave the land of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I
go to the south, and dwell among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I
wander to the west? The fierce Mohawk--the man-eater--is my foe. Shall
I fly to the east? The great water is before me. No, stranger! Here have
I lived, and here will I die; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal
war between me and thee.
"Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction; for that alone I thank
thee. And now take heed to thy steps--the red man is thy foe.
"When thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle past thee. When
thou liest down by night, my knife shall be at thy throat. The noonday
sun shall not discover thy enemy; and the darkness of midnight shall not
protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood.
Thou shalt sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes. Thou
shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the
scalping knife. Thou shalt build, and I will burn--till the white man or
the Indian perish from the land."
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 53: By Edward Everett, an American statesman and orator
(1794-1865).]
EXPRESSION: This selection and also the selections on pages 202,
209, and 231 are fine examples of American oratory, such as was
practiced by the statesmen and public speakers of the earlier years
of our republic. Learn all that you can about Patrick Henry, Daniel
Webster, Edward Everett, Theodore Parker, and other eminent
orators. Before attempting to read this selection aloud, read it
silently and try to understand every statement or allusion
contained in it. Call to mind all that you have learned in your
histories or elsewhere concerning the Indians and their treatment
by the American colonists. Now read with energy and feeling each
paragraph of this extract from Mr. Everett's oration. Try to make
your hearers understand and appreciate the feelings which are
expressed.
NATIONAL RETRIBUTION[54]
Do you know how empires find their end?
Yes. The great states eat up the little. As with fish, so with nations.
Come with me! Let us bring up the awful shadows of empires buried long
ago, and learn a lesson from the tomb.
Come, old Assyria, with the Ninevitish dove upon thy emerald crown! What
laid thee low?
Assyria answers: "I fell by my own injustice. Thereby Nineveh and
Babylon came with me to the ground."
O queenly Persia, flame of the nations! Wherefore art thou so fallen?
thou who trod the people under thee, bridged the Hellespont with ships,
and poured thy temple-wasting millions on the western world?
Persia answers: "Because I trod the people under me, because I bridged
the Hellespont with ships, and poured my temple-wasting millions on the
western world, I fell by my own misdeeds!"
And thou, muselike Grecian queen, fairest of all thy classic sisterhood
of states, enchanting yet the world with thy sweet witchery, speaking in
art, and most seductive in song, why liest thou there with thy beauteous
yet dishonored brow reposing on thy broken harp?
Greece answers: "I loved the loveliness of flesh, embalmed in Parian
stone. I loved the loveliness of thought, and treasured that more than
Parian speech. But the beauty of justice, the loveliness of love, I trod
down to earth. Lo! therefore have I become as those barbarian states,
and one of them."
O manly, majestic Rome, with thy sevenfold mural crown all broken at thy
feet, why art thou here? 'Twas not injustice brought thee low, for thy
great Book of Law is prefaced with these words, "Justice is the
unchanging, everlasting will to give each man his right." It was not the
saint's ideal. It was the hypocrite's pretense.
And Rome says: "I made iniquity my law! I trod the nations under me!
Their wealth gilded my palaces, where now thou mayst see the fox and
hear the owl. Wicked men were my cabinet counselors. The flatterer
breathed his poison in my ear. Millions of bondmen wet the soil with
tears and blood! Do you not hear it crying yet to God? Lo here have I my
recompense, tormented with such downfalls as you see.
"Go back and tell the newborn child who sitteth on the Alleghanies,
laying his either hand upon a tributary sea,--tell him there are rights
which States must keep, or they shall suffer punishment. Tell him there
is a God who hurls to earth the loftiest realm that breaks his just,
eternal law. Warn the young empire, that he come not down, dim and
dishonored, to my shameful tomb. Tell him that Justice is the
unchanging, everlasting will, to give each man his right. I knew this
law. I broke it. Bid him keep it, and be forever safe."
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 54: By Theodore Parker, an eminent American clergyman and
author (1810-1860).]
WHO ARE BLESSED[55]
And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was
set, his disciples came unto him.
And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying:
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for
they shall be filled.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of
God.
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for
theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall
say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.
Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for
so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.
Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savor,
wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to
be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.
Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be
hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a
candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let
your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and
glorify your Father which is in heaven....
Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for
a tooth: but I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever
shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if
any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have
thy cloak also. And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with
him twain. Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow
of thee turn not thou away.
Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor, and
hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that
curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which
despitefully use you, and persecute you; that ye may be the children of
your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the
evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 55: From the Gospel of Matthew.]
LITTLE GEMS FROM THE OLDER POETS
I. THE NOBLE NATURE[56]
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear.
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,--
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 56: By Ben Jonson (1573-1637).]
II. A CONTENTED MIND[57]
I weigh not fortune's frown or smile;
I joy not much in earthly joys;
I seek not state, I seek not style;
I am not fond of fancy's toys;
I rest so pleased with what I have,
I wish no more, no more I crave.
I quake not at the thunder's crack;
I tremble not at noise of war;
I swound not at the news of wrack;
I shrink not at a blazing star;
I fear not loss, I hope not gain,
I envy none, I none disdain.
I feign not friendship, where I hate;
I fawn not on the great in show;
I prize, I praise a mean estate--
Neither too lofty nor too low;
This, this is all my choice, my cheer--
A mind content, a conscience clear.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 57: By Joshua Sylvester (1563-1618).]
III. A HAPPY LIFE[58]
How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armor is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill;
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame, or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 58: By Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1639).]
IV. SOLITUDE[59]
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter, fire.
Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixt, sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 59: By Alexander Pope (1688-1744).]
V. A WISH[60]
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill
With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point with taper spire to Heaven.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 60: By Samuel Rogers (1763-1855).]
EXPRESSION: Which of these poems do you like best? Give reasons for
your preference. What sentiment is emphasized by all of them? What
other pleasant ideas of life are expressed? What mental pictures
are called up by reading the fourth poem? the fifth? What traits of
character are alluded to in the first poem? the second? Now read
each poem aloud, giving to each line and each stanza the thought
which was in the author's mind when he wrote it.
HOW KING ARTHUR GOT HIS NAME[61]
One day at sunset, Snowbird, the young son of a king, came over the brow
of a hill that stepped forward from a dark company of mountains and
leaned over the shoreless sea which fills the West and drowns the North.
All day he had been wandering alone, his mind heavy with wonder over
many things. He had heard strange tales of late, tales about his heroic
father and the royal clan, and how they were not like other men, but
half divine. He had heard, too, of his own destiny,--that he also was to
be a great king. What was Destiny, he wondered....
Then, as he wondered, he turned over and over in his mind all the names
he could think of that he might choose for his own; for the time was
come for him to put away the name of his childhood and to take on that
by which he should be known among men.
He came over the brow of the hill, and out of the way of the mountain
wind, and, being tired, lay down among the heather and stared across the
gray wilderness of the sea. The sun set, and the invisible throwers of
the nets trailed darkness across the waves and up the wild shores and
over the faces of the cliffs. Stars climbed out of shadowy abysses, and
the great chariots of the constellations rode from the West to the East
and from the North to the South.
His eyes closed, ... but when he opened them again, he saw a great and
kingly figure standing beside him. So great in stature, so splendid in
kingly beauty, was the mysterious one who had so silently joined him,
that he thought this must be one of the gods.
"Do you know me, my son?" said the kingly stranger.
The boy looked at him in awe and wonder, but unrecognizingly.