It is the land that freemen till,
That sober-suited Freedom chose,
The land where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will;
A land of settled government,
A land of just and old renown,
Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent;
Where faction seldom gathers head,
But, by degrees to fullness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread.
TENNYSON, You ask me why.
13. "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God."
TENNYSON, Morte D'Arthur.
To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn; and France displays her bright domain. Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ! Where shading elms along the margin grew, And freshened from the wave the Zephyr flew; And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still, But mocked all tune, and marred the dancer's skill, Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour.
Have led their children through the mirthful maze, And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, Has frisked beneath the burthen of threescore.
GOLDSMITH, The Traveller.
If all the pens that ever poets held Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts, And every sweetness that inspired their hearts, Their minds, and muses on admired themes; If all the heavenly quintessence they still From their immortal flowers of poesy, Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive The highest reaches of a human wit; If these had made one poem's period,
And all combined in beauty's worthiness,
Yet should there hover in their restless heads One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least, Which into words no virtue can digest.
Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement,
Which round about the wave enthralls: A double dungeon wall and wave Have made and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay, We heard it ripple night and day: Sounding o'er our heads it knocked; And I have felt the winter's spray
Wash through the bars when winds were high And wanton in the happy sky;
And then the very rock hath rocked, And I have felt it shake, unshocked, Because I could have smiled to see
The death that would have set me free.
BYRON, The Prisoner of Chillon.
Many are poets who have never penned Their inspiration, and perchance the best : They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compressed The god within them, and rejoined the stars Unlaurelled upon earth, but far more blessed
Than those who are degraded by the jars Of passion, and their frailties linked to fame, Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. Many are poets but without the name,
For what is poesy but to create
From overfeeling good or ill; and aim At an external life beyond our fate,
And be the new Prometheus of new men, Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain, And vultures to the heart of the bestower, Who, having lavished his high gift in vain, Lies chained to his lone rock by the sea-shore? So be it we can bear.-But thus all they Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power Which still recoils from its encumbering clay Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe❜er
The form which their creations may essay, Are bards.
BYRON, The Prophecy of Dante.
I am the Fairy Mab: to me 'tis given The wonders of the human world to keep: The secrets of the immeasurable past, In the unfailing consciences of men,
Those stern, unflattering chroniclers, I find: The future, from the causes which arise In each event, I gather: not the sting Which retributive memory implants In the hard bosom of the selfish man ; Nor that ecstatic and exulting throb
Which virtue's votary feels when he sums up The thoughts and actions of a well-spent day, Are unforeseen, unregistered by me: And it is yet permitted me to rend The veil of mortal frailty, that the spirit Clothed in its changeless purity may know How soonest to accomplish the great end For which it hath its being, and may taste That peace, which in the end all life will share. This is the meed of virtue.
Sabinus. But these our times Are not the same, Arruntius. Arruntius. Times! the men,
The men are not the same! 'tis we are base,
Poor and degenerate from the exalted strain Of our great fathers. Where is now the soul Of god-like Cato-he, that durst be good When Caesar durst be evil, and had power, As not to live his slave, to die his master? Or where's the constant Brutus, that being proof Against all charm of benefits, did strike
So brave a blow into the monster's heart That sought unkindly to captive his country? O, they are fled the light! Those mighty spirits Lie raked up with their ashes in their urns, And not a spark of their eternal fire
Glows in a present bosom. All's but blaze, Flashes and smoke, wherewith we labour so; There's nothing Roman in us; nothing good, Gallant, or great: 'tis true that Cordus says, "Brave Cassius was the last of all that race." BEN JONSON, Sejanus.
Tiberius. To be adored With the continued style and note of gods Through all the provinces, were wild ambition And no less pride: yea, even Augustus' name Would early vanish, should it be profaned With such promiscuous flatteries. For our part, We here protest it and are covetous
Posterity should know it, we are mortal,
And can but deeds of men: 'twere glory enough, Could we be truly a prince. And they shall add Abounding grace unto our memory,
That shall report us worthy our forefathers, Careful of your affairs, constant in dangers And not afraid of any private frown
For public good. These things shall be to us Temples and statues, reared in your minds, The fairest and most durable imagery; For those of stone or brass, if they become Odious in judgment of posterity,
Are more contemned as dying sepulchres Than ta'en for living monuments.
Make here our suit, alike to gods and men : The one, until the period of our race, To inspire us with a free and quiet mind, Discerning both divine and hunian laws; The other, to vouchsafe us after death An honourable mention and fair praise To accompany our actions and our name :
The rest of greatness princes may command And, therefore, may neglect; only a long, A lasting, high and happy memory They should, without being satisfied, pursue : Contempt of fame begets contempt of virtue.
References to other passages suitable for paraphrasing. Byron. The Dream, 1.; Childe Harold, IV. 140—141, 178—181; The Giaour, "He who hath...those that cannot die"; The Corsair, 11.; Manfred, III. iv. I sqq.
Cowper. Truth, "See where it smokes...present joy"; Table Talk, "Kings then at last...I pity kings"; Conversation, "Ye powers who rule...by chance"; Retirement, "Hackeyed ...die a man"; The Task, 1. 557 sqq., 749 sqq.; II. 1 sqq., 206 sqq.; IV. I sqq., 120 sqq.
The Traveller, 63 sqq., 281 sqq.; The Deserted Village, 51 sqq., 83 sqq., 217 sqq., 265 sqq.; Retaliation, 29 sqq.
Dr Johnson. Vanity of Human Wishes, 99 sqq., 343 sqq.
Milton. Paradise Lost, 1. 50-69, 105—124; III. 40-50; IV. 131-159, 598-609, 639-656; Samson Agonistes, 1-22, 187-209; Comus, 1-17; Lycidas, 64-84; Sonnets, "How soon hath Time," " "When I consider."
Pope. Iliad, xxiv. 662—675; Odyssey, v. 72—94; IX. 97—114; XVIII. 154-166.
Scott. The Lay of the Last Minstrel, v. i. 1 sqq.; VI. i. 1—ii. 7; Marmion, VI. xxxiv. 1 sqq.; The Lady of the Lake, 111. i. 1 sqq.; V. xv. I sqq.; VI. i. 1 sqq.; The Lord of the Isles, 11. i. 1 sqq.; IV. i. 1 sqq.; VI. i. 1 sqq., xxvi. 1 sqq.
« PreviousContinue » |