BISHOP JUSTUS

A LEVEL ENGLISH LITERATURE

LOVE THROUGH THE AGES Chaucer to Modern Day

LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY Types of Love to consider Courtly Love Lust First encounter Marriage Parting Forbidden Love Unrequited Love

Themes that are frequently present: The profound Nature Love as an illness Heaven The Ethereal

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY

How to use the anthology

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY Geoffrey Chaucer (1340-1400 –est.)

Brief Biog: Chaucer was the first great poet writing in English, whose best-known work is 'The Canterbury Tales'.

Geoffrey Chaucer was born between 1340 and 1345, probably in London. His father was a prosperous wine merchant. We do not know any details of his early life and education.

In 1357, he was a page to Elizabeth, Countess of Ulster, wife of Edward III's third son. Chaucer was captured by the French during the Brittany expedition of 1359, but was ransomed by the king. Edward III later sent him on diplomatic missions to France, Genoa and Florence. His travels exposed him to the work of authors such as Dante, Boccaccio and Froissart.

Around 1366, Chaucer married Philippa Roet, a lady-in-waiting in the queen's household. They are thought to have had three or four children. Philippa's sister, Katherine Swynford, later became the third wife of John of Gaunt, the king's fourth son and Chaucer's patron.

In 1374, Chaucer was appointed comptroller of the lucrative London customs. In 1386, he was elected member of parliament for Kent, and he also served as a justice of the peace. In 1389, he was made clerk of the king's works, overseeing royal building projects. He held a number of other royal posts, serving both Edward III and his successor Richard II.

Chaucer's first major work was 'The Book of the Duchess', an elegy for the first wife of his patron John of Gaunt. Other works include 'Parlement of Foules', 'The Legend of Good Women' and 'Troilus and Criseyde'. In 1387, he began his most famous work, 'The Canterbury Tales', in which a diverse group of people recount stories to pass the time on a pilgrimage to Canterbury. His social commentary through the use of diverse characters and their recounting of stories is sharply satirical.

Chaucer disappears from the historical record in 1400, and is thought to have died soon after. He was buried in Westminster Abbey.

Social and Historical context: 1170 The murder of Thomas Becket on orders of the King. Far from their dour reputation, the Middle Ages were a period of massive social change, burgeoning nationalism, international conflict, terrible natural disaster, climate change, rebellion, resistance and renaissance. 1340s The Black Death an horrific plague which ravaged England and Scotland, causing philosophical questioning of the Church. Some felt that life on earth was simply a test to gain entrance to Heaven, while others began to question whether life was to be enjoyed rather than lived in god-fearing suffering. This led to the birth of the Humanist movement. 1381 The Peasants’ Revolt – Feudal society begins to fracture

WHY IS CHAUCER IMPORTANT? Chaucer is one of the earliest English Literature texts, and, for helping you with this unit, it shows elements of courtly love and also crude lust.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY NOTES ON THE CANTEBURY TALES

Chaucer lengthy poem revolves around the idea that it is a documentation of the stories that were shared between numerous people on a pilgrimage to Canterbury to visit the shrine of St Thomas Becket.

Each story is separated by the narrator’s description of the group and the reactions caused.

Each story is delivered by a character (eg the Miller or The Knight).

Many of the stories which feature are adapted from stories which were first scribed in the DECAMERON.

Many of the stories are bawdy and crude. Many also allow Chaucer to make satirical social comment through the use of varied characters as story-tellers – it features stories by men and women and from characters from right across the class-spectrum.

The poem creates numerous layers of audience:

There is us - the readers, There is the narrator, There are the pilgrims listening to the stories.

COURTLY LOVE

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(from the Canterbury Tales) The Miller's Tale So sweetly that all the room rang; 3216 And Angelus ad virginem he song; And "The Angel to the Virgin" he sang; 3217 And after that he song the Kynges Noote. Heere bigynneth the Millere his tale. And after that he sang the King's Tune. Here begins The Miller's Tale. 3218 Ful often blessed was his myrie throte. Very often his merry throat was blessed. 3219 And thus this sweete clerk his tyme spente And thus this sweet clerk spent his time 3187 Whilom ther was dwellynge at Oxenford 3220 After his freendes fyndyng and his rente. There was once dwelling at Oxford Living on his friends' support and his (own) income. 3188 A riche gnof, that gestes heeld to bord, A rich churl, who took in boarders, 3189 And of his craft he was a carpenter. 3221 This carpenter hadde wedded newe a wyf, And of his craft he was a carpenter. This carpenter had recently wedded a wife, 3190 With hym ther was dwellynge a poure scoler, 3222 Which that he lovede moore than his lyf; With him there was dwelling a poor scholar, Whom he loved more than his life; 3191 Hadde lerned art, but al his fantasye 3223 Of eighteteene yeer she was of age. Who had learned the arts curriculum, but all his desire She was eighteen years of age. 3192 Was turned for to lerne astrologye, 3224 Jalous he was, and heeld hire narwe in cage, Was turned to learning astrology, Jealous he was, and held her narrowly in confinement, 3193 And koude a certeyn of conclusiouns, 3225 For she was wylde and yong, and he was old And he knew a certain (number of) of astronomical operations, For she was wild and young, and he was old 3194 To demen by interrogaciouns, 3226 And demed hymself been lik a cokewold. To determine by scientific calculations, And believed himself likely to be a cuckold. 3195 If that men asked hym, in certein houres 3227 He knew nat Catoun, for his wit was rude, If men asked him, in specific (astronomical) hours He knew not Cato, for his wit was rude, 3196 Whan that men sholde have droghte or elles shoures, 3228 That bad man sholde wedde his simylitude. When men should have drought or else showers, Who advised that man should wed his equal. 3197 Or if men asked hym what sholde bifalle 3229 Men sholde wedden after hire estaat, Or if people asked him what should happen Men should wed according to their status in life, 3198 Of every thyng; I may nat rekene hem alle. 3230 For youthe and elde is often at debaat. Concerning every thing; I can not reckon them all. For youth and old age are often in conflict. 3199 This clerk was cleped hende Nicholas. 3231 But sith that he was fallen in the snare, This clerk was called clever Nicholas. But since he was fallen in the snare, 3200 Of deerne love he koude and of solas; 3232 He moste endure, as oother folk, his care. Of secret love he knew and of its satisfaction; He must endure, like other folk, his troubles. 3201 And therto he was sleigh and ful privee, And moreover he was sly and very discreet, 3233 Fair was this yonge wyf, and therwithal 3202 And lyk a mayden meke for to see. Fair was this young wife, and moreover And like a maiden meek in appearance. 3234 As any wezele hir body gent and smal. 3203 A chambre hadde he in that hostelrye As any weasel was her body graceful and slender. A room had he in that hostelry 3235 A ceynt she werede, barred al of silk, 3204 Allone, withouten any compaignye, A belt she wore, with decorative strips all of silk, Alone, without any company, 3236 A barmclooth as whit as morne milk 3205 Ful fetisly ydight with herbes swoote; An apron as white as morning milk Very elegantly strewn with sweet-smelling herbs; 3237 Upon hir lendes, ful of many a goore. 3206 And he hymself as sweete as is the roote Upon her loins, full of many a flounce. And he himself as sweet as is the root 3238 Whit was hir smok, and broyden al bifoore 3207 Of lycorys or any cetewale. White was her smock, and embroidered all in front Of licorice or any zedoary (a ginger-like herb). 3239 And eek bihynde, on hir coler aboute, 3208 His Almageste, and bookes grete and smale, And also behind, around her collar, His Almagest, and books large and small, 3240 Of col-blak silk, withinne and eek withoute. 3209 His astrelabie, longynge for his art, With coal-black silk, within and also without. His astrolabe, belonging to his art (of astronomy), 3241 The tapes of hir white voluper 3210 His augrym stones layen faire apart, The ribbons of her white cap His counting stones (for his abacus) lie neatly apart, 3242 Were of the same suyte of hir coler; 3211 On shelves couched at his beddes heed; Were of the same color as her collar; Arranged on shelves at his bed's head; 3243 Hir filet brood of silk, and set ful hye. 3212 His presse ycovered with a faldyng reed; Her headband broad of silk, and set very high. His linen press covered with a red woolen cloth; 3244 And sikerly she hadde a likerous ye; 3213 And al above ther lay a gay sautrie, And surely she had a wanton eye; And all above there lay a fine psaltery, 3245 Ful smale ypulled were hire browes two, 3214 On which he made a-nyghtes melodie Her two eyebrows were plucked very thin, On which at night he made melody 3246 And tho were bent and blake as any sloo 3215 So swetely that all the chambre rong; And those were bent and black as any sloe.

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3247 She was ful moore blisful on to see For secret love of thee, sweetheart, I die." She was much more blissful to look upon 3279 And heeld hire harde by the haunchebones, 3248 Than is the newe pere-jonette tree, And held her hard by the thigh, Than is the new early-ripe pear tree, 3280 And seyde, "Lemman, love me al atones, 3249 And softer than the wolle is of a wether. And said, "Sweetheart, love me immediately And softer than the wool is of a sheep. 3281 Or I wol dyen, also God me save!" 3250 And by hir girdel heeng a purs of lether, Or I will die, so save me God!" And by her girdle hung a purse of leather, 3282 And she sproong as a colt dooth in the trave, 3251 Tasseled with silk and perled with latoun. And she sprang as a colt does when restrained, Tasseled with silk and ornamented with latten "pearls." 3283 And with hir heed she wryed faste awey, 3252 In al this world, to seken up and doun, And with her head she twisted fast away, In all this world, to seek up and down, 3284 And seyde, "I wol nat kisse thee, by my fey! 3253 There nys no man so wys that koude thenche And said, "I will not kiss thee, by my faith! There is no man so wise that he could imagine 3285 Why, lat be!" quod she. "Lat be, Nicholas, 3254 So gay a popelote or swich a wenche. Why, let me be!" said she. "Let me be, Nicholas, So lovely a little doll or such a wench. 3286 Or I wol crie `out, harrow' and `allas'! 3255 Ful brighter was the shynyng of hir hewe Or I will cry `out, help' and `alas'! Much brighter was the shining of her complexion 3287 Do wey youre handes, for youre curteisye!" 3256 Than in the Tour the noble yforged newe. Take away your hands, for your courtesy!" Than the newly minted noble in the Tower. 3257 But of hir song, it was as loude and yerne 3288 This Nicholas gan mercy for to crye, But of her song, it was as loud and lively This Nicholas began to cry for mercy, 3258 As any swalwe sittynge on a berne. 3289 And spak so faire, and profred him so faste, As any swallow sitting on a barn. And spoke so fair, and pressed his suit so fast, 3259 Therto she koude skippe and make game, 3290 That she hir love hym graunted atte laste, Moreover she could skip and play, That she granted him her love at the last, 3260 As any kyde or calf folwynge his dame. 3291 And swoor hir ooth, by Seint Thomas of Kent, Like any kid or calf following its mother. And swore her oath, by Saint Thomas of Kent, 3261 Hir mouth was sweete as bragot or the meeth, 3292 That she wol been at his comandement, Her mouth was sweet as ale and honey or mead, That she will be at his commandment, 3262 Or hoord of apples leyd in hey or heeth. 3293 Whan that she may hir leyser wel espie. Or a hoard of apples laid in hay or heather. When she may well espy her opportunity. 3263 Wynsynge she was, as is a joly colt, 3294 "Myn housbonde is so ful of jalousie Skittish she was, as is a spirited colt, "My husband is so full of jealousy 3264 Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt. 3295 That but ye wayte wel and been privee, Tall as a mast, and straight as an arrow. That unless you wait patiently and are secretive, 3265 A brooch she baar upon hir lowe coler, 3296 I woot right wel I nam but deed," quod she. A brooch she wore upon her low collar, I know right well I am as good as dead," said she. 3266 As brood as is the boos of a bokeler. 3297 "Ye moste been ful deerne, as in this cas." As broad as is the boss of a shield. "You must been very secret in this matter." 3267 Hir shoes were laced on hir legges hye. Her shoes were laced high on her legs. 3298 "Nay, therof care thee noght," quod Nicholas. 3268 She was a prymerole, a piggesnye, "No, care thee not about that," said Nicholas. She was a primrose, a pig's eye (a flower), 3299 "A clerk hadde litherly biset his whyle, 3269 For any lord to leggen in his bedde, "A clerk had badly wasted his time (studying), For any lord to lay in his bed, 3300 But if he koude a carpenter bigyle." 3270 Or yet for any good yeman to wedde. If he could not outwit a carpenter." Or yet for any good yeoman to wed. 3301 And thus they been accorded and ysworn And thus they are agreed and sworn 3271 Now, sire, and eft, sire, so bifel the cas 3302 To wayte a tyme, as I have told biforn. Now, sir, and again, sir, it so happened To wait for a time, as I have told before. 3272 That on a day this hende Nicholas That one day this clever Nicholas 3303 Whan Nicholas had doon thus everideel 3273 Fil with this yonge wyf to rage and pleye, When Nicholas had done thus every bit Happened with this young wife to flirt and play, 3304 And thakked hire aboute the lendes weel, 3274 Whil that hir housbonde was at Oseneye, And well patted her about the loins, While her husband was at Oseneye, 3305 He kiste hire sweete and taketh his sawtrie, 3275 As clerkes ben ful subtile and ful queynte; He kissed her sweetly and takes his psaltery, For clerks are very subtle and very clever; 3306 And pleyeth faste, and maketh melodie. 3276 And prively he caughte hire by the queynte, And plays fast, and makes melody. And intimately he caught her by her crotch, 3277 And seyde, "Ywis, but if ich have my wille, And said, "Indeed, unless I have my will, 3307 Thanne fil it thus, that to the paryssh chirche, 3278 For deerne love of thee, lemman, I spille." Then it thus happened, that to the parish church,

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3308 Cristes owene werkes for to wirche, 3339 This Absolon, that jolif was and gay, Christ's own works to do, This Absolon, who was elegant and gay, 3309 This goode wyf went on an haliday. 3340 Gooth with a sencer on the haliday, This good wife went on a holiday. Goes with a censer on the holiday, 3310 Hir forheed shoon as bright as any day, 3341 Sensynge the wyves of the parisshe faste; Her forehead shone as bright as any day, Censing the wives of the parish eagerly; 3311 So was it wasshen whan she leet hir werk. 3342 And many a lovely look on hem he caste, It was so washed when she left her work. And many a lovely look he cast on them, 3312 Now was ther of that chirche a parissh clerk, 3343 And namely on this carpenteris wyf. Now was there of that church a parish clerk, And especially on this carpenter's wife. 3313 The which that was ycleped Absolon. 3344 To looke on hire hym thoughte a myrie lyf, Who was called Absolon. To look on her he thought a merry life, 3314 Crul was his heer, and as the gold it shoon, 3345 She was so propre and sweete and likerous. Curly was his hair, and as the gold it shone, She was so attractive and sweet and flirtatious. 3315 And strouted as a fanne large and brode; 3346 I dar wel seyn, if she hadde been a mous, And stretched out like a fan large and broad; I dare well say, if she had been a mouse, 3316 Ful streight and evene lay his joly shode. 3347 And he a cat, he wolde hire hente anon. Very straight and even lay his elegant parted hair. And he a cat, he would have grabbed her at once. 3317 His rode was reed, his eyen greye as goos. 3348 This parissh clerk, this joly Absolon, His complexion was ruddy, his eyes gray as a goose. This parish clerk, this elegant Absolon, 3318 With Poules wyndow corven on his shoos, 3349 Hath in his herte swich a love-longynge With St. Paul's window carved on his shoes, Has in his heart such a love-longing 3319 In hoses rede he wente fetisly. 3350 That of no wyf took he noon offrynge; In red hose he went elegantly. That of no wife took he any offering; 3320 Yclad he was ful smal and proprely 3351 For curteisie, he seyde, he wolde noon. Clad he was very trimly and properly For courtesy, he said, he would have none. 3321 Al in a kirtel of a lyght waget; All in a tunic of a light blue; 3352 The moone, whan it was nyght, ful brighte shoon, 3322 Ful faire and thikke been the poyntes set. The moon, when it was night, very brightly shone, Very fair and thick are the laces set. 3353 And Absolon his gyterne hath ytake; 3323 And therupon he hadde a gay surplys And Absolon his guitar has taken; And over that he had a gay surplice 3354 For paramours he thoghte for to wake. 3324 As whit as is the blosme upon the rys. For the sake of love he intended to stay awake. As white as is the blossom upon the branch. 3355 And forth he gooth, jolif and amorous, 3325 A myrie child he was, so God me save. And forth he goes, elegant and amorous, A merry lad he was, so save me God. 3356 Til he cam to the carpenteres hous 3326 Wel koude he laten blood, and clippe and shave, Until he came to the carpenter's house Well could he draw blood, and cut hair and shave, 3357 A litel after cokkes hadde ycrowe, 3327 And maken a chartre of lond or acquitaunce. A little after cocks had crowed, And make a charter of land or a legal release. 3358 And dressed hym up by a shot-wyndowe 3328 In twenty manere koude he trippe and daunce And took his place up by a casement window In twenty different ways could he trip and dance 3359 That was upon the carpenteris wal. 3329 After the scole of Oxenforde tho, That was upon the carpenter's wall. After the school of Oxford as it was then, 3360 He syngeth in his voys gentil and smal, 3330 And with his legges casten to and fro, He sings in his voice gentle and high, And with his legs kick to and fro, 3361 "Now, deere lady, if thy wille be, 3331 And pleyen songes on a smal rubible; "Now, dear lady, if it be thy will, And play songs on a small fiddle, 3362 I praye yow that ye wole rewe on me," 3332 Therto he song som tyme a loud quynyble; I pray yow that you will have pity on me," To which he some times sang a loud high treble; 3363 Ful wel acordaunt to his gyternynge. 3333 And as wel koude he pleye on a giterne. Very well in harmony with his guitar-playing. And he could play as well on a guitar. 3364 This carpenter awook, and herde him synge, 3334 In al the toun nas brewhous ne taverne This carpenter awoke, and heard him sing, In all the town there was no brew house nor tavern 3365 And spak unto his wyf, and seyde anon, 3335 That he ne visited with his solas, And spoke unto his wife, and said at once, That he did not visit with his entertainment, 3366 "What! Alison! Herestow nat Absolon, 3336 Ther any gaylard tappestere was. "What! Alison! Hearest thou not Absolon, Where any merry barmaid was. 3367 That chaunteth thus under oure boures wal?" 3337 But sooth to seyn, he was somdeel squaymous That chants thus next to our bedroom's wall?" But to say the truth, he was somewhat squeamish 3368 And she answerde hir housbonde therwithal, 3338 Of fartyng, and of speche daungerous. And she answered her husband immediately, About farting, and fastidious in his speech. 3369 "Yis, God woot, John, I heere it every deel." "Yes indeed, God knows, John, I hear it every bit."

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3370 This passeth forth; what wol ye bet than weel? 3401 And hende Nicholas and Alisoun This goes on; what more would you have? And clever Nicholas and Alisoun 3371 Fro day to day this joly Absolon 3402 Acorded been to this conclusioun, From day to day this elegant Absolon Are agreed on this plan, 3372 So woweth hire that hym is wo bigon. 3403 That Nicholas shal shapen hym a wyle So woos her that he is in a sorry state. That Nicholas shall devise a trick 3373 He waketh al the nyght and al the day; 3404 This sely jalous housbonde to bigyle; He stays awake all the night and all the day; To beguile this hapless jealous husband; 3374 He kembeth his lokkes brode, and made hym gay; 3405 And if so be the game wente aright, He combs his flowing locks, and dressed himself elegantly; And if it so be the game went right, 3375 He woweth hire by meenes and brocage, 3406 She sholde slepen in his arm al nyght, He woos her by go-betweens and agents, She should sleep in his arms all night, 3376 And swoor he wolde been hir owene page; 3407 For this was his desir and hire also. And swore he would be her own servant; For this was his desire and hers also. 3377 He syngeth, brokkynge as a nyghtyngale; 3408 And right anon, withouten wordes mo, He sings, trilling like a nightingale; And right away, without more words, 3378 He sente hire pyment, meeth, and spiced ale, 3409 This Nicholas no lenger wolde tarie, He sent her sweetened wine, mead, and spiced ale, This Nicholas no longer would tarry, 3379 And wafres, pipyng hoot out of the gleede; 3410 But dooth ful softe unto his chambre carie And wafers, piping hot out of the fire; But has carried very quietly unto his chamber 3380 And, for she was of town, he profred meede; 3411 Bothe mete and drynke for a day or tweye, And, because she was a townie, he offered money; Both food and drink for a day or two, 3381 For som folk wol ben wonnen for richesse, 3412 And to hire housbonde bad hire for to seye, For some folk will be won for riches, And told her to say to her husband, 3382 And somme for strokes, and somme for gentillesse. 3413 If that he axed after Nicholas, And some by force, and some for noble character. If he asked about Nicholas, 3383 Somtyme, to shewe his lightnesse and maistrye, 3414 She sholde seye she nyste where he was; Sometimes, to show his agility and skill, She should say she knew not where he was; 3384 He pleyeth Herodes upon a scaffold hye. 3415 Of al that day she saugh hym nat with ye; He plays Herod upon a high stage. Of all that day she saw him not with eye; 3385 But what availleth hym as in this cas? 3416 She trowed that he was in maladye, But what good does it do him in this case? She believed that he was ill, 3386 She loveth so this hende Nicholas 3417 For, for no cry hir mayde koude hym calle, She so loves this clever Nicholas Because, for no shout could her maid call him, 3387 That Absolon may blowe the bukkes horn; 3418 He nolde answere for thyng that myghte falle. That Absolon may go whistle; He would not answer for anything that might befall. 3388 He ne hadde for his labour but a scorn. 3419 This passeth forth al thilke Saterday, He had for his labor nothing but scorn. This goes on all that same Saturday, 3389 And thus she maketh Absolon hire ape, 3420 That Nicholas stille in his chambre lay, And thus she makes Absolon her fool, That Nicholas still in his chamber lay, 3390 And al his ernest turneth til a jape. 3421 And eet and sleep, or dide what hym leste, And turns all his earnestness into a joke. And ate and slept, or did what he pleased, 3391 Ful sooth is this proverbe, it is no lye, 3422 Til Sonday, that the sonne gooth to reste. Very true is this proverb, it is no lie, Until Sunday, when the sun goes to rest. 3392 Men seyn right thus: "Alwey the nye slye 3423 This sely carpenter hath greet merveyle Men say right thus: "Always the nearby sly one This hapless carpenter has great marvel 3393 Maketh the ferre leeve to be looth." 3424 Of Nicholas, or what thyng myghte hym eyle, Makes the distant loved one to be disliked." About Nicholas, or what thing might ail him, 3394 For though that Absolon be wood or wrooth, 3425 And seyde, "I am adrad, by Seint Thomas, For though Absolon be crazed or angry, And said, "I am afraid, by Saint Thomas, 3395 By cause that he fer was from hire sight, 3426 It stondeth nat aright with Nicholas. Because he was far from her sight, Things are not right with Nicholas. 3396 This nye Nicholas stood in his light. 3427 God shilde that he deyde sodeynly! This nearby Nicholas cast him in the shadow. God forbid that he should suddenly die! 3428 This world is now ful tikel, sikerly. 3397 Now ber thee wel, thou hende Nicholas, This world is now very ticklish, surely. Now bear thyself well, thou clever Nicholas, 3429 I saugh today a cors yborn to chirche 3398 For Absolon may waille and synge "allas." I saw today a corpse carried to church For Absolon may wail and sing "alas." 3430 That now, on Monday last, I saugh hym wirche. That just now, on last Monday, I saw him work. 3399 And so bifel it on a Saterday, And so it happened on a Saturday, 3431 "Go up," quod he unto his knave anoon, 3400 This carpenter was goon til Osenay; "Go up," he said unto his servant at once, This carpenter was gone to Osenay; 3432 "Clepe at his dore, or knokke with a stoon.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY

"Call at his door, or knock with a stone. I feel very sorry for clever Nicholas. 3433 Looke how it is, and tel me boldely." 3463 He shal be rated of his studiyng, Look how it is, and tell me quickly." He shall be scolded for his studying, 3464 If that I may, by Jhesus, hevene kyng! 3434 This knave gooth hym up ful sturdily, If that I may, by Jesus, heaven's king! This servant goes up very resolutely, 3465 Get me a staf, that I may underspore, 3435 And at the chambre dore whil that he stood, Get me a staff, that I may pry up from below, And at the chamber door while he stood, 3466 Whil that thou, Robyn, hevest up the dore. 3436 He cride and knokked as that he were wood, While thou, Robyn, lift up the door. He cried and knocked as if he were crazy, 3467 He shal out of his studiyng, as I gesse." 3437 "What, how! What do ye, maister Nicholay? He shall (come) out of his studying, as I guess." "What, hey! What do you, master Nicholay? 3468 And to the chambre dore he gan hym dresse. 3438 How may ye slepen al the longe day?" And to the chamber door he turned his attention. How can you sleep all the long day?" 3469 His knave was a strong carl for the nones, His servant was a strong fellow for this purpose, 3470 And by the haspe he haaf it of atones; 3439 But al for noght; he herde nat a word. And by the hasp he heaved it off at once; But all for naught; he heard not a word. 3471 Into the floor the dore fil anon. 3440 An hole he foond, ful lowe upon a bord, Onto the floor the door fell straightway. He found a hole, very low upon a board, 3472 This Nicholas sat ay as stille as stoon, 3441 Ther as the cat was wont in for to crepe, Where the cat was accustomed to creep in, This Nicholas sat ever as still as stone, 3442 And at that hole he looked in ful depe, 3473 And evere caped upward into the eir. And through that hole he looked in very carefully, And ever gaped upward into the air. 3443 And at the laste he hadde of hym a sight. 3474 This carpenter wende he were in despeir, And at the last he had a sight of him. This carpenter supposed he was in despair, 3444 This Nicholas sat evere capyng upright, 3475 And hente hym by the sholdres myghtily, This Nicholas sat ever gaping upward, And seized him by the shoulders vigorously, 3445 As he had kiked on the newe moone. 3476 And shook hym harde, and cride spitously, As if he were gazing on the new moon. And shook him hard, and cried loudly, 3446 Adoun he gooth, and tolde his maister soone 3477 "What! Nicholay! What, how! What, looke adoun! Down he goes, and told his master immediately "What! Nicholay! What, how! What, look down! 3447 In what array he saugh this ilke man. 3478 Awak, and thenk on Cristes passioun! In what condition he saw this same man. Awake, and think on Christ's passion! 3479 I crouche thee from elves and fro wightes." I bless thee from elves and from evil creatures." 3448 This carpenter to blessen hym bigan, 3480 Therwith the nyght-spel seyde he anon-rightes This carpenter began to bless himself, Therewith the night-charm he said straightway 3449 And seyde, "Help us, Seinte Frydeswyde! 3481 On foure halves of the hous aboute, And said, "Help us, Saint Frideswide! On four corners of the house about, 3450 A man woot litel what hym shal bityde. 3482 And on the thresshfold of the dore withoute: A man knows little what shall happen to him. And on the threshold of the door outside: 3451 This man is falle, with his astromye, 3483 "Jhesu Crist and Seinte Benedight, This man is fallen, because of his astronomy, "Jesus Christ and Saint Benedict, 3452 In some woodnesse or in som agonye. 3484 Blesse this hous from every wikked wight, In some madness or in some fit. Bless this house from every wicked creature, 3453 I thoghte ay wel how that it sholde be! 3485 For nyghtes verye, the white pater-noster! I always thought well how it should be! For evil spirits of the nights, the white pater-noster! 3454 Men sholde nat knowe of Goddes pryvetee. 3486 Where wentestow, Seinte Petres soster?" Men should not know of God's secrets. Where went thou, Saint Peter's sister?" 3455 Ye, blessed be alwey a lewed man Yes, blessed be always an unlearned man 3487 And atte laste this hende Nicholas 3456 That noght but oonly his bileve kan! And at the last this clever Nicholas Who knows nothing but only his belief! 3488 Gan for to sik soore, and seyde, "Allas! 3457 So ferde another clerk with astromye; Began to sigh deeply, and said, "Alas! So fared another clerk with astronomy; 3458 He walked in the feeldes for to prye 3489 Shal al the world be lost eftsoones now?" He walked in the fields to look Shall all the world be lost right now?" 3459 Upon the sterres, what ther sholde bifalle, Upon the stars, (to find) there what should happen, 3490 This carpenter answerde, "What seystow? 3460 Til he was in a marle-pit yfalle; This carpenter answered, "What sayest thou? Until he was fallen in a fertilizer pit; 3491 What! Thynk on God, as we doon, men that swynke." 3461 He saugh nat that. But yet, by Seint Thomas, What! Think on God, as we do, men who work." He did not see that. But yet, by Saint Thomas, 3492 This Nicholas answerde, "Fecche me drynke, 3462 Me reweth soore of hende Nicholas. This Nicholas answered, "Fetch me drink, 3493 And after wol I speke in pryvetee

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY

And after will I speak in private 3523 And shal she drenche? Allas, myn Alisoun!" 3494 Of certeyn thyng that toucheth me and thee. And shall she drown? Alas, my Alisoun!" About a certain matter that concerns me and thee. 3524 For sorwe of this he fil almoost adoun, 3495 I wol telle it noon oother man, certeyn." For sorrow of this he almost fell down, I will tell it to no other man, certainly." 3525 And seyde, "Is ther no remedie in this cas?" And said, "Is there no remedy in this case?" 3496 This carpenter goth doun, and comth ageyn, This carpenter goes down, and comes again, 3526 "Why, yis, for Gode," quod hende Nicholas, 3497 And broghte of myghty ale a large quart; "Why, yes indeed, by God," said clever Nicholas, And brought of strong ale a large quart; 3527 "If thou wolt werken after loore and reed. 3498 And whan that ech of hem had dronke his part, "If thou will act in accordance with learning and (good) And when each of them had drunk his part, advice. 3499 This Nicholas his dore faste shette, 3528 Thou mayst nat werken after thyn owene heed; This Nicholas shut fast his door, Thou mayst not act according to thine own ideas; 3500 And doun the carpenter by hym he sette. 3529 For thus seith Salomon, that was ful trewe: And the carpenter sat down by him. For thus says Salomon, which was very true: 3530 `Werk al by conseil, and thou shalt nat rewe.' 3501 He seyde, "John, myn hooste, lief and deere, `Do all in accordance with good advice, and thou shalt not He said, "John, my host, beloved and dear, rue (it).' 3502 Thou shalt upon thy trouthe swere me heere 3531 And if thou werken wolt by good conseil, Thou shalt upon thy pledged word swear to me here And if thou will act in accordance with good advice, 3503 That to no wight thou shalt this conseil wreye, 3532 I undertake, withouten mast and seyl, That to no person thou shalt this counsel reveal, I guarantee, without mast and sail, 3504 For it is Cristes conseil that I seye, 3533 Yet shal I saven hire and thee and me. For it is Christ's secrets that I say, Yet shall I save her and thee and me. 3505 And if thou telle it man, thou art forlore; 3534 Hastow nat herd hou saved was Noe, And if thou tell it to anyone, thou art completely lost; Hast thou not heard how Noah was saved, 3506 For this vengeaunce thou shalt han therfore, 3535 Whan that oure Lord hadde warned hym biforn For this vengeance thou shalt have therefore, When our Lord had warned him before 3507 That if thou wreye me, thou shalt be wood." 3536 That al the world with water sholde be lorn?" That if thou betray me, thou shalt go mad." That all the world should be destroyed by water?" 3508 "Nay, Crist forbede it, for his hooly blood!" "Nay, Christ forbid it, for his holy blood!" 3537 "Yis," quod this Carpenter, "ful yoore ago." 3509 Quod tho this sely man, "I nam no labbe, "Yes indeed," said this Carpenter, "very long ago." Said then this hapless man, "I am no blabbermouth, 3510 Ne, though I seye, I nam nat lief to gabbe. 3538 "Hastou nat herd," quod Nicholas, "also And, though I say it, I do not like to gab. "Hast thou not heard," said Nicholas, "also 3511 Sey what thou wolt, I shal it nevere telle 3539 The sorwe of Noe with his felaweshipe, Say what thou will, I shall never tell it The sorrow of Noah with his fellowship, 3512 To child ne wyf, by hym that harwed helle!" 3540 Er that he myghte gete his wyf to shipe? To child nor wife, by Him that rescued souls from hell!" Before he could get his wife onto the ship? 3541 Hym hadde be levere, I dar wel undertake, 3513 "Now John," quod Nicholas, "I wol nat lye; He would rather, I dare well guarantee, "Now John," said Nicholas, "I will not lie; 3542 At thilke tyme, than alle his wetheres blake 3514 I have yfounde in myn astrologye, At that time, than have all his black sheep I have found in my astrology, 3543 That she hadde had a ship hirself allone. 3515 As I have looked in the moone bright, That she had had a ship for herself alone. As I have looked on the bright moon, 3544 And therfore, woostou what is best to doone? 3516 That now a Monday next, at quarter nyght, And therefore, knowest thou what is best to do? That now on Monday next, after midnight, 3545 This asketh haste, and of an hastif thyng 3517 Shal falle a reyn, and that so wilde and wood This needs haste, and of a hasty thing Shall fall a rain, and that so wild and raging 3546 Men may nat preche or maken tariyng. 3518 That half so greet was nevere Noes flood. Men may not preach nor make tarrying. That Noah's flood was never half so large. 3519 This world," he seyde, "in lasse than an hour 3547 "Anon go gete us faste into this in This world," he said, "in less than an hour "Right now go bring us quickly into this dwelling 3520 Shal al be dreynt, so hidous is the shour. 3548 A knedyng trogh, or ellis a kymelyn, Shall all be drowned, so hideous is the shower. A kneading trough, or else a large vat, 3521 Thus shal mankynde drenche, and lese hir lyf." 3549 For ech of us, but looke that they be large, Thus shall mankind drown, and lose their lives." For each of us, but see that they be large, 3550 In which we mowe swymme as in a barge, 3522 This carpenter answerde, "Allas, my wyf! In which we may float as in a barge, This carpenter answered, "Alas, my wife! 3551 And han therinne vitaille suffisant

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY

And have therein sufficient victuals 3583 "But of o thyng I warne thee ful right: 3552 But for a day -- fy on the remenant! "But of one thing I warn thee very sternly: But for a day -- fie on the remnant! 3584 Be wel avysed on that ilke nyght 3553 The water shal aslake and goon away Be well advised on that same night The water shall recede and go away 3585 That we ben entred into shippes bord, 3554 Aboute pryme upon the nexte day. On which we are entered onto shipboard, About nine a.m. on the next day. 3586 That noon of us ne speke nat a word, 3555 But Robyn may nat wite of this, thy knave, That not one of us speak a word, But Robin, thy knave, may not know of this, 3587 Ne clepe, ne crie, but be in his preyere; 3556 Ne eek thy mayde Gille I may nat save; Nor call, nor cry, but be in his prayer; And also thy maid Gille I can not save; 3588 For it is Goddes owene heeste deere. 3557 Axe nat why, for though thou aske me, For it is God's own dear command. Ask not why, for though thou ask me, 3558 I wol nat tellen Goddes pryvetee. 3589 "Thy wyf and thou moote hange fer atwynne, I will not tell God's secrets. "Thy wife and thou must hang far apart, 3559 Suffiseth thee, but if thy wittes madde, 3590 For that bitwixe yow shal be no synne, It suffices thee, unless thy wits go mad, So that between yow shall be no sin, 3560 To han as greet a grace as Noe hadde. 3591 Namoore in lookyng than ther shal in deede. To have as great a grace as Noah had. No more in looking than there shall be in deed. 3561 Thy wyf shal I wel saven, out of doute. 3592 This ordinance is seyd. Go, God thee speede! Thy wife shall I well save, beyond doubt. This ordinance is said. Go, God give thee success! 3562 Go now thy wey, and speed thee heer-aboute. 3593 Tomorwe at nyght, whan men ben alle aslepe, Go now thy way, and speed thee on this business. Tomorrow at night, when people are all asleep, 3594 Into oure knedyng-tubbes wol we crepe, 3563 "But whan thou hast, for hire and thee and me, Into our kneading-tubs will we creep, "But when thou hast, for her and thee and me, 3595 And sitten there, abidyng Goddes grace. 3564 Ygeten us thise knedyng tubbes thre, And sit there, awaiting God's grace. Got us these three kneading tubs, 3596 Go now thy wey; I have no lenger space 3565 Thanne shaltow hange hem in the roof ful hye, Go now thy way; I have no more time Then shalt thou hang them in the roof very high, 3597 To make of this no lenger sermonyng. 3566 That no man of oure purveiaunce espye. To make of this any longer preaching. In a way that no man may espy our preparations. 3598 Men seyn thus, `sende the wise, and sey no thyng.' 3567 And whan thou thus hast doon as I have seyd, Men say thus, `send the wise, and say nothing.' And when thou thus hast done as I have said, 3599 Thou art so wys, it needeth thee nat teche. 3568 And hast oure vitaille faire in hem yleyd, Thou art so wise, one needs not teach thee. And hast laid our victuals carefully in them, 3600 Go, save oure lyf, and that I the biseche." 3569 And eek an ax to smyte the corde atwo, Go, save our life, and that I beseech thee." And also an axe to smite the cord in two, 3570 Whan that the water comth, that we may go 3601 This sely carpenter goth forth his wey. When the water comes, so that we may go This hapless carpenter goes forth his way. 3571 And breke an hole an heigh, upon the gable, 3602 Ful ofte he seide "Allas and weylawey," And break a hole on high, upon the gable, Very often he said "Alas and woe is me," 3572 Unto the gardyn-ward, over the stable, 3603 And to his wyf he tolde his pryvetee, Toward the garden, over the stable, And to his wife he told his secret, 3573 That we may frely passen forth oure way, 3604 And she was war, and knew it bet than he, That we may freely pass forth on our way, And she was aware, and knew it better than he, 3574 Whan that the grete shour is goon away. 3605 What al this queynte cast was for to seye. When the great shower is gone away. What all this ingenious scheme meant. 3575 Thanne shaltou swymme as myrie, I undertake, 3606 But nathelees she ferde as she wolde deye, Then shalt thou float as merry, I guarantee, But nonetheless she acted as if she would die, 3576 As dooth the white doke after hire drake. 3607 And seyde, "Allas! go forth thy wey anon, As does the white duck after her drake. And said, "Alas! go forth thy way quickly, 3577 Thanne wol I clepe, `How, Alison! How, John! 3608 Help us to scape, or we been dede echon! Then will I call, `How, Alison! How, John! Help us to escape, or we are dead each one of us! 3578 Be myrie, for the flood wol passe anon.' 3609 I am thy trewe, verray wedded wyf; Be merry, for the flood will soon pass.' I am thy faithful, truly wedded wife; 3579 And thou wolt seyn, `Hayl, maister Nicholay! 3610 Go, deere spouse, and help to save oure lyf." And thou will say, `Hail, master Nicholay! Go, dear spouse, and help to save our lives." 3580 Good morwe, I se thee wel, for it is day.' Good morrow, I see thee well, for it is day.' 3611 Lo, which a greet thyng is affeccioun! 3581 And thanne shul we be lordes al oure lyf Lo, what a great thing is emotion! And then shall we be lords all our life 3612 Men may dyen of ymaginacioun, 3582 Of al the world, as Noe and his wyf. One can die of imagination, Of all the world, like Noah and his wife.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY

3613 So depe may impressioun be take. 3644 Fil on this carpenter right, as I gesse, So deeply may a mental image be taken. Fell on this carpenter right, as I guess, 3614 This sely carpenter bigynneth quake; 3645 Aboute corfew-tyme, or litel moore; This hapless carpenter begins to tremble; About curfew time, or a little more; 3615 Hym thynketh verraily that he may see 3646 For travaille of his goost he groneth soore, He thinks truly that he can see For suffering of his spirit he groans deeply, 3616 Noees flood come walwynge as the see 3647 And eft he routeth, for his heed myslay. Noah's flood come surging like the sea And also he snores, for his head lay wrong. 3617 To drenchen Alisoun, his hony deere. 3648 Doun of the laddre stalketh Nicholay, To drown Alisoun, his honey dear. Down on the ladder stalks Nicholay, 3618 He wepeth, weyleth, maketh sory cheere; 3649 And Alisoun ful softe adoun she spedde; He weeps, wails, looks wretched; And Alisoun very quietly down she sped; 3619 He siketh with ful many a sory swogh; 3650 Withouten wordes mo they goon to bedde, He sighs with very many a sorry groan; Without more words they go to bed, 3620 He gooth and geteth hym a knedyng trogh, 3651 Ther as the carpenter is wont to lye. He goes and gets him a kneading trough, Where the carpenter is accustomed to lie. 3621 And after that a tubbe and a kymelyn, 3652 Ther was the revel and the melodye; And after that a tub and a large vat, There was the revel and the sounds of festivity; 3622 And pryvely he sente hem to his in, 3653 And thus lith Alison and Nicholas, And secretly he sent them to his dwelling, And thus lie Alison and Nicholas, 3623 And heng hem in the roof in pryvetee. 3654 In bisynesse of myrthe and of solas, And hanged them in the roof secretly. In business of mirth and of pleasure, 3624 His owene hand he made laddres thre, 3655 Til that the belle of laudes gan to rynge, With his own hand he made three ladders, Until the bell of the early morning service began to ring, 3625 To clymben by the ronges and the stalkes 3656 And freres in the chauncel gonne synge. To climb by the rungs and the uprights And friars in the chapel began to sing. 3626 Unto the tubbes hangynge in the balkes, Unto the tubs hanging in the beams, 3657 This parissh clerk, this amorous Absolon, 3627 And hem vitailled, bothe trogh and tubbe, This parish clerk, this amorous Absolon, And provisioned them, both trough and tub, 3658 That is for love alwey so wo bigon, 3628 With breed, and chese, and good ale in a jubbe, That is for love always so woebegone, With bread, and cheese, and good ale in a jug, 3659 Upon the Monday was at Oseneye 3629 Suffisynge right ynogh as for a day. Upon the Monday was at Oseneye Sufficing just enough for a day. 3660 With compaignye, hym to disporte and pleye, 3630 But er that he hadde maad al this array, With company, to be merry and amuse himself, But before he had made all this preparation, 3661 And axed upon cas a cloisterer 3631 He sente his knave, and eek his wenche also, And by chance asked a cloistered monk He sent his servant, and also his servant girl, 3662 Ful prively after John the carpenter; 3632 Upon his nede to London for to go. Very discreetly about John the carpenter; Upon his business to go to London. 3663 And he drough hym apart out of the chirche, 3633 And on the Monday, whan it drow to nyght, And he drew him apart out of the church, And on the Monday, when it drew toward night, 3664 And seyde, "I noot; I saugh hym heere nat wirche 3634 He shette his dore withoute candel-lyght, And said, "I know not; I have not seen him working here He shut his door without candlelight, 3665 Syn Saterday; I trowe that he be went 3635 And dressed alle thyng as it sholde be. Since Saturday; I suppose that he is gone And prepared everything as it should be. 3666 For tymber, ther oure abbot hath hym sent; 3636 And shortly, up they clomben alle thre; For timber, where our abbot has sent him; And shortly, up they climbed all three; 3667 For he is wont for tymber for to go 3637 They seten stille wel a furlong way. For he is accustomed to go for timber They sat still a good two and one-half minutes. 3668 And dwellen at the grange a day or two; And dwell at the granary a day or two; 3638 "Now, Pater-noster, clom!" seyde Nicholay, 3669 Or elles he is at his hous, certeyn. "Now, Pater-noster, quiet!" said Nicholay, Or else he is at his house, certainly. 3639 And "Clom!" quod John, and "Clom!" seyde Alisoun. 3670 Where that he be, I kan nat soothly seyn." And "Quiet!" said John, and "Quiet!" said Alisoun. Where he may be, I can not truly say." 3640 This carpenter seyde his devocioun, This carpenter said his devotion, 3671 This Absolon ful joly was and light, 3641 And stille he sit, and biddeth his preyere, This Absolon very was jolly and happy, And still he sits, and says his prayer, 3672 And thoghte, "Now is tyme to wake al nyght, 3642 Awaitynge on the reyn, if he it heere. And thought, "Now is time to stay awake all night, Awaiting the rain, if he might hear it. 3673 For sikirly I saugh hym nat stirynge For surely I saw him not stirring 3643 The dede sleep, for wery bisynesse, 3674 Aboute his dore, syn day bigan to sprynge. The dead sleep, for weary business, About his door, since day began to spring.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY

3675 "So moot I thryve, I shal, at cokkes crowe, That like a true turtledove is my mourning. "As I may prosper, I shall, at cock's crow, 3707 I may nat ete na moore than a mayde." 3676 Ful pryvely knokken at his wyndowe I can eat no more than a maiden." Very quietly knock at his window 3677 That stant ful lowe upon his boures wal. 3708 "Go fro the wyndow, Jakke fool," she sayde; That stands very low upon his bedroom's wall. "Go from the window, you idiot," she said; 3678 To Alison now wol I tellen al 3709 "As help me God, it wol nat be `com pa me.' To Alison now I will tell all "So help me God, it will not be `come kiss me.' 3679 My love-longynge, for yet I shal nat mysse 3710 I love another -- and elles I were to blame -- My love-longing, for yet I shall not miss I love another -- and else I were to blame -- 3680 That at the leeste wey I shal hire kisse. 3711 Wel bet than thee, by Jhesu, Absolon. That at the very least I shall her kiss. Well better than thee, by Jesus, Absolon. 3681 Som maner confort shal I have, parfay. 3712 Go forth thy wey, or I wol caste a ston, Some sort of comfort shall I have, by my faith. Go forth thy way, or I will cast a stone, 3682 My mouth hath icched al this longe day; 3713 And lat me slepe, a twenty devel wey!" My mouth has itched all this long day; And let me sleep, in the name of twenty devils!" 3683 That is a signe of kissyng atte leeste. 3714 "Allas," quod Absolon, "and weylawey, That is a sign of kissing at the least. "Alas," said Absolon, "and woe is me, 3684 Al nyght me mette eek I was at a feeste. 3715 That trewe love was evere so yvel biset! All night I dreamed also I was at a feast. That true love was ever in such miserable circumstances! 3685 Therfore I wol go slepe an houre or tweye, 3716 Thanne kysse me, syn it may be no bet, Therefore I will go sleep an hour or two, Then kiss me, since it can be no better, 3686 And al the nyght thanne wol I wake and pleye." 3717 For Jhesus love, and for the love of me." And all the night then will I stay awake and play." For Jesus' love, and for the love of me."

3687 Whan that the firste cok hath crowe, anon 3718 "Wiltow thanne go thy wey therwith?" quod she. When the first cock has crowed (about midnight), at once "Wilt thou then go thy way with that?" said she. 3688 Up rist this joly lovere Absolon, Up rises this elegant lover Absolon, 3719 "Ye, certes, lemman," quod this Absolon. 3689 And hym arraieth gay, at poynt-devys. "Yes, certainly, sweetheart," said this Absolon. And dresses himself handsomely, in every detail. 3690 But first he cheweth greyn and lycorys, But first he chews cardamom and licorice, 3720 "Thanne make thee redy," quod she, "I come anon." 3691 To smellen sweete, er he hadde kembd his heer. "Then make thee ready," said she, "I come right now." To smell sweet, ere he had combed his hair. 3721 And unto Nicholas she seyde stille, 3692 Under his tonge a trewe-love he beer, And unto Nicholas she said quietly, Under his tongue he had a true-love herb, 3722 "Now hust, and thou shalt laughen al thy fille." 3693 For therby wende he to ben gracious. "Now hush, and thou shalt laugh all thy fill." For thus he thought he would be gracious. 3694 He rometh to the carpenteres hous, 3723 This Absolon doun sette hym on his knees He goes to the carpenter's house, This Absolon set himself down on his knees 3695 And stille he stant under the shot-wyndowe -- 3724 And seyde, "I am a lord at alle degrees; And he stands still under the casement window -- And said, "I am a lord in every way; 3696 Unto his brest it raughte, it was so lowe -- 3725 For after this I hope ther cometh moore. Unto his breast it reached, it was so low -- For after this I hope there comes more. 3697 And softe he cougheth with a semy soun: 3726 Lemman, thy grace, and sweete bryd, thyn oore!" And softly he coughs with a gentle sound: Sweetheart, thy grace, and sweet bird, thy mercy!" 3698 "What do ye, hony-comb, sweete Alisoun, "What do you, honey-comb, sweet Alisoun, 3727 The wyndow she undoth, and that in haste. 3699 My faire bryd, my sweete cynamome? The window she undoes, and that in haste. My fair bird, my sweet cinnamon? 3728 "Have do," quod she, "com of, and speed the faste, 3700 Awaketh, lemman myn, and speketh to me! "Get done with it," said she, "come on, and hurry up, Awake, sweetheart mine, and speak to me! 3729 Lest that oure neighebores thee espie." 3701 Wel litel thynken ye upon my wo, Lest our neighbors espy thee." Well little you think upon my woe, 3702 That for youre love I swete ther I go. 3730 This Absolon gan wype his mouth ful drie. That for your love I sweat wherever I go. This Absolon wiped his mouth very dry. 3703 No wonder is thogh that I swelte and swete; 3731 Derk was the nyght as pich, or as the cole, No wonder is though that I swelter and sweat; Dark was the night as pitch, or as the coal, 3704 I moorne as dooth a lamb after the tete. 3732 And at the wyndow out she putte hir hole, I mourn as does a lamb after the tit. And at the window out she put her hole, 3705 Ywis, lemman, I have swich love-longynge 3733 And Absolon, hym fil no bet ne wers, Indeed, sweetheart, I have such love-longing And Absolon, to him it happened no better nor worse, 3706 That lik a turtel trewe is my moornynge. 3734 But with his mouth he kiste hir naked ers

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY

But with his mouth he kissed her naked ass 3764 This Absolon knokketh al esily, 3735 Ful savourly, er he were war of this. This Absolon knocked all gently, With great relish, before he was aware of this. 3765 And seyde, "Undo, Gerveys, and that anon." 3736 Abak he stirte, and thoughte it was amys, And said, "Open up, Gerveys, and that right now." Back he jumped, and thought it was amiss, 3737 For wel he wiste a womman hath no berd. 3766 "What, who artow?" "It am I, Absolon." For well he knew a woman has no beard. "What, who art thou?" "It am I, Absolon." 3738 He felte a thyng al rough and long yherd, 3767 "What, Absolon! for Cristes sweete tree, He felt a thing all rough and long haired, "What, Absolon! for Christ's sweet cross, 3739 And seyde, "Fy! allas! what have I do?" 3768 Why rise ye so rathe? Ey, benedicitee! And said, "Fie! alas! what have I done?" Why rise you so early? Ay, bless me! 3769 What eyleth yow? Som gay gerl, God it woot, 3740 "Tehee!" quod she, and clapte the wyndow to, What ails yow? Some pretty girl, God knows it, "Tehee!" said she, and clapped the window to, 3770 Hath broght yow thus upon the viritoot. 3741 And Absolon gooth forth a sory pas. Hath brought you to be running around like this. And Absolon goes forth walking sadly. 3771 By Seinte Note, ye woot wel what I mene." By Saint Note, you know well what I mean." 3742 "A berd! A berd!" quod hende Nicholas, "A beard! A beard!" said clever Nicholas, 3772 This Absolon ne roghte nat a bene 3743 "By Goddes corpus, this goth faire and weel." This Absolon cared not a bean "By God's body, this goes fair and well." 3773 Of al his pley; no word agayn he yaf; For all his joking; no word he gave in reply; 3744 This sely Absolon herde every deel, 3774 He hadde moore tow on his distaf This hapless Absolon heard every bit, He had more business on hand 3745 And on his lippe he gan for anger byte, 3775 Than Gerveys knew, and seyde, "Freend so deere, And on his lip he began for anger to bite, Than Gerveys knew, and said, "Friend so dear, 3746 And to hymself he seyde, "I shal thee quyte." 3776 That hoote kultour in the chymenee heere, And to himself he said, "I shall pay thee back." That hot plough blade in the hearth here, 3777 As lene it me; I have therwith to doone, 3747 Who rubbeth now, who froteth now his lippes Lend it to me; I have something to do with it, Who rubs now, who now scrubs his lips 3778 And I wol brynge it thee agayn ful soone." 374 With dust, with sond, with straw, with clooth, with chippes, And I will bring it back to thee very soon." With dust, with sand, with straw, with cloth, with chips, 3749 But Absolon, that seith ful ofte, "Allas!" 3779 Gerveys answerde, "Certes, were it gold, But Absolon, who says very often, "Alas!" Gerveys answered, "Certainly, were it gold, 3750 "My soule bitake I unto Sathanas, 3780 Or in a poke nobles alle untold, "My soul I entrust to Satan, Or in a sack countless silver coins, 3751 But me were levere than al this toun," quod he, 3781 Thou sholdest have, as I am trewe smyth. If I would not rather than (have) all this town," said he, Thou sholdest have it, as I am true smith. 3752 "Of this despit awroken for to be. 3782 Ey, Cristes foo! What wol ye do therwith?" "Be avenged for this insult. Ay, Christ's foe! What will you do with it?" 3753 Allas," quod he, "allas, I ne hadde ybleynt!" Alas," said he, "alas, I did not turn away!" 3783 "Therof," quod Absolon, "be as be may. 3754 His hoote love was coold and al yqueynt; "Concerning that," said Absolon, "be as be may. His hot love was cold and all extinguished; 3784 I shal wel telle it thee to-morwe day" -- 3755 For fro that tyme that he hadde kist hir ers, I shall well tell it to thee to-morrow" -- For from that time that he had kissed her ass, 3785 And caughte the kultour by the colde stele. 3756 Of paramours he sette nat a kers, And caught the plough blade by the cold handle. Love-making he thought not worth not a watercress, 3786 Ful softe out at the dore he gan to stele, 3757 For he was heeled of his maladie. Very softly out at the door he began to steal, For he was healed of his malady. 3787 And wente unto the carpenteris wal. 3758 Ful ofte paramours he gan deffie, And went unto the carpenter's wall. Very often he did renounce love-making, 3788 He cogheth first, and knokketh therwithal 3759 And weep as dooth a child that is ybete. He coughs first, and knocks then And wept as does a child that is beaten. 3789 Upon the wyndowe, right as he dide er. 3760 A softe paas he wente over the strete Upon the window, just as he did before. At a slow pace he went down the street 3761 Until a smyth men cleped daun Gerveys, 3790 This Alison answerde, "Who is ther To a smith men called dan Gerveys, This Alison answered, "Who is there 3762 That in his forge smythed plough harneys; 3791 That knokketh so? I warante it a theef." Who in his forge made plowing equipment; That knocks so? I swear it is a thief." 3763 He sharpeth shaar and kultour bisily. He sharpens ploughshares and plough blades busily.

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3792 "Why, nay," quod he, "God woot, my sweete leef, And down goes all; he found nothing to sell (wasted no "Why, nay," said he, "God knows, my sweet beloved, time), 3793 I am thyn Absolon, my deerelyng. 3822 Ne breed ne ale, til he cam to the celle I am thy Absolon, my darling. Neither bread nor ale, until he came to the pavement 3794 Of gold," quod he, "I have thee broght a ryng. 3823 Upon the floor, and ther aswowne he lay. Of gold," said he, "I have brought thee a ring. Upon the floor, and there he lay in a swoon. 3795 My mooder yaf it me, so God me save; My mother gave it to me, as God may save me; 3824 Up stirte hire Alison and Nicholay, 3796 Ful fyn it is, and therto wel ygrave. Up started Alison and Nicholay, Very fine it is, and also nicely engraved. 3825 And criden "Out" and "Harrow" in the strete. 3797 This wol I yeve thee, if thou me kisse." And cried "Out" and "Help" in the street. This will I give thee, if thou kiss me." 3826 The neighebores, bothe smale and grete, The neighbors, both low-ranking and high, 3798 This Nicholas was risen for to pisse, 3827 In ronnen for to gauren on this man, This Nicholas was risen to piss, Run in to gawk at this man, 3799 And thoughte he wolde amenden al the jape; 3828 That yet aswowne lay, bothe pale and wan, And thought he would make the joke even better; Who yet lay in a swoon, both pale and wan, 3800 He sholde kisse his ers er that he scape. 3829 For with the fal he brosten hadde his arm. He should kiss his ass before he escapes. For with the fall he had broken his arm. 3801 And up the wyndowe dide he hastily, 3830 But stonde he moste unto his owene harm; And he opened up the window hastily, But he had to stand up for himself, though it went badly; 3802 And out his ers he putteth pryvely 3831 For whan he spak, he was anon bore doun And he puts out his ass stealthily For when he spoke, he was immediately put down 3803 Over the buttok, to the haunche-bon; 3832 With hende Nicholas and Alisoun. Over the buttock, to the thigh; By clever Nicholas and Alisoun. 3804 And therwith spak this clerk, this Absolon, 3833 They tolden every man that he was wood; And then spoke this clerk, this Absolon, They told every one that he was crazy; 3805 "Spek, sweete bryd, I noot nat where thou art." 3834 He was agast so of Nowelis flood "Speak, sweet bird, I know not where thou art." He was so afraid of Nowell's flood 3835 Thurgh fantasie that of his vanytee 3806 This Nicholas anon leet fle a fart Because of his imagination that in his foolishness This Nicholas immediately let fly a fart 3836 He hadde yboght hym knedyng tubbes thre, 3807 As greet as it had been a thonder-dent, He had bought himself three kneading tubs, As great as if it had been a thunder-bolt, 3837 And hadde hem hanged in the roof above; 3808 That with the strook he was almoost yblent; And had hanged them in the roof above; So that with the stroke he was almost blinded; 3838 And that he preyed hem, for Goddes love, 3809 And he was redy with his iren hoot, And that he begged them, for God's love, And he was ready with his hot iron, 3839 To sitten in the roof, par compaignye. 3810 And Nicholas amydde the ers he smoot. To sit in the roof, to keep him company. And he smote Nicholas in the middle of the ass. 3840 The folk gan laughen at his fantasye; 3811 Of gooth the skyn an hande-brede aboute, The folk did laugh at his foolishness; Off goes the skin a hand's breadth about, 3841 Into the roof they kiken and they cape, 3812 The hoote kultour brende so his toute, Into the roof they stare and they gape, The hot plough blade so burned his rump 3842 And turned al his harm unto a jape. 3813 And for the smert he wende for to dye. And turned all his harm into a joke. And for the pain he thought he would die. 3843 For what so that this carpenter answerde, 3814 As he were wood, for wo he gan to crye, For whatever this carpenter answered, As if he were crazy, for woe he began to cry, 3844 It was for noght; no man his reson herde. 3815 "Help! Water! Water! Help, for Goddes herte!" It was for naught; no one listened to his explanation, "Help! Water! Water! Help, for God's heart!" 3845 With othes grete he was so sworn adoun With oaths great he was so sworn down 3816 This carpenter out of his slomber sterte, 3846 That he was holde wood in al the toun; This carpenter woke suddenly out of his slumber, That he was considered crazy in all the town; 3817 And herde oon crien "water!" as he were wood, 3847 For every clerk anonright heeld with oother. And heard someone cry "water!" as if he were crazy, For every clerk immediately agreed with the other. 3818 And thoughte, "Allas, now comth Nowelis flood!" 3848 They seyde, "The man is wood, my leeve brother"; And thought, "Alas, now comes Nowell's flood!" They said, "The man is crazy, my dear brother"; 3819 He sit hym up withouten wordes mo, 3849 And every wight gan laughen at this stryf. He sits up without more words, And every person did laugh at this strife. 3820 And with his ax he smoot the corde atwo, 3850 Thus swyved was this carpenteris wyf, And with his ax he smote the cord in two, Thus screwed was this carpenter's wife, 3821 And doun gooth al; he foond neither to selle, 3851 For al his kepyng and his jalousye, In spite of all his guarding and his jealousy,

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3852 And Absolon hath kist hir nether ye, And Absolon has kissed her lower eye, 3853 And Nicholas is scalded in the towte. Heere endeth the Millere his Tale And Nicholas is scalded in the rump. [Here ends the Miller's Tale] 3854 This tale is doon, and God save al the rowte! This tale is done, and God save all this company!

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY Renaissance Era

The period between the Black Death of 1348 and 1485 (before the Renaissance) was, among much else, a golden age for women. War and depopulation allowed them to contribute much more effectively and influentially to society.

Across Europe, Humanism challenged the power of the Church. Fear of death and the after-life began to be replaced by more experiential philosophies. A return to classical sciences from Ancient Greece and Rome became popular. The invention of the printing press began to bring education to the masses. Education meant further social mobility.

Simultaneously across Europe Art (including literature, painting and music) was revolutionised.

Astronomy questioned Christian beliefs of the world’s place in the Universe. A return to polytheistic beliefs and classical academia embraced the Greek and Roman philosophies. Architecture charged from the Norman Gothic styles to more Greco-Roman designs.

In Italy, the city states of Milan, Florence and Venice celebrated the sea- change of culture with numerous artistic commissions and the employment of great thinkers (like Machiavelli and Da Vinci) to work on a host of projects. Alchemists began experimenting with science and the occult in a search for ways to push the boundaries of Natural law.

In England, libraries, such as that of Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, were established and the art of biography began.

Universities increased in number and scope. Oxford and Cambridge were joined by Scotland's St Andrews in 1410 and two other Scottish universities by 1500.

The Tudor dynasty oversaw a break from the Catholic Church, the birth of Protestantism and then the growth of Puritanism. The Tudors provided legendary Monarchs: Henry VIII with his six wives, Mary who executed the Protestant Bishops returning England to Catholicism and then Elizabeth. Elizabeth was the longest reigning Monarch. As a female in a patriarchal society, to rule for 50 years and return the country to peaceful Protestantism was impressive.

The concept of the RENAISSANCE MAN was born: a man with great literary knowledge and a love of music and Art.

This is where the sonnet form was created. It was usually a poem of contemplation or a declaration of love. Often written by a suitor to be secretly delivered to subject of their affection.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY THE SONNET FORM:

The concept of the RENAISSANCE MAN was born: a man with great literary knowledge and a love of music and Art.

This is where the sonnet form was created. It was usually a poem of contemplation or a declaration of love. Often written by a suitor to be secretly delivered to subject of their affection.

Petrach is credited with being the first great writer of sonnets.

A sonnet is in iambic pentameter and contains 14 lines.

The poem can be divided into different sections, depending on the content.

Quatraine – Four line section Sestet – Six line section Octet – Eight line section Couplet – two lines.

Often the sonnet poses a problem at the start and by the end concludes by either answering the problem or summing up the poet’s feelings.

A Petrachan sonnet usually follows a rhyme scheme in the first octet of: abba abba The sestet can vary as either: cdecde or cdcdcd or even cddcdd, cddece or cddccd

A Spenserian sonnet follows: abab, bcbc, cdcd, ee

A Shakespearian sonnet follows: abab cdcd efef gg

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY Geoffrey Chaucer (1340-1400 –est.) Thomas Wyatt (1503 -1542)

Brief Biog:

Thomas Wyatt was born to Henry and Anne Wyatt at Allington Castle, near Maidstone, Kent, in 1503. Little is known of his childhood education. Around 1520, when he was only seventeen years old, he married Lord Cobham's daughter Elizabeth Brooke. She bore him a son, Thomas Wyatt, the Younger, in 1521. He became popular at court, and carried out several foreign missions for King Henry VIII, and also served various offices at home.

Around 1525, Wyatt separated from his wife, charging her with adultery; it is also the year from which his interest in Anne Boleyn probably dates.1 In 1532, Wyatt accompanied King Henry and Anne Boleyn, who was by then the King's mistress, on their visit to Calais. Anne Boleyn married the King in January 1533, and Wyatt served in her coronation in June.

In 1541 Wyatt was charged with treason on a revival of charges originally levelled against him in 1538 by Edmund Bonner, now Bishop of London. Bonner claimed that while ambassador, Wyatt had been rude about the King's person, and had dealings with Cardinal Pole, a papal legate and Henry's kinsman, with whom Henry was much angered over Pole's siding with papal authority in the matter of Henry's divorce proceedings from Katharine of Aragón. Wyatt was again confined to the Tower, where he wrote an impassioned 'Defence'. He received a royal pardon, perhaps at the request of then queen, Catharine Howard, and was fully restored to favor in 1542. Wyatt was given various royal offices after his pardon, but he became ill after welcoming Charles V's envoy at Falmouth and died at Sherborne on 11 October 1542.

None of Wyatt's poems had been published in his lifetime, with the exception of a few poems in a miscellany entitled The Court of Venus. His first published work was Certain Psalms (1549), metrical translations of the penitential psalms. It wasn't until 1557, 15 years after Wyatt's death, that a number of his poetry appeared alongside the poetry of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey in printer Richard Tottel's Songs and Sonnets written by the Right Honorable Lord Henry Howard late Earl of Surrey and other. Until modern times it was called simply Songs and Sonnets, but now it is generally known as Tottel's Miscellany. The rest of Wyatt's poetry, lyrics, and satires remained in manuscript until the 19th and 20th centuries "rediscovered" them.

Wyatt, along with Surrey, was the first to introduce the sonnet into English, with its characteristic final rhyming couplet. He wrote extraordinarily accomplished imitations of Petrarch's sonnets, including 'I find no peace' ('Pace non trovo') and 'Whoso List to Hunt'—the latter, quite different in tone from Petrarch's 'Una candida cerva', has often been seen to refer to Anne Boleyn as the deer with a jewelled collar. Wyatt was also adept at other new forms in English, such as the terza rima and the rondaeu. Wyatt and Surrey often share the title "father of the English sonnet”.

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ANTHOLOGY POEM 1 – Thomas Wyatt

Whoso List to Hunt, I Know where is an Hind

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, hélas, I may no more. The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore, Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind. Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt, As well as I may spend his time in vain. And graven with diamonds in letters plain There is written, her fair neck round about: Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am, And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

Sir Thomas Wyatt

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY POEM 1 – Thomas Wyatt - ANALYSIS

As one of the earliest English sonnet writers, Wyatt uses a rhyming couplet to end his sonnets and a rhyme scheme of ABBA,ABBA, CDCD, EE.

Some critics have suggested the subject of the poem was Anne Boleyn. Wyatt bases this sonnet on a similar sonnet by Petrach called 'Una candida cerva' though the poems differ in tone. (see next page for translation). Unlike Petrach’s celebration of the “hind’s” freedom, Wyatt focuses more on the untameable wild nature of the deer in his sonnet. The last couplet, “Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am And wild for to hold though I seem tame.” Uses a monosyllabic last line to emphasise the wild nature of the subject. The half- rhyme in the couplet draws further attention from the reader to the ending. If the subject was Anne Boleyn, then the message of this couplet could have a fairly poignant meaning. As Anne Boleyn was executed for treason and incest with her own brother, the description of the hind as being property of Caesar (representing Henry VIII) and too wild to tame seems particularly apt. Wyatt would have to hide his feelings about Anne Boleyn therefore the form of a “translated” sonnet would disguise his real meaning, and the awkwardness of the final couplet’s rhyme would offer a clue to the poem’s disguised meaning.

Without considering the connection to Anne Boleyn, the poem’s voice uses an extended metaphor of a deer to reflect a love he has failed to win. The analogy of the “hunt” refers to his wooing the subject of his affection. The unrequited love he experiences has made him “wearied”. The repetition of “wearied” emphasises the heart-ache caused by failing to win her affection. The sense of love as an affliction is suggested here, and common in several of the anthology poems.

Potentially, a feminist reading would find the poem sexist in its use of animalistic and objectification metaphor and the comparison of love to a sport or hunt.

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Una candida cerva - Petrach

ITALIAN ENGLISH Una candida cerva sopra l'erba A pure white hind appeared to me verde m'apparve, con duo corna d'oro, with two gold horns, on green grass, fra due riviere, all'ombra d'un alloro, between two streams, in a laurel's shade, levando 'l sole a la stagione acerba. at sunrise, in the unripe season.

Era sua vista sí dolce superba, Her aspect was so sweet and proud ch'i' lasciai per seguirla ogni lavoro: I left all my labour to follow her: come l'avaro che 'n cercar tesoro as a miser, in search of treasure, con diletto l'affanno disacerba. makes his toil lose its bitterness in delight.

" Nessun mi tocchi - al bel collo d'intorno 'Touch me not,' in diamonds and topaz, scritto avea di diamanti et di topazi - : was written round about her lovely neck: libera farmi al mio Cesare parve ". 'it pleased my Lord to set me free.'

Et era 'l sol già vòlto al mezzo giorno, The sun had already mounted to mid-day, gli occhi miei stanchi di mirar, non sazi, my eyes were tired with gazing, but not sated, quand'io caddi ne l'acqua, et ella sparve. when I fell into water, and she vanished.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY Edmund Spenser 1552-1598

Brief Biog: Best known for The Faerie Queene, an epic poem and fantastical allegory celebrating the Tudor dynasty and Elizabeth I. He is recognised as one of the premier craftsmen of Modern English verse in its infancy, and one of the greatest poets in the English language.

Structure of the Spenserian Stanza Spenser used a distinctive verse form, called the Spenserian stanza, in several works, including The Faerie Queene.

The stanza's main meter is iambic pentameter with a final line in iambic hexameter (having six feet or stresses, known as an Alexandrine), and the rhyme scheme is ababbcbcc.

Structure of the Spenserian Sonnet The Spenserian Sonnet is based on a fusion of elements of both the Petrarchan sonnet and the Shakespearean sonnet. It is similar to the Shakespearan sonnet in the sense that its set up is based more on the 3 quatrains and a couplet,a system set up by Shakespeare; however it is more like the Petrarchan tradition in the fact that the conclusion follows from the argument or issue set up in the earlier quatrains. ABAB,BCBC; CDCDEE.. Adheres to a very strict pentameter. Spenser’s roots are in balladic form – as his epic faerie queen shows The rhyme scheme and strict rhythm causes the poems to have more “storylike qualities”)

LINKS TO ANTHOLOGY

The Faerie Queene harks back to balladic lyrical poems of courtly love and chivalry, where a knight journeys on a quest. Keats’ La Bell Dame Sans Merci is written deliberately to remind the reader of poems like The Faerie Queene.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY Faerie queen extract Canto 1:

Gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine, Y cladd in mightie armes and siluer shielde, Wherein old dints of deepe wounds did remaine, The cruell markes of many' a bloudy fielde; Yet armes till that time did he neuer wield: His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, As much disdayning to the curbe to yield: Full iolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt, As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt.

But on his brest a bloudie Crosse he bore, The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, And dead as liuing euer him ador'd: Vpon his shield the like was also scor'd, For soueraine hope, which in his helpe he had: Right faithfull true he was in deede and word, But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad; Yet nothing did he dread, but euer was ydrad.

Vpon a great aduenture he was bond, That greatest Gloriana to him gaue, That greatest Glorious Queene of Faerie lond, To winne him worship, and her grace to haue, Which of all earthly things he most did craue; And euer as he rode, his hart did earne To proue his puissance in battell braue Vpon his foe, and his new force to learne; Vpon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne.

A louely Ladie rode him faire beside, Vpon a lowly Asse more white then snow, Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide Vnder a vele, that wimpled was full low, And ouer all a blacke stole she did throw, As one that inly mournd: so was she sad, And heauie sat vpon her palfrey slow: Seemed in heart some hidden care she had, And by her in a line a milke white lambe she lad.

So pure and innocent, as that same lambe, She was in life and euery vertuous lore, And by descent from Royall lynage came Of ancient Kings and Queenes, that had of yore Their scepters stretcht from East to Westerne shore, And all the world in their subiection held; Till that infernall feend with foule vprore Forwasted all their land, and them expeld: Whom to auenge, she had this Knight from far co[m]peld.

Edmund Spenser

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Sonnet 75

One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Agayne I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray. "Vayne man," sayd she, "that doest in vaine assay. A mortall thing so to immortalize, For I my selve shall lyke to this decay, and eek my name bee wyped out lykewize." "Not so," quod I, "let baser things devize, To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your vertues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens wryte your glorious name. Where whenas death shall all the world subdew, Our love shall live, and later life renew."

Edmund Spenser

ANALYSIS AND SUMMARY

Here we see Spenser using the sonnet form to consider the immortality of love. Though in nature, as the waves wash writing in the sand away, our lives will come to an end. However Spenser uses the last sestet to argue that, through his poetry, his love for his mistress will live on forever.

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Sonnet 30

My love is like to ice, and I to fire: how comes it then that this her cold so great is not dissolv’d through my so hot desire, but harder grows, the more I her entreat? Or how comes it that my exceeding heat is not delayed by her heart frozen cold, but that I burn much more in boiling sweat, and feel my flames augmented manifold? What more miraculous thing may be told that fire, which all thing melts, should harden ice: and ice which is congealed with senseless cold, should kindle fire by wonderful device? Such is the pow’r of love in gentle mind that it can alter all the course of kind.

Edmund Spenser

ANALYSIS AND SUMMARY

Here we see Spenser use the sonnet to pose a question in each of the three quatraines. He wonders why his “love” is not attracted to him. He uses natural imagery of “fire” and “ice” and almost presents a scientific argument to pose his frustrated question. The last couplet concludes that love transcends natural understanding. The choice of profound elements “ice” and “fire” reflect the profound emotion of love.

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William Shakespeare 1564-1616

William Shakespeare was born in Stratford-upon-Avon in Warwickshire and was baptised a few days later on 26 April 1564. His father, John Shakespeare, was a glove maker and wool merchant and his mother, Mary Arden, was the daughter of a well-to- do landowner from Wilmcote, South Warwickshire. It is likely Shakespeare was educated at the local King Edward VI Grammar School in Stratford. The next documented event in Shakespeare’s life is his marriage at the age of 18 to Anne Hathaway, the daughter of a local farmer, on November 28, 1582. She was eight years older than him and their first child, Susanna, was born six months after their wedding. Two years later, the couple had twins, Hamnet and Judith, but their son died when he was 11 years old.

Again, a gap in the records leads some scholars to refer to Shakespeare’s life between 1585 and 1592 as 'the lost years'. By the time he reappears again, mentioned in a London pamphlet, Shakespeare has made his way to London without his family and is already working in the theatre.

Having gained recognition as an actor and playwright Shakespeare had clearly ruffled a few feathers along the way – contemporary critic, Robert Green, described him in the 1592 pamphlet as an, "upstart Crow".

As well as belonging to its pool of actors and playwrights, Shakespeare was one of the managing partners of the Lord Chamberlain's Company (renamed the King's Company when James succeeded to the throne), whose actors included the famous Richard Burbage. The company acquired interests in two theatres in the Southwark area of London near the banks of the Thames - the Globe and the Blackfriars. In 1593 and 1594, Shakespeare’s first poems, 'Venus and Adonis' and 'The Rape of Lucrece', were published and he dedicated them to his patron, Henry Wriothesley, the Earl of Southampton. It is thought Shakespeare also wrote most of his sonnets at this time.

Shakespeare was a prolific playwright, with records of his first plays beginning to appear in 1594, from which time he produced roughly two a year until around 1611. His hard work quickly paid off, with signs that he was beginning to prosper emerging soon after the publication of his first plays. By 1596 Shakespeare’s father, John had been granted a coat of arms and it’s probable that Shakespeare had commissioned them, paying the fees himself. A year later he bought New Place, a large house in Stratford.

His earlier plays were mainly histories and comedies such as 'Henry VI', 'Titus Andronicus', 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', 'The Merchant of Venice' and 'Richard II'. The tragedy, 'Romeo and Juliet', was also published in this period. By the last years of Elizabeth I's reign Shakespeare was well established as a famous poet and playwright and was called upon to perform several of his plays before the Queen at court. In 1598 the author Francis Meres described Shakespeare as England’s greatest writer in comedy

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY and tragedy.

In 1602 Shakespeare's continuing success enabled him to move to upmarket Silver Street, near where the Barbican is now situated, and he was living here when he wrote some of his greatest tragedies such as 'Hamlet', 'Othello', 'King Lear' and 'Macbeth'.

Shakespearean Sonnet Form: Rhyme scheme: ABABCDCD;EFEFGG Adheres mainly to 10 syllable lines (pentameter). Shakespeare’s background is in drama and this essence is present in his sonnets. The SOUND primarily makes it Shakespearean. The meter is moved with frequent trochees and spondees and can vary from ten syllables.

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Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate; Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date;

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare

ANALYSIS AND SUMMARY – SONNET 18

Soonet 116 subverts and parodies the generic clichés often found in sonnets. Using nature to compare his love, Shakepeare explains that the natural comparisons are not appropriate to use to explain how profound his love for the peom’s addresse is. The last two lines are reminiscent of Spenser’s sonnet 75, as Shakespeare explains that their love will live forever, as long as his poem survives. The last couplet’s repetition of “so long” and the witty argument is very romantic as it is true that his love is still alive as long as we read this poem.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY POEM 2 – SONNET 116 - William Shakespeare

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! It is an ever-fixèd mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

William Shakespeare

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ANALYSIS AND SUMMARY – SONNET 116

Though Sonnet 116 is frequently used at weddings, many argue the poem contains a subversive message. The poem at first reading seems clearly about the coupling of two people in love. Shakespeare structures the start of the poem to ensure each line has obvious pairs: “marriage” and “minds” are an alliterative pairing, “love is not love”, “alters… alteration”, “remover… remove”. These paired words emphasies the idea of love being an experience between two people.

The first line breaks the usual iambic rhtym in the last two stressed syllables “true minds” highlighting the importance of a cerebral connection in a loving relationship.

The second and third quatrains use natural and profound imagery to compare to love and suggest TRUE LOVE is stronger than all of the possible hurdles presented.

The rhyming couplet is where Shakespeare deliberately end the poem ambiguously: “if this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man never loved.” The half-rhyme signals a subversion of the Shakespearean sonnet. The last phrase can be read in two ways: “nor no man ever loved” – either no man has ever been in love OR Shakespeare has never loved a man. If interpreted the second way, the sonnet suddenly becomes a poem about homosexual love… The “impediments” seems more poignant. The “true minds” seems more relevant. As the poem is written in an era where homosexuality would be a sin and illegal, Shakespeare could possibly be using the ambiguity to hide his true feelings for another man. If a poem declaring his love for another man, Shakespeare’s use of the sonnet is particularly effective as it is a form primarily associated with heterosexual courtship.

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Sonnet 130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

William Shakespeare

ANALYSIS AND SUMMARY – SONNET 130

Soonet 130 mocks many of the generic clichés often found in sonnets. Shakespeare deliberately shocks the reader by sounding critical in his over-realistic description of the poem’s subject. Frequently he uses the same line to juxtapose a cliché with a harsh realistic description, “Coral is far more red than her lips red” and “If snow be white, then her breasts are dun”. The poem’s romantic message is presented in the final couplet, “And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare, As any she belied with flase compare.” The monosyllabic phrase, “I think my love as rare” emphasises the main message of the poem: his mistress is unique and his love greater than any written about in the clichéd sonnets of the time.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY Lady Mary Wroth

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY A Crowne of Sonnets dedicated to Love – Lady Mary Wroth In this strange Labyrinth how shall I turne, Wayes are on all sids while the way I misse: If to the right hand, there, in love I burne, Let mee goe forward, therein danger is. If to the left, suspition hinders blisse; Let mee turne back, shame cryes I ought returne: Nor faint, though crosses my fortunes kiss, Stand still is harder, allthough sure to mourne. Thus let mee take the right, or left hand way, Goe forward, or stand still, or back retire: I must these doubts indure without allay Or helpe, but trauell finde for my best hire. Yet that which most my troubled sense doth move, Is to leave all, and take the threed of Love.

Is to leave all, and take the threed of Love, Which line straite leades unto the soules content, Where choice delights with pleasures wings doe move, And idle fant'sie neuer roome had lent. When chaste thoughts guide us, then our minds are bent To take that good which ills from us remove: Light of true love brings fruite which none repent; But constant Lovers seeke and wish to prove. Love is the shining Starre of blessings light, The fervent fire of zeale, the roote of peace, The lasting lampe, fed with the oyle of right, Image of Faith, and wombe for ioyes increase. Love is true Vertue, and his ends delight, His flames are joyes, his bands true Lovers might.

His flames are joyes, his bandes true Lovers might, No stain is there, but pure, as purest white, Where no cloud can appaere to dimme his light, Nor spot defile, but shame will soon requite. Heere are affections, tryde by Loves just might As Gold by fire, and black discern'd by white; Error by truth, and darknes knowne by light, Where Faith is vallu'd, for Love to requite. Please him, and serve him, glory in his might And firme hee'le be, as Innocency white, Cleere as th'ayre, warme as Sun's beames, as day light Just as Truth, constant as Fate, joy'd to requite. Then love obey, strive to observe his might And be in his brave Court a glorious light.

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And be in his brave Court a glorious light Shine in the eyes of Faith, and Constancy Maintaine the fires of Love, still burning bright, Not slightly sparkling, but light flaming be. Never to slake till earth no Starres can see, Till Sun, and Moone doe leave to us darke night, And secound Chaos once againe doe free Us, and the World from all devisions spight, Till then affections which his followers are, Governe our hearts, and proove his powers gaine, To taste this pleasing sting, seeke with all care For happy smarting is it with small paine. Such as although it pierce your tender heart, And burne, yet burning you will love the smart.

And burne, yet burning you will love the smart, When you shall feele the waight of true desire, So pleasing, as you would not wish your part Of burthen showld be missing from that fire. But faithfull and unfaigned heate aspire Which sinne abollisheth, and doth impart Salves to all feare, with vertues which inspire Soules with divine love; which showes his chaste art. And guide he is to joyings, open eyes He hath to happinesse, and best can learne Us, meanes how to deserve, this he descries, Who blinde, yet doth our hiden'st thoughts discerne. Thus we may gaine since living in blest Love, He may our profitt, and our Tutor proove.

He may our Prophett, and our Tutor proove, In whom alone we doe this power finde, To joine two hearts as in one frame to moove Two bodies, but one soule to rule the minde Eyes which must care to one deare Object binde, Eares to each others speach as if above All else, they sweete, and learned were; this kind Content of Lovers witnesseth true love. It doth inrich the wits, and make you see That in your selfe which you knew not before, Forceing you to admire such guifts showld be Hid from your knowledge, yet in you the store. Millions of these adorne the throane of Love, How blest bee they then, who his favours prove?

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How bless'd bee they, then, who his favors prove, A life whereof the birth is just desire? Breeding sweete flame, which harts inuite to move, In these lov'd eyes which kindle Cupids fire, And nurse his longings with his thoughts intire, Fix't on the heat of wishes form'd by Love, Yet whereas fire destroyes, this doth aspire, Increase, and foster all delights above. Love will a Painter make you, such, as you Shall able be to draw, your onely deare, More lively, perfect, lasting, and more true Then rarest Workeman, and to you more neere. These be the least, then all must needs confesse, He that shuns Love, doth love himselfe the lesse.

He that shuns Love, doth love himselfe the lesse, And cursed he whose spirit, not admires The worth of Love, where endlesse blessednes Raignes, & commands, maintain'd by heav'nly fires. Made of Vertue, joyn'd by Truth, blowne by Desires, Strengthned by Worth, renew'd by carefulnesse, Flaming in never changing thoughts: bryers Of Jealousie shall heere misse welcomnesse. Nor coldly passe in the pursutes of Love Like one long frozen in a Sea of ice: And yet but chastly let your passions moove, No thought from vertuous Love your minds intice. Never to other ends your Phant'sies place, But where they may returne with honor's grace.

But where they may returne with Honor's grace, Where Venus follies can no harbour winne, But chased are, as worthlesse of the face, Or stile of Love, who hath lasciuious beene. Our hearts are subiect to her Sonne; where sinne Never did dwell, or rest one minutes space; What faults he hath in her did still beginne, And from her breast he suck'd his fleeting pace. If Lust be counted Love 'tis falsely nam'd, By wickednesse, a fairer glosse to set Upon that Vice, which else makes men asham'd In the owne Phrase to warrant, but beget This Childe for Love, who ought like Monster borne Bee from the Court of Love, and Reason torne

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Bee from the Court of Love, and Reason torne, For Love in Reason now doth put his trust, Desert, and liking are together borne Children of Love, and Reason, Parents just, Reason adviser is, Love ruler must Be of the State, which Crowne he long hath worne; Yet so, as neither will in least mistrust The government where no feare is of scorn. Then reverence both their mights thus made of one, But wantonesse, and all those errors shun, Which wrongers be, Impostures, and alone Maintainers of all follies ill begunne. Fruit of a sowre, and unwholsome grownd Unprofitably pleasing, and unsound.

Unprofitably pleasing, and unsound. When Heaven gave liberty to fraile dull earth, To bringe foorth plenty that in ills abound, Which ripest, yet doe bring a certaine dearth. A timelesse, and unseasonable birth, Planted in ill, in worse time springing found, Which Hemlocke like might feed a sicke-wits mirth Where unrul'd vapours swimme in endlesse round. Then joy we not in what we ought to shunne, Where shady pleasures shew, but true borne fires Are quite quench'd out, or by poore ashes won, Awhile to keepe those coole, and wann desires. O no, let Love his glory have, and might Be giv'n to him, who triumphs in his right

Be giv'n to him who triumphs in his right; Nor fading be, but like those blossomes faire, Which fall for good, and lose their colours bright, Yet dye not, but with fruit their losse repaire: So may Love make you pale with loving care, When sweet enjoying shall restore that light, More cleere in beauty, then we can compare, If not to Venus in her chosen night. And who so give themselves in this deare kinde, These happinesses shall attend them still, To be supplide with joyes enrich'd in minde, With treasures of content, and pleasures fill. Thus love to be devine, doth here appeare, Free from all foggs, but shining faire, and cleare.

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Free from all foggs, but shining faire, and cleare, Wise in all good, and innocent in ill, Where holly friendship is esteemed deare, With Truth in love, and Justice in our Will. In Love these titles onely have their fill Of happy life-maintainer, and the meere Defence of right, the punisher of skill, And fraude, from whence directions doth appeare. To thee then, Lord commander of all hearts, Ruler of our affections, kinde, and just, Great King of Love, my soule from faigned smarts, Or thought of change, I offer to your trust, This Crowne, my selfe, and all that I have more, Except my heart, which you bestow'd before.

Except my heart, which you bestow'd before, And for a signe of Conquest gave away As worthlesse to be kept in your choice store; Yet one more spotlesse with you doth not stay. The tribute which my heart doth truely pay, Is faith untouch'd, pure thoughts discharge the score Of debts for me, where Constancy beares sway, And rules as Lord, unharm'd by Envies sore, Yet other mischiefes faile not to attend, As enimies to you, my foes must be, Curst Jealousie doth all her forces bend To my undoing, thus my harmes I see. So though in Love I fervently doe burne, In this strange Labyrinth how shall I turne?

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY

1600s Context: The English Civil War and Restoration

1605 Gunpowder Plot – A group of English Catholics, angered failure to relax laws against Catholicism attempted to blow up Parliament

1611 King James Bible Published – The “Authorised Version of the Bible” was commissioned in 1604. It became and remains the most famous English translation of the scriptures and had a massive impact on the English language.

1616 Shakespeare dies

1620 Pilgrims sail for America in the “Mayflower”

1629 Charles I dissolves Parliament and begins 11 years of rule – after the Parliament passed three resolutions condemning the King’s policies, the King closes Parliament.

1644 Charles’ Northern Army destroyed by Cromwell’s Parliamentarian troops. This is followed by Cromwell creating his New Model Army.

1649 Charles I is executed on Cromwell’s orders

THE PURITANS RULE ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND

1650 The Reformation – Puritans cleans Britain’s Cathedrals, Churches and Monestaries of all religious imagery, icons, or sign of wealth. During this time Theatres are closed and drama banned. Puritan rule brought an austere effect on all culture – art, clothing, and moral judgement in society (see overleaf)

1653 Oliver Cromwell makes himself Lord Protector

1658 Crowell’s Son, Richard, follows his father to become Lord Protector

1660 Charles is restored to the throne. There is major backlash to the Puritan way of life – clothes, theatre (Restoration comedies), architecture begin to ostentiously celebrate wealth, hedonism and excess. With colonies being established around the World, the Aristocracy becomes wealthier than ever before

1666 The Great Fire of London

1675 The Country Wife by William Wycherley opens

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PURITAN CLOTHING

RESTORATION CLOTHING

RESTORATION FURNITURE

RESTORATION ARCHITECTURE

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY The Metaphysical Poets

This was the name given to a group of English lyric poets of the 17th century. The term was first used by Samuel Johnson (1744). The hallmark of their poetry is the metaphysical conceit (a figure of speech that employs unusual and paradoxical images), a reliance on intellectual wit, learned imagery, and subtle argument. Although this method was by no means new, these men infused new life into English poetry by the freshness and originality of their approach. The most important metaphysical poets are John Donne, George Herbert, Henry Vaughan, Thomas Traherne, Abraham Cowley, Richard Crashaw, and Andrew Marvell. Their work has considerably influenced the poetry of the 20th cenury.

John Donne (1572 – 1631)

John Donne was an English poet, satirist, lawyer and priest. He is considered the pre-eminent representative of the metaphysical poets. His works are noted for their strong, sensual style and include sonnets, love poetry, religious poems, Latin translations, epigrams, elegies, songs, satires and sermons. His poetry is noted for its vibrancy of language and inventiveness of metaphor, especially compared to that of his contemporaries. Donne's style is characterised by abrupt openings and various paradoxes, ironies and dislocations. These features, along with his frequent dramatic or everyday speech rhythms, his tense syntax and his tough eloquence, were both a reaction against the smoothness of conventional Elizabethan poetry and an adaptation into English of European baroque and mannerist techniques. His early career was marked by poetry that bore immense knowledge of British society and he met that knowledge with sharp criticism. Another important theme in Donne’s poetry is the idea of true religion, something that he spent much time considering and theorising about. He wrote secular poems as well as erotic and love poems. He is particularly famous for his mastery of metaphysical conceits. Despite his great education and poetic talents, Donne lived in poverty for several years, relying heavily on wealthy friends. He spent much of the money he inherited during and after his education on womanising, literature, pastimes, and travel. In 1601, Donne secretly married Anne Moore, with whom he had twelve children. In 1615, he became an Anglican priest, although he did not want to take Anglican orders. He did so because King James I persistently ordered it. In 1621, he was appointed the Dean of St Paul's Cathedral in London. He also served as a member of parliament in 1601 and in 1614.

Further Reading: John Donne: A Nocturnal upon S. Lucy's Day, Being the Shortest Day John Donne: Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going to Bed John Donne: Elegy XVIII 43

LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY POEM 3 – The Flea - John Donne

MARK but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is ; It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be. Thou know'st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ; Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ; And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, yea, more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is. Though parents grudge, and you, we're met, And cloister'd in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee? Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now. 'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ; Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me, Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

John Donne

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ANALYSIS AND SUMMARY – THE FLEA

Donne uses the form of a metaphysical conceit to present a seemingly ludricrous argument to persuade his mistress to sleep with him. Written in a Puritan era, the voice seeks to persuade a resistant mistress to succumb to temptation and make love to him. His logic is based on the idea that a flea has bitten them both, and therefore their bodily fluids have already mixed, so why not actually have sex?

The logic is almost comical, but Donne also deliberately uses religious language and imagery, “one blood made two” connotes the communion and last supper, or the Christian marriage vows. Words like “temple” and “sin” and “sacrilege” continually refer to and attempt to refute the Puritanical religious reasons that his mistress would probably use to spurn his lustful advances.

The structure of the poem also echoes the Christian roots of Donne’s argument. There are three “characters in the poem” (the man, the woman and the flea), there are three stanzas, and each stanza concludes on a rhyming triplet – all of these reflect the Christian Trinity: Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

It is unclear or undecided whether Donne is being wholly ironic when his voice presents such a preposterous argument seeped in religious imagery. Writing at a time of Puritan rule, where society was ostensibly controlled by such a fundamentalist interpretation of Christianity, Donne, who was a Catholic before converting to Protestantism, may be mocking the Puritanical zealots of the time, mocking the hypocrisy of the society in which he lived or even mocking the prudishness of the “mistress” who is influenced by the Puritan views on extra- marital sex.

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JOHN DONNE -

The Sun Rising

BUSY old fool, unruly Sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school-boys and sour prentices, Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams so reverend, and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long. If her eyes have not blinded thine, Look, and to-morrow late tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."

She's all states, and all princes I; Nothing else is; Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus; Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.

JOHN DONNE

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Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)

Andrew Marvell an English metaphysical poet, Parliamentarian, and the son of a Church of England clergyman (also named Andrew Marvell). As a metaphysical poet, he is associated with John Donne and George Herbert. He was a colleague and friend of John Milton. Marvell was educated at Hull Grammar School. A secondary school in the city is now named after him. His most famous poems include To His Coy Mistress, The Garden, An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland, The Mower's Song and the country house poem Upon Appleton House. At the age of twelve, Marvell attended Trinity College, Cambridge and eventually received his BA degree. Afterwards, from the middle of 1642 onwards, Marvell probably travelled in continental Europe. He may well have served as a tutor for an aristocrat on the Grand Tour; but the facts are not clear on this point. While England was embroiled in the civil war, Marvell seems to have remained on the continent until 1647. It is not known exactly where his travels took him, except that he was in Rome in 1645 and Milton later reported that Marvell had mastered four languages, including French, Italian and Spanish. First poems and Marvell's time at Nun Appleton Marvell's first poems, which were written in Latin and Greek and published when he was still at Cambridge, lamented a visitation of the plague and celebrated the birth of a child to King Charles I and Queen Henrietta Maria. He only belatedly became sympathetic to the successive regimes during the Interregnum after Charles I's execution, which took place 30 January 1649. His Horatian Ode, a political poem dated to early 1650, responds with sorrow to the regicide even as it praises Oliver Cromwell's return from Ireland. Circa 1650-52, Marvell served as tutor to the daughter of the Lord General Thomas Fairfax, who had recently relinquished command of the Parliamentary army to Cromwell. He lived during that time at Nun Appleton House, near York, where he continued to write poetry. One poem, Upon Appleton House, To My Lord Fairfax, uses a description of the estate as a way of exploring Fairfax's and Marvell's own situation in a time of war and political change. Probably the best-known poem he wrote at this time was To His Coy Mistress. Marvell's poetic style Marvell’s poetry is often witty and full of elaborate conceits in the elegant style of the metaphysical poets. Many poems were inspired by events of the time, public or personal. Others were written in the pastoral style of the classical Roman authors. Even here, Marvell tends to place a particular picture before us. In The Nymph Complaining for the Death of her Fawn, the nymph weeps for the little animal as it dies, and tells us how it consoled her for her betrayal in love. His pastoral poems, including Upon Appleton House achieve originality and a unique tone through his reworking and subversion of the pastoral genre.

Further Reading: An Horatian Ode

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS POETRY ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY POEM 4 – Andrew Marvell – To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

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Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Andrew Marvell

ANALYSIS AND SUMMARY – To HIS COY MISTRESS

Another metaphysical conceit is used by Marvell to present a male voice attempting to persuade his mistress to have sex with him.

The poem uses three distinct sections part to structure its argument (or metaphysical conceit) and attempt to persuade the mistress to succumb to the voice’s desire to have sex. The first attempts to provide romantic, profound and exotic imagery to present the message that the voice would happily wait as long as necessary, if time was not a factor. The reference of the “ganges” and “rubies” alludes to the romance and unique love they have for each other. The section focussed on the number of years the voice would devote to the mistress, “An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest;” is particularly amusing as it provides a stereotypically male perspective through the innuendo – that the man would spend the most time focussed on “the rest”.

Marvell contrasts the second stanza through the huge tonal juxtaposition. The sudden deathly imagery, “marble vault” and “deserts of eternity” highlight the emptiness of dying without consummating their love. The shocking description,

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) “then worms shall try That long preserved virginity” is deliberately disgusting to emphasise the voice’s argument.

The third stanza again changes tone to one of lust and desire. The animalistic language, “amorous bird of prey”, “devour” and “tear our pleasures with rough strife” all provide lustful imagery of satisfying the voice’s sexual desire. The metaphorical innuendo of the “iron gates of life” alludes to the female subject’s vagina.

Again, as a poem written in the Puritanical era of the early/mid 1600s, Marvell may be mocking the prudish nature of Puritanical doctrines and the Protestant views of extra-marital sex.

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Richard Lovelace (1618-1657)

Known as a “Cavlier poet” was an Aristocratic Royalist during the English Civil War. The Cavalier poets were known for writing about love and the honours of war.

He fought in the Civil War for the Royalist Cavaliers who lost the war to the Parliamentarians and this meant Lovelace died in poverty.

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ANTHOLOGY POEM 5 – The Scrutiny – Richard Lovelace

The Scrutiny

Why should you swear I am forsworn, Since thine I vowed to be? Lady, it is already morn, And 'twas last night I swore to thee That fond impossibility.

Have I not loved thee much and long, A tedious twelve hours' space? I must all other beauties wrong, And rob thee of a new embrace, Could I still dote upon thy face.

Not but all joy in thy brown hair By others may be found;— But I must search the black and fair, Like skilful mineralists that sound For treasure in unploughed-up ground.

Then if, when I have loved my round, Thou prov'st the pleasant she, With spoils of meaner beauties crowned I laden will return to thee, Ev'n sated with variety.

Richard Lovelace

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ANALYSIS AND SUMMARY – THE SCRUTINY

Lovelace presents a short monologue from a male voice addressing his mistress on the morning after they have had sex. The voice explains that the mistress should not be upset that he will not be faithful to her and that she should appreciate the “tedious twelve hours” he has already dedicated to her. The alliteration highlights his dismissive misogynistic tone.

The arrogant misogynistic tone is continued through the argument the voice makes. He says, “I must all other beauties wrong”, suggesting fidelity would “rob” others of experiencing his sexual prowess. He even compares his need to continue his sexually promiscuous conquests to searching “the black and fair, Like skilful mineralists that sound For treasure in unploughed-up ground” The comparison of his flagrantly loose sexual moralisty to “skilful mineralists” alludes to the expeditions of the time to numerous exotic countries and the resources with which the explorers returned. The metaphor “unploughed-up ground” is misogynistic and refers to the frequently presented view in literature that a woman is tainted once they have lost their virginity.

The form is designed around five line stanzas following an ABABB rhyme scheme. The alternating rhyme scheme reflects the separation of the two lovers, while the fifth line’s creation of a rhyming couplet reflects the poem’s ending message: that they may still return to being lovers in the future.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) John Milton (1608 – 1674)

Poet, polemicist, a scholarly man of letters, and a civil servant for the Commonwealth of England under Oliver Cromwell. He wrote at a time of religious flux and political upheaval, and is best known for his epic poem Paradise Lost. Milton's poetry and prose reflect deep personal convictions, a passion for freedom and self-determination, and the urgent issues and political turbulence of his day. Writing in English, Latin, and Italian, he achieved international renown within his lifetime, and his celebrated Areopagitica (written in condemnation of pre- publication censorship) is among history's most influential and impassioned defenses of free speech and freedom of the press. William Hayley's 1796 biography called him the "greatest English author," and he remains generally regarded "as one of the preeminent writers in the English language,"[2] though critical reception has oscillated in the centuries since his death (often on account of his republicanism). Samuel Johnson praised Paradise Lost as "a poem which...with respect to design may claim the first place, and with respect to performance, the second, among the productions of the human mind," though he (a Tory and recipient of royal patronage) described Milton's politics as those of an "acrimonious and surly republican".

Paradise Lost:

Milton's magnum opus, the blank-verse epic poem Paradise Lost, was composed by the blind and impoverished Milton from 1658 to 1664 (dictating every word of the twelve book epic poem) with small but significant revisions published in 1674 (second edition). As a blind poet, Milton dictated his verse to a series of aides in his employ. It has been argued that the poem reflects his personal despair at the failure of the Revolution, yet affirms an ultimate optimism in human potential. Some literary critics have argued that Milton encoded many references to his unyielding support for the "Good Old Cause".

The epic nature of the poem and the profound plot elements it tackles (the creation of Sin, birth of Death, Heaven, Hell, God and Satan) is without parallel in English Literature. Dante’s Inferno must have influenced his work.

Perhaps the most significant element of the TWELVE books of poetry that make up PARADISE LOST, is the fact the protagonist is SATAN. It was extremely rare to centre a story around an anti-hero in literature previous to Paradise Lost, and Milton does not just give us an anti-hero, he creates a story focussed on the ultimate anti-hero: the devil.

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John John Milton (1608 – 1674)

Extract from Paradise Lost (Book XII) – the final passage of the epic poem. The Angel Michael continues from the Flood to relate what shall succeed; then, in the mention of Abraham, comes by degrees to explain, who that Seed of the Woman shall be, which was promised Adam and Eve in the Fall; his Incarnation, Death, Resurrection, and Ascention; the state of the Church till his second Coming. Adam greatly satisfied and recomforted by these Relations and Promises descends the Hill with Michael; wakens Eve, who all this while had slept, but with gentle dreams compos'd to quietness of mind and submission. Michael in either hand leads them out of Paradise, the fiery Sword waving behind them, and the Cherubim taking thir Stations to guard the Place.

To whom thus also th' Angel last repli'd: This having learnt, thou hast attained the summe Of wisdom; hope no higher, though all the Starrs Thou knewst by name, and all th' ethereal Powers, All secrets of the deep, all Natures works, Or works of God in Heav'n, Aire, Earth, or Sea, And all the riches of this World enjoydst, And all the rule, one Empire; onely add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add Faith, Add vertue, Patience, Temperance, add Love, B y name to come call'd Charitie, the soul Of all the rest: then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shalt possess A Paradise within thee, happier farr. Let us descend now therefore from this top Of Speculation; for the hour precise Exacts our parting hence; and see the Guards, By mee encampt on yonder Hill, expect Thir motion, at whose Front a flaming Sword, In signal of remove, waves fiercely round; We may no longer stay: go, waken Eve; Her also I with gentle Dreams have calm'd Portending good, and all her spirits compos'd To meek submission: thou at season fit Let her with thee partake what thou hast heard, Chiefly what may concern her Faith to know, The great deliverance by her Seed to come (For by the Womans Seed) on all Mankind. That ye may live, which will be many dayes, Both in one Faith unanimous though sad, With cause for evils past, yet much more cheer'd With meditation on the happie end. He ended, and they both descend the Hill; Descended, Adam to the Bowre where Eve Lay sleeping ran before, but found her wak't; And thus with words not sad she him receav'd. Whence thou returnst, and whither wentst, I know;

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) For God is also in sleep, and Dreams advise, Which he hath sent propitious, some great good Presaging, since with sorrow and hearts distress Wearied I fell asleep: but now lead on; In mee is no delay; with thee to goe, Is to stay here; without thee here to stay, Is to go hence unwilling; thou to mee Art all things under Heav'n, all places thou, Who for my wilful crime art banisht hence. This further consolation yet secure I carry hence; though all by mee is lost, Such favour I unworthie am voutsaft, By mee the Promis'd Seed shall all restore. So spake our Mother Eve, and Adam heard Well pleas'd, but answer'd not; for now too nigh Th' Archangel stood, and from the other Hill To thir fixt Station, all in bright array The Cherubim descended; on the ground Gliding meteorous, as Ev'ning Mist Ris'n from a River o're the marish glides, And gathers ground fast at the Labourers heel Homeward returning. High in Front advanc't, The brandisht Sword of God before them blaz'd Fierce as a Comet; which with torrid heat, And vapour as the Libyan Air adust, Began to parch that temperate Clime; whereat In either hand the hastning Angel caught Our lingring Parents, and to th' Eastern Gate Led them direct, and down the Cliff as fast To the subjected Plaine; then disappeer'd. They looking back, all th' Eastern side beheld Of Paradise, so late thir happie seat, Wav'd over by that flaming Brand, the Gate With dreadful Faces throng'd and fierie Armes: Som natural tears they drop'd, but wip'd them soon; The World was all before them, where to choose Thir place of rest, and Providence thir guide: They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow, Through Eden took thir solitarie way.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Geoffrey Chaucer (1340-1400 –est.) John Wilmott, Earl of Rochester (1503 -1542)

Brief Biog: John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester (1 April 1647 – 26 July 1680) was an English poet and courtier of King Charles II's Restoration court. The Restoration reacted against the "spiritual authoritarianism" of the Puritan era. Rochester was the embodiment of the new era, and he is as well known for his rakish lifestyle as his poetry, although the two were often interlinked. He died at the age of 33 from venereal disease.

Writing in the Restoration period, his writing demonstrates the celebration of hedonism that is evident in much Restoration literature. Often sexually debauched or obscene, Wilmott, like other Restoration writers, reacts against the previous Puritanical rule of the strict Protestant Parlimentarians.

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ANTHOLOGY POEM 6 – Absent from thee – John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

ABSENT FROM THEE

ABSENT from thee I languish still, Then ask me not, When I return?

The straying fool ’twill plainly kill

To wish all day, all night to mourn.

Dear, from thine arms then let me fly, 5 That my fantastic mind may prove

The torments it deserves to try,

That tears my fix’d heart from my love.

When, wearied with a world of woe,

To thy safe bosom I retire, 10 Where love, and peace, and truth does flow,

May I, contented, there expire.

Lest once more wandering from that heaven,

I fall on some base heart unblest,

Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven, 15 And lose my everlasting rest.

JOHN WILMOT, Earl of Rochester

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ANTHOLOGY POEM 6 – Absent from thee – John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

Though most of Wilmott’s poetry is lewd and celebrates the obscene, this poem contrasts greatly with his other work (which includes the title “Signior Dildo” amongst others).

It is reminiscent of the Lovelace poem in how it presents a male perspective on parting from his lover. The rhyme scheme’s ABAB pattern reflects the separation of the couple.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) ANTHOLOGY POEM 6 – Absent from thee – John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

1700 and 1800s Context: Enlightenment, Revolution, Social change begins

1700 - 1760 European colonisation of the Americas – The French and British colonised much of North America, while the Spanish and Portuguese dominated Central and South America. 1772 Canal constructioln begins across Britain – This supports the Industrial Revolution as mass production in factories begins to have distribution opportunities across the nation 1776 American War of Independence

1789 French Revolution

1801 First steam locomotive demonstrated

1803-1815 Napoleonic Wars

1805 Nelson’s triumph at Trafalgar

1815 Battle of Waterloo ends the Napoleonic War

1820 Queen Victoria inherits the throne at 18 years old.

1821 Faraday demonstrates electro-magnetic rotation, the principle of the electric motor. 1838 Slavery abolished

1853-1856 Crimean War

1857 Divorce Laws changed – before this change in the law, legally divorcewas easier for men than for women: a husband could petition for divorce on the sole grounds that his wife had committed adultery; whereas a wife could only hope for a divorce based on adultery combined with other offenses such as incest, cruelty, bigamy, desertion, etc., or based on cruelty alone. The change in law allowed legal separatton by either husband or wife on grounds of adultery, cruelty, or desertion 1859 Darwin’s Origin of the Species was published

1870 Education Act 1870 - introduces Education for all Women allowed to enter Universities of Oxford and Cambridge.

1880 The Elementary Education Act 1880 was passed, making primary schooling

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) compulsory and extending it to girls.

The Romantic Poets & The Romantic Era

The Romantic Poets

Romanticism, a philosophical, literary, artistic and cultural era which began in the mid/late-18th century as a reaction against the prevailing Enlightenment ideals of the day. Romantic poets celebrated the PROFOUND. The elements of life which moves the spirit. Often they celebrated the beauty of nature. In opposition to the contemporary scientific movement’s desire to explain the mysteries of nature, the Romantics sought to celebrate the mystery and beauty of nature and natural emotions. For example, if you see a rainbow it is a profound and beautiful moment. Does understanding that it is caused by “an optical illusion caused by the sun’s rays being refracted in moisture in the air” make it more or less beautiful? The Romantics would argue it diminishes the beautiful mystery of our world. Romantics favoured more natural, emotional and personal artistic themes to the scientific discoveries, experiments and explanations of nature. Poets such as William Wordsworth were actively engaged in trying to create a new kind of poetry that emphasised intuition over reason and the natural over the urban. Although many people stress the notion of spontaneity in Romantic poetry, the movement was still greatly concerned with the pain of composition, of translating these emotive responses into poetic form. Wordsworth also wrote poetry influenced by his revolutionary idealistic belief that the political shifts of the time was an opportunity for radicalism and even planned to start a Utopian society. The six most well-known English authors are, in order of birth and with an example of their work: William Blake – Songs of Innocence and Experience William Wordsworth – The Prelude Samuel Taylor Coleridge – Christabel Percy Bysshe Shelley – Prometheus Unbound "Adonais" "Ode to the West Wind" "Ozymandias" John Keats – Great Odes "Hyperion" "Endymion"

George Gordon, Lord Byron – Don Juan – though Byron hated the Romantic poets and would never include himself as one! I advise never calling Byron a Romantic poet – but rather “a poet of the Romantic Era”.

Although chronologically earliest among these writers, William Blake wrote prior to the era named as the Romantic Era, but his work is wholly in keeping with the Romantic ideals.

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William Blake (1757-1827)

Blake, though writing a little earlier than the Romantic era, is very much a “proto- Romantic”. His continual angst about the effects of the Industrial Revolution (seen particularly in poems like Jerusalem and London) and his disgust over Scientific explanations of the profundity of nature (seen in poems like “Tyger, Tyger” and in his etchings) are both themes triumphed by the Romantic poets who followed him.

Blake led a fairly hermitic life and, though religious, he criticised organised religion frequently.

His major works were two antholigies, Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, for both of which he created painstakingly crafted etchings to accompany the poetry.

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ANTHOLOGY POEM 7 – The Garden of Love – William Blake

THE GARDEN OF LOVE

I went to the Garden of Love,. And saw what I never had seen; A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And ‘Thou shalt not.' writ over the door; So I turned to the Garden of Love That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves, And tombstones where flowers should be; And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, And binding with briars my joys and desires.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) ANTHOLOGY POEM 7 – The Garden of Love – William Blake - ANALYSIS

Blake’s poem, written in an era following the Puritanical rule a century earlier, aims to criticise organised religion, describing “Priests in black gowns” “tombstones where flowers should be”. The dark negative imagery highlights Blake’s disgust at the Protestant religious zealotry, which he feels hinders the natural beauty of life.

The title “The Garden of Love”, which is the subject of the poem, alludes to the Garden of Eden and the prelapsarian concept of Paradise before the fall. It also could be an innuendo and used as a euphemism for female genitalia. He complains that when he attempts to visit the “Garden of Love”, a chapek has been built there which has a sign on its door decreeing “Thou shalt not enter”. The innuendo suggests that Blake is voicing his frustration at Protestant puritanical infliuences over the natural sexuality of human beings. The fear of judgement or damnation if a woman enjoys extra-marital sex is alluded to through the extended metaphor.

The rhyme scheme is ABAB throughout, reflecting the separation of the couple caused by the religious doctrines of the time, though Blake breaks from this schem in his very last line of the poem “and binding with briars my joys and desires”. The plosive language accentuates his disgust at organised religion’s influence on his natural “desires”.

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1914-1918 World War 1 1922 Russian Civil War 1928 Women have the same voting rights as men 1939-1945 World War 2 1960s The Contraceptive Pill becomes commonplace 1982 The Falklands War

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born in Ottery St Mary, Devonshire, as the youngest son of the vicar of Ottery St Mary..

Coleridge's collection Poems On Various Subjects was published in 1796, and in 1797 appeared Poems. In the same year he began the publication of a short-lived liberal political periodical The Watchman. He started a close friendship with Dorothy and William Wordsworth, one of the most fruitful creative relationships in English literature. From it resulted Lyrical Ballads, which opened with Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" and ended with Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey". These poems set a new style by using everyday language and fresh ways of looking at nature.

Disenchanted with political developments in France, Coleridge visited Germany in 1798-99 with Dorothy and William Wordsworth, and became interested in the works of Immanuel Kant. He studied philosophy at Göttingen University and mastered the German language. At the end of 1799 Coleridge fell in love with Sara Hutchinson, the sister of Wordsworth's future wife, to whom he devoted his work "Dejection: An Ode" (1802). From 1808 to 1818 he gave several lectures, chiefly in London, and was considered the greatest of Shakespearean critics. In 1810 Coleridge's friendship with Wordsworth came to a crisis, and the two poets never fully returned to the relationship they had earlier.

Suffering from neuralgic and rheumatic pains, Coleridge had become addicted to opium. During the following years he lived in London, on the verge of suicide. He found a permanent shelter in Highgate in the household of Dr. James Gillman, and enjoyed an almost legendary reputation among the younger Romantics. During this time he rarely left the house.

In 1816 the unfinished poems "Christabel" and "Kubla Khan" were published, and next year appeared "Sibylline Leaves". According to the poet, "Kubla Khan" was inspired by a dream vision. His most important production during this period was the Biographia Literaria(1817). After 1817 Coleridge devoted himself to theological and politico-sociological works. Coleridge was elected a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 1824. He died in Highgate, near London on July 25, 1834.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Christabel

A Short Synopsis of Christabel

"Christabel" is an unfinished poem by Samuel Coleridge. The protagonist, Christabel, wakes from a strange dream at the stroke of midnight. Unable to sleep, she journeys into the gardens outside of her father's castle. Christabel comes across a disheveled and upset stranger named Geraldine. Pitying the distraught stranger, Christabel invites Geraldine into her father's manor. Christabel and Geraldine spend the night together. Christabel’s father, Sir Leoline, becomes infatuated with Geraldine while Bracy, Leoline's bard, has an ominous dream that casts doubt on Geraldine's identity. Unfortunately, before any conformation on Geraldine' identity can be confirmed or denied, the poem abruptly ends.

The Importance of the Poem's Structure

"Christabel” is divided into four parts---two narrative parts with a conclusion to each part. The four parts differ in structure, tone and purpose, raising many questions as to Coleridge’s intentions as he developed the poem. Part I’s mysterious tone tells of Christabel’s discovery of Geraldine and their developing relationship. The Conclusion to Part the First summarizes the events of Part I, yet offers no actual “Conclusion.”

Part II introduces two new characters and the occurrence of events is now interwoven with Christabel’s supernatural visions of Geraldine’s changing form. The Conclusion to Part the Second is the most disconnected section of the poem, offering a whimsical, general illustration of a young child and the struggles that can face the relationship between father and child.

The lack of cohesion in the four parts of the poem, along with inconsistent overall structure in meter, rhyme and verse raise many important questions for discussion: • Is the poem meant to be unfinished? Are certain questions meant to remain unanswered (who is Geraldine, etc)? • What is the significance of the seemingly unrelated Conclusion to Part II? Does it offer any conclusion? • How does the inconsistent structure effect, or add to, the overall understanding of the poem?

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Christabel

Christabel by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Tis the middle of night by the castle clock And the owls have awakened the crowing cock; Tu-whit!- Tu-whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew. Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff, which From her kennel beneath the rock Maketh answer to the clock, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; Ever and aye, by shine and shower, Sixteen short howls, not over loud; Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark. The thin gray cloud is spread on high, It covers but not hides the sky. The moon is behind, and at the full; And yet she looks both small and dull. The night is chill, the cloud is gray: 'T is a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up this way. The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late, A furlong from the castle gate? She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothed knight; And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that's far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke, The sighs she heaved were soft and low, And naught was green upon the oak, But moss and rarest mistletoe: She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, And in silence prayeth she.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) The lady sprang up suddenly, The lovely lady, Christabel! It moaned as near, as near can be, But what it is she cannot tell.- On the other side it seems to be, Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. The night is chill; the forest bare; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? There is not wind enough in the air To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady's cheek- There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel! Jesu, Maria, shield her well! She folded her arms beneath her cloak, And stole to the other side of the oak. What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright, Dressed in a silken robe of white, That shadowy in the moonlight shone: The neck that made that white robe wan, Her stately neck, and arms were bare; Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were; And wildly glittered here and there The gems entangled in her hair. I guess, 't was frightful there to see A lady so richly clad as she- Beautiful exceedingly!

'Mary mother, save me now!' Said Christabel, 'and who art thou?'

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) The lady strange made answer meet, And her voice was faint and sweet:- 'Have pity on my sore distress, I scarce can speak for weariness: Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!' Said Christabel, 'How camest thou here?' And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, Did thus pursue her answer meet:- 'My sire is of a noble line, And my name is Geraldine: Five warriors seized me yestermorn, Me, even me, a maid forlorn: They choked my cries with force and fright, And tied me on a palfrey white. The palfrey was as fleet as wind, And they rode furiously behind. They spurred amain, their steeds were white: And once we crossed the shade of night. As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, I have no thought what men they be; Nor do I know how long it is (For I have lain entranced, I wis) Since one, the tallest of the five, Took me from the palfrey's back, A weary woman, scarce alive. Some muttered words his comrades spoke: He placed me underneath this oak; He swore they would return with haste; Whither they went I cannot tell- I thought I heard, some minutes past, Sounds as of a castle bell. Stretch forth thy hand,' thus ended she, 'And help a wretched maid to flee.'

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand, And comforted fair Geraldine: 'O well, bright dame, may you command The service of Sir Leoline; And gladly our stout chivalry Will he send forth, and friends withal, To guide and guard you safe and free Home to your noble father's hall.'

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) She rose: and forth with steps they passed That strove to be, and were not, fast. Her gracious stars the lady blest, And thus spake on sweet Christabel: 'All our household are at rest, The hall is silent as the cell; Sir Leoline is weak in health, And may not well awakened be, But we will move as if in stealth; And I beseech your courtesy, This night, to share your couch with me.'

They crossed the moat, and Christabel Took the key that fitted well; A little door she opened straight, All in the middle of the gate; The gate that was ironed within and without, Where an army in battle array had marched out. The lady sank, belike through pain, And Christabel with might and main Lifted her up, a weary weight, Over the threshold of the gate: Then the lady rose again, And moved, as she were not in pain.

So, free from danger, free from fear, They crossed the court: right glad they were. And Christabel devoutly cried To the Lady by her side; 'Praise we the Virgin all divine, Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!' 'Alas, alas!' said Geraldine, 'I cannot speak for weariness.' So, free from danger, free from fear, They crossed the court: right glad they were.

Outside her kennel the mastiff old Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. The mastiff old did not awake, Yet she an angry moan did make. And what can ail the mastiff bitch? Never till now she uttered yell Beneath the eye of Christabel. Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch: For what can aid the mastiff bitch?

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) They passed the hall, that echoes still, Pass as lightly as you will. The brands were flat, the brands were dying, Amid their own white ashes lying; But when the lady passed, there came A tongue of light, a fit of flame; And Christabel saw the lady's eye, And nothing else saw she thereby, Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. 'O softly tread,' said Christabel, 'My father seldom sleepeth well.' Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, And, jealous of the listening air, They steal their way from stair to stair, Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, And now they pass the Baron's room, As still as death, with stifled breath! And now have reached her chamber door; And now doth Geraldine press down The rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon shines dim in the open air, And not a moonbeam enters here. But they without its light can see The chamber carved so curiously, Carved with figures strange and sweet, All made out of the carver's brain, For a lady's chamber meet: The lamp with twofold silver chain Is fastened to an angel's feet. The silver lamp burns dead and dim; But Christabel the lamp will trim. She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, And left it swinging to and fro, While Geraldine, in wretched plight, Sank down upon the floor below. 'O weary lady, Geraldine, I pray you, drink this cordial wine! It is a wine of virtuous powers; My mother made it of wild flowers.'

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) 'And will your mother pity me, Who am a maiden most forlorn?' Christabel answered- 'Woe is me! She died the hour that I was born. I have heard the gray-haired friar tell, How on her death-bed she did say, That she should hear the castle-bell Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. O mother dear! that thou wert here!' 'I would,' said Geraldine, 'she were!'

But soon, with altered voice, said she- 'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine! I have power to bid thee flee.' Alas! what ails poor Geraldine? Why stares she with unsettled eye? Can she the bodiless dead espy? And why with hollow voice cries she, 'Off, woman, off! this hour is mine- Though thou her guardian spirit be, Off, woman. off! 't is given to me.'

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, And raised to heaven her eyes so blue- 'Alas!' said she, 'this ghastly ride- Dear lady! it hath wildered you!' The lady wiped her moist cold brow, And faintly said, ''T is over now!' Again the wild-flower wine she drank: Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, And from the floor, whereon she sank, The lofty lady stood upright: She was most beautiful to see, Like a lady of a far countree.

And thus the lofty lady spake- 'All they, who live in the upper sky, Do love you, holy Christabel! And you love them, and for their sake, And for the good which me befell, Even I in my degree will try, Fair maiden, to requite you well. But now unrobe yourself; for I Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.'

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Quoth Christabel, 'So let it be!' And as the lady bade, did she. Her gentle limbs did she undress And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain, of weal and woe, So many thoughts moved to and fro, That vain it were her lids to close; So half-way from the bed she rose, And on her elbow did recline. To look at the lady Geraldine. Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, And slowly rolled her eyes around; Then drawing in her breath aloud, Like one that shuddered, she unbound The cincture from beneath her breast: Her silken robe, and inner vest, Dropped to her feet, and full in view, Behold! her bosom and half her side- A sight to dream of, not to tell! O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs: Ah! what a stricken look was hers! Deep from within she seems half-way To lift some weight with sick assay, And eyes the maid and seeks delay; Then suddenly, as one defied, Collects herself in scorn and pride, And lay down by the maiden's side!- And in her arms the maid she took, Ah, well-a-day! And with low voice and doleful look These words did say:

'In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel! Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow, This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow; But vainly thou warrest, For this is alone in Thy power to declare, That in the dim forest Thou heard'st a low moaning, And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair: And didst bring her home with thee, in love and in charity, To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.'

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) It was a lovely sight to see The lady Christabel, when she Was praying at the old oak tree. Amid the jagged shadows Of mossy leafless boughs, Kneeling in the moonlight, To make her gentle vows; Her slender palms together prest, Heaving sometimes on her breast; Her face resigned to bliss or bale- Her face, oh, call it fair not pale, And both blue eyes more bright than clear. Each about to have a tear. With open eyes (ah, woe is me!) Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis, Dreaming that alone, which is- O sorrow and shame! Can this be she, The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree? And lo! the worker of these harms, That holds the maiden in her arms, Seems to slumber still and mild, As a mother with her child.

A star hath set, a star hath risen, O Geraldine! since arms of thine Have been the lovely lady's prison. O Geraldine! one hour was thine- Thou'st had thy will! By tarn and rill, The night-birds all that hour were still. But now they are jubilant anew, From cliff and tower, tu-whoo! tu-whoo! Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! from wood and fell!

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) And see! the lady Christabel Gathers herself from out her trance; Her limbs relax, her countenance Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds- Large tears that leave the lashes bright! And oft the while she seems to smile As infants at a sudden light! Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, Like a youthful hermitess, Beauteous in a wilderness, Who, praying always, prays in sleep. And, if she move unquietly, Perchance, 't is but the blood so free Comes back and tingles in her feet. No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. What if her guardian spirit 't were, What if she knew her mother near? But this she knows, in joys and woes, That saints will aid if men will call: For the blue sky bends over all.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) CHRISTABEL - PART II

Each matin bell, the Baron saith, Knells us back to a world of death. These words Sir Leoline first said, When he rose and found his lady dead: These words Sir Leoline will say Many a morn to his dying day!

And hence the custom and law began That still at dawn the sacristan, Who duly pulls the heavy bell, Five and forty beads must tell Between each stroke- a warning knell, Which not a soul can choose but hear From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. Saith Bracy the bard, 'So let it knell! And let the drowsy sacristan Still count as slowly as he can!' There is no lack of such, I ween, As well fill up the space between. In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, With ropes of rock and bells of air Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, Who all give back, one after t' other, The death-note to their living brother; And oft too, by the knell offended, Just as their one! two! three! is ended, The devil mocks the doleful tale With a merry peal from Borrowdale.

The air is still! through mist and cloud That merry peal comes ringing loud; And Geraldine shakes off her dread, And rises lightly from the bed; Puts on her silken vestments white, And tricks her hair in lovely plight, And nothing doubting of her spell Awakens the lady Christabel. 'Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel? I trust that you have rested well.'

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) And Christabel awoke and spied The same who lay down by her side- O rather say, the same whom she Raised up beneath the old oak tree! Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair! For she belike hath drunken deep Of all the blessedness of sleep! And while she spake, her looks, her air, Such gentle thankfulness declare, That (so it seemed) her girded vests Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 'Sure I have sinned!' said Christabel, 'Now heaven be praised if all be well!' And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, Did she the lofty lady greet With such perplexity of mind As dreams too lively leave behind.

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed Her maiden limbs, and having prayed That He, who on the cross did groan, Might wash away her sins unknown, She forthwith led fair Geraldine To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. The lovely maid and the lady tall Are pacing both into the hall, And pacing on through page and groom, Enter the Baron's presence-room.

The Baron rose, and while he prest His gentle daughter to his breast, With cheerful wonder in his eyes The lady Geraldine espies, And gave such welcome to the same, As might beseem so bright a dame!

But when he heard the lady's tale, And when she told her father's name, Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, Murmuring o'er the name again, Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine? Alas! they had been friends in youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine, With Roland and Sir Leoline.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother: They parted- ne'er to meet again! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining- They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between. But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been. Sir Leoline, a moment's space, Stood gazing on the damsel's face: And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine Came back upon his heart again.

O then the Baron forgot his age, His noble heart swelled high with rage; He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side He would proclaim it far and wide, With trump and solemn heraldry, That they, who thus had wronged the dame Were base as spotted infamy! 'And if they dare deny the same, My herald shall appoint a week, And let the recreant traitors seek My tourney court- that there and then I may dislodge their reptile souls From the bodies and forms of men!' He spake: his eye in lightning rolls! For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!

And now the tears were on his face, And fondly in his arms he took Fair Geraldine who met the embrace, Prolonging it with joyous look. Which when she viewed, a vision fell Upon the soul of Christabel, The vision of fear, the touch and pain! She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again- (Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee, Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?) Again she saw that bosom old, Again she felt that bosom cold, And drew in her breath with a hissing sound: Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid With eyes upraised, as one that prayed.

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The touch, the sight, had passed away, And in its stead that vision blest, Which comforted her after-rest, While in the lady's arms she lay, Had put a rapture in her breast, And on her lips and o'er her eyes Spread smiles like light! With new surprise, 'What ails then my beloved child?' The Baron said- His daughter mild Made answer, 'All will yet be well!' I ween, she had no power to tell Aught else: so mighty was the spell.

Yet he who saw this Geraldine, Had deemed her sure a thing divine. Such sorrow with such grace she blended, As if she feared she had offended Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid! And with such lowly tones she prayed She might be sent without delay Home to her father's mansion. 'Nay! Nay, by my soul!' said Leoline. 'Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine! Go thou, with music sweet and loud, And take two steeds with trappings proud, And take the youth whom thou lov'st best To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, And clothe you both in solemn vest, And over the mountains haste along, Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, Detain you on the valley road.

'And when he has crossed the Irthing flood, My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, And reaches soon that castle good Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes.

'Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet, Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, More loud than your horses' echoing feet! And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall! Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free- Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. He bids thee come without delay

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) With all thy numerous array; And take thy lovely daughter home: And he will meet thee on the way With all his numerous array White with their panting palfreys' foam: And, by mine honor! I will say, That I repent me of the day When I spake words of fierce disdain To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!- - For since that evil hour hath flown, Many a summer's sun hath shone; Yet ne'er found I a friend again Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.'

The lady fell, and clasped his knees, Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing; And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, His gracious hail on all bestowing; 'Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, Are sweeter than my harp can tell; Yet might I gain a boon of thee, This day my journey should not be, So strange a dream hath come to me; That I had vowed with music loud To clear yon wood from thing unblest, Warned by a vision in my rest! For in my sleep I saw that dove, That gentle bird, whom thou dost love, And call'st by thy own daughter's name- Sir Leoline! I saw the same, Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, Among the green herbs in the forest alone. Which when I saw and when I heard, I wondered what might ail the bird; For nothing near it could I see, Save the grass and herbs underneath the old tree. And in my dream methought I went To search out what might there be found; And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, That thus lay fluttering on the ground. I went and peered, and could descry No cause for her distressful cry; But yet for her dear lady's sake I stooped, methought, the dove to take, When lo! I saw a bright green snake Coiled around its wings and neck. Green as the herbs on which it couched, Close by the dove's its head it crouched; And with the dove it heaves and stirs,

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Swelling its neck as she swelled hers! I woke; it was the midnight hour, The clock was echoing in the tower; But though my slumber was gone by, This dream it would not pass away- It seems to live upon my eye! And thence I vowed this self-same day With music strong and saintly song To wander through the forest bare, Lest aught unholy loiter there.'

Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while, Half-listening heard him with a smile; Then turned to Lady Geraldine, His eyes made up of wonder and love; And said in courtly accents fine, 'Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove, With arms more strong than harp or song, Thy sire and I will crush the snake!' He kissed her forehead as he spake, And Geraldine in maiden wise Casting down her large bright eyes, With blushing cheek and courtesy fine She turned her from Sir Leoline; Softly gathering up her train, That o'er her right arm fell again; And folded her arms across her chest, And couched her head upon her breast, And looked askance at Christabel- Jesu, Maria, shield her well!

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread, At Christabel she looked askance!- One moment- and the sight was fled! But Christabel in dizzy trance Stumbling on the unsteady ground Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound; And Geraldine again turned round, And like a thing that sought relief, Full of wonder and full of grief, She rolled her large bright eyes divine Wildly on Sir Leoline.

The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone, She nothing sees- no sight but one! The maid, devoid of guile and sin,

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) I know not how, in fearful wise, So deeply had she drunken in That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, That all her features were resigned To this sole image in her mind: And passively did imitate That look of dull and treacherous hate! And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, Still picturing that look askance With forced unconscious sympathy Full before her father's view- As far as such a look could be In eyes so innocent and blue!

And when the trance was o'er, the maid Paused awhile, and inly prayed: Then falling at the Baron's feet, 'By my mother's soul do I entreat That thou this woman send away!' She said: and more she could not say; For what she knew she could not tell, O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, Sir Leoline? Thy only child Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride. So fair, so innocent, so mild; The same, for whom thy lady died! O by the pangs of her dear mother Think thou no evil of thy child! For her, and thee, and for no other, She prayed the moment ere she died: Prayed that the babe for whom she died, Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride! That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled, Sir Leoline! And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, Her child and thine?

Within the Baron's heart and brain If thoughts, like these, had any share, They only swelled his rage and pain, And did but work confusion there. His heart was cleft with pain and rage, His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild, Dishonored thus in his old age; Dishonored by his only child, And all his hospitality To the insulted daughter of his friend By more than woman's jealousy

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Brought thus to a disgraceful end- He rolled his eye with stern regard Upon the gentle ministrel bard, And said in tones abrupt, austere- 'Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here? I bade thee hence!' The bard obeyed; And turning from his own sweet maid, The aged knight, Sir Leoline, Led forth the lady Geraldine!

THE CONCLUSION TO PART II

A little child, a limber elf, Singing, dancing to itself, A fairy thing with red round cheeks, That always finds, and never seeks, Makes such a vision to the sight As fills a father's eyes with light; And pleasures flow in so thick and fast Upon his heart, that he at last Must needs express his love's excess With words of unmeant bitterness. Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together Thoughts so all unlike each other; To mutter and mock a broken charm, To dally with wrong that does no harm. Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty At each wild word to feel within A sweet recoil of love and pity. And what, if in a world of sin (O sorrow and shame should this be true!) Such giddiness of heart and brain Comes seldom save from rage and pain, So talks as it's most used to do.

THE END

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John Keats (1795-1821)

John Keats was born on 31 October 1795 in Moorgate, London, England, the first child born to Frances Jennings (b.1775-d.1810) and Thomas Keats (d.1804), an employee of a livery stable. He had three siblings: George (1797-1841), Thomas (1799-1818), and Frances Mary "Fanny" (1803-1889). After leaving school in Enfield, Keats went on to apprentice with Dr. Hammond, a surgeon in Edmonton. After his father died in a riding accident, and his mother died of tuberculosis, John and his brothers moved to Hampstead. It was here that Keats met Charles Armitage Brown (1787-1842) who would become a great friend. Remembering his first meeting with him, Brown writes "His full fine eyes were lustrously intellectual, and beaming (at that time!)". Much grieved by his death, Brown worked for many years on his memoir and biography, Life of John Keats (1841). In it Brown claims that it was not until Keats read Edmund Spencer's Faery Queen that he realised his own gift for the poetic. Keats was an avid student in the fields of medicine and natural history, but he then turned his attentions to the literary works of such authors as William Shakespeare and Geoffrey Chaucer.

Keats had his poems published in the magazines of the day at the encouragement of many including James Henry Leigh Hunt Esq. (1784-1859), editor of the Examiner and to whom Keats dedicated his first collection Poems (1817). It includes "To My Brother George", "O Solitude! If I Must With Thee Dwell", and "Happy is England! I Could Be Content". Upon its appearance a series of personal attacks directed at Keats ensued in the pages of Blackwood's Magazine. Despite the controversy surrounding his life, Keats's literary merit prevailed. That same year Keats met Percy Bysshe Shelley who would also become a great friend. When Shelley invited the ailing Keats to stay with him and his family in Italy, he declined. When Shelley's body was washed ashore after drowning, a volume of Keats's poetry was found in his pocket.

Having worked on it for many months, Keats finished his epic poem comprising four books, Endymion: A Poetic Romance--"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever"--in 1818. That summer he travelled to the Lake District of England and on to Ireland and Scotland on a walking tour with Brown. They visited the grave of Robert Burns and reminisced upon John Milton's poetry. While he was not aware of the seriousness of it, Keats was suffering from the initial stages of the deadly infectious disease tuberculosis. He cut his trip short and upon return to Hampstead immediately tended to his brother Tom who was then in the last stages of the disease. After Tom's death in December of 1818, Keats lived with Brown.

Around this time Keats met, fell in love with, and became engaged to eighteen year old Frances "Fanny" Brawne (1800-1865). He wrote one of his more famous sonnets to her titled "Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art". While their relationship inspired much spiritual development for Keats, it also proved to be tempestuous, filled with the highs and lows from jealousy and infatuation of first love. Brown was not impressed and tried to provide some emotional stability to Keats. Many for a time were convinced that Fanny was the cause of his illness, or, used that as an excuse to try to keep her away from him. For a while even Keats entertained the possibility that he was merely suffering physical manifestations of emotional anxieties--but after suffering a hemorrhage he gave Fanny permission to break their engagement. She would hear nothing of it and by her word provided much comfort to Keats in his last days that she was ultimately loyal to him.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) John Keats – To Fanny

To Fanny

I cry your mercy—pity—love! Aye, love! Merciful love that tantalizes not, One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love, Unmasked, and being seen—without a blot! O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine! That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine, That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,— Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all, Withhold no atom’s atom or I die, Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall, Forget, in the mist of idle misery, Life’s purposes,—the palate of my mind Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!

John Keats

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ANTHOLOGY POEM 13 – La Belle Dame Sans Merci – John Keats

La Belle Dame Sans Merci – John Keats

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery’s child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan

I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said— ‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.

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And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!— The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

JOHN KEATS

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) ANTHOLOGY POEM 13 – La Belle Dame Sans Merci – John Keats

Reminiscent of Spenser’s Faerie Queen, Keats uses the balladic form to invoke ideas of courtly love in the reader. As Keats struggled with his often “unrequited” love for Fanny Brawne, he choose the balladic form to fit with his feelings of frustration at the relationship with Fanny brawne that he seems to compare to Chivalric ideals of courtly love.

In the poem, the voice asks a knight why he is “pale” and “loitering” and the knight tells his story from the third stanza. The tone of the poem is very much one of a lamentation and it presents love as a physical ailment or illness and almost as a curse placed on men by the women into whose “thrall” they fall.

The poem describes the knight falling under the spell of the “faery” he meets. There are innuendos with the “pacing steed” and “sweet moan”. However the tone switches to one of pain and suffering as the knight finds himself suffering in an autumnal/wintery landscape “alone”.

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Lord Byron (1788-1824)

Lord George Gordon Byron (1788-1824) was as famous in his lifetime for his personality cult as for his poetry. He created the concept of the 'Byronic hero' - a defiant, melancholy young man, brooding on some mysterious, unforgivable event in his past. Byron's influence on European poetry, music, novel, opera, and painting has been immense, although the poet was widely condemned on moral grounds by his contemporaries.

Byron’s lyrical genius is unparalleled. He played with words mixing satire with flippancy, beautiful romance with the scandalous. He disliked the Romantic Poets and in Don Juan frequently insulted and mocked them.

The Byronic hero and the Byronic rhyme were terms coined after the publishing of Don Juan. Byronic rhyme refers to the tongue-in-cheek rhyming of unexpected polysyllabic words.

George Gordon, Lord Byron, was the son of Captain John Byron, and Catherine Gordon. He was born with a club-foot and became extreme sensitivity about his lameness. Byron spent his early childhood years in poor surroundings in Aberdeen, where he was educated until he was ten. After he inherited the title and property of his great-uncle in 1798, he went on to Dulwich, Harrow, and Cambridge, where he piled up debts and aroused alarm with bisexual love affairs. Staying at Newstead in 1802, he probably first met his half-sister, Augusta Leigh with whom he was later suspected of having an incestuous relationship.

In 1807 Byron's first collection of poetry, Hours Of Idleness appeared. It received bad reviews. The poet answered his critics with the satire English Bards And Scotch Reviewersin 1808. Next year he took his seat in the House of Lords, and set out on his grand tour, visiting Spain, Malta, Albania, Greece, and the Aegean. Real poetic success came in 1812 when Byron published the first two cantos of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1812-1818). He became an adored character of London society; he spoke in the House of Lords effectively on liberal themes, and had a hectic love-affair with Lady Caroline Lamb. Byron's The Corsair (1814), sold 10,000 copies on the first day of publication. He married Anne Isabella Milbanke in 1815, and their daughter Ada was born in the same year. The marriage was unhappy, and they obtained legal separation next year.

When the rumors started to rise of his incest and debts were accumulating, Byron left England in 1816, never to return. He settled in Geneva with Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, and Claire Clairmont, who became his mistress. There he wrote the two cantos of Childe Harold and "The Prisoner Of Chillon". At the end of the summer Byron continued his travels, spending two years in Italy. During his years in Italy, Byron wrote Lament Of Tasso, inspired by his visit in Tasso's cell in Rome, Mazeppa and started Don Juan, his satiric masterpiece. While in Ravenna and Pisa, Byron became deeply interested in drama, and wrote among others The Two Foscari, Sardanapalaus, Cain, and the unfinished Heaven And Earth.

After a long creative period, Byron had come to feel that action was more important than poetry. He armed a brig, the Hercules, and sailed to Greece to aid the Greeks, who had risen against their Ottoman overlords. However, before he saw any serious military action, Byron contracted a fever from which he died in Missolonghi on 19 April 1824. Memorial services were held all over the land. Byron's body was returned to England but refused by the deans of both Westminster and St Paul's.

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Finally Byron's coffin was placed in the family vault at Hucknall Torkard, near Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire.

Summary of Don Juan Canto 1: Donna Inez makes herself responsible for the supervision of Don Juan's education. He is taught riding, fencing, gunnery, how to scale a fortress, languages, sciences, and arts. His education is to a certain degree impractical, for he is taught nothing about life and studies the classics from expurgated editions. In short, his mother sees to it that he receives an education calculated to repress all his natural instincts and keeps the facts of life from him.

Among Donna Inez's friends is Donna Julia, a beautiful, intelligent young woman with Moorish blood in her veins. She is married to Don Alfonso, a jealous man more than twice her age. Theirs is a loveless marriage. It is rumored that Donna Inez and Don Alfonso had once been lovers and that she cultivated the friendship of Donna Julia to maintain the association with the husband. Donna Julia has always been fond of Juan, but when he becomes a young man of sixteen, her feelings toward him change and become a source of embarrassment to both of them. Juan does not understand the change that is taking place in him, but the more sophisticated Julia realizes that she is falling in love with Juan. She resolves to fight her growing love and never to see Juan again but the next day finds a reason for visiting his mother. She then convinces herself that her love is only Platonic and persuades herself that it will remain that way. Juan meantime cannot understand why he is pensive and inclined to seek solitude.

One June evening Julia and Juan happen to be in a bower together. One of Julia's hands happens to fall on one of Juan's. When the sun sets and the moon rises, Juan's arm finds its way around Julia's waist. Julia strives with herself a little, "And whispering 'I will ne'er consent'-consented" (St. 117).

As Julia lies in her bed one November night, there arises a tremendous clatter. Her maid Antonia warns her that Don Alfonso is coming up the stairs with half the city at his back. The two women have barely enough time to throw the bedclothes in a heap when Don Alfonso enters the room. Julia indignantly asks Alfonso if he suspects her of wrongdoing and invites him to search the room. Alfonso and his followers do so and find nothing. While the search is going on, Donna Julia protests her innocence with angry eloquence, giving numerous examples of her virtue and pouring abuse upon her luckless husband. When no lover is found, Don Alfonso tries to excuse his behavior but only succeeds in drawing sobs and hysterics from his wife. Alfonso, shamefaced, withdraws with his followers and Julia and Antonia bolt the bedroom door.

No sooner has Alfonso gone than Juan emerges from beneath the pile of bedclothes where he has been hidden. Knowing that Alfonso would soon be back, Julia and Antonia advise Juan to go into a closet. Hardly has Juan entered his new hiding place when Alfonso returns. Alfonso makes various excuses for his conduct and begs Julia's pardon, which she half gives and half withholds. The matter might have ended there had Alfonso not stumbled over a pair of men's shoes. He promptly goes to get his sword. Julia immediately urges Juan to leave the room and make his exit by the garden gate, the key to which she gives him. Unfortunately, on his way out he meets Alfonso and knocks him down. In the scuffle Juan loses his only garment and flees naked into the night.

“Canto I of Don Juan is without doubt the most interesting, entertaining, and amusing of all the cantos. For anything of this kind comparable in quality and liveliness in English verse, the reader

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) has to go all the way back to Chaucer.”

Lord Byron – Don Juan (Canto 1) Most epic poets plunge 'in medias res' (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road), And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, DON JUAN - CANTO THE FIRST What went before—by way of episode, While seated after dinner at his ease, I want a hero: an uncommon want, Beside his mistress in some soft abode, When every year and month sends forth a new one, Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. The age discovers he is not the true one; Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, That is the usual method, but not mine— I 'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan— My way is to begin with the beginning; We all have seen him, in the pantomime, The regularity of my design Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, And therefore I shall open with a line Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe, Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, And also of his mother, if you 'd rather. And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now; Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, Followers of fame, 'nine farrow' of that sow: Famous for oranges and women—he France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier Who has not seen it will be much to pity, Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. So says the proverb—and I quite agree; Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, Cadiz perhaps—but that you soon may see; Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, Were French, and famous people, as we know: A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau, His father's name was Jose—Don, of course,— With many of the military set, A true Hidalgo, free from every stain Exceedingly remarkable at times, Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source But not at all adapted to my rhymes. Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain; A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse, Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd; Than Jose, who begot our hero, who There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar, Begot—but that 's to come—Well, to renew: 'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd; Because the army 's grown more popular, His mother was a learned lady, famed At which the naval people are concern'd; For every branch of every science known Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, In every Christian language ever named, Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. With virtues equall'd by her wit alone, She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, Brave men were living before Agamemnon And even the good with inward envy groan, And since, exceeding valorous and sage, Finding themselves so very much exceeded A good deal like him too, though quite the same In their own way by all the things that she did. none; But then they shone not on the poet's page, Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none, All Calderon and greater part of Lope, But can't find any in the present age So that if any actor miss'd his part Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one); She could have served him for the prompter's So, as I said, I 'll take my friend Don Juan. copy;

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) For her Feinagle's were an useless art, Of any modern female saint's comparison; And he himself obliged to shut up shop—he So far above the cunning powers of hell, Could never make a memory so fine as Her guardian angel had given up his garrison; That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez. Even her minutest motions went as well As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison: Her favourite science was the mathematical, In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, Save thine 'incomparable oil,' Macassar! Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity; Perfect she was, but as perfection is In short, in all things she was fairly what I call Insipid in this naughty world of ours, A prodigy—her morning dress was dimity, Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling. Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss (I wonder how they got through the twelve hours), She knew the Latin—that is, 'the Lord's prayer,' Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, And Greek—the alphabet—I 'm nearly sure; Went plucking various fruit without her leave. She read some French romances here and there, Although her mode of speaking was not pure; He was a mortal of the careless kind, For native Spanish she had no great care, With no great love for learning, or the learn'd, At least her conversation was obscure; Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem, And never dream'd his lady was concern'd; As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. The world, as usual, wickedly inclined To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two— And said there was analogy between 'em; But for domestic quarrels one will do. She proved it somehow out of sacred song, But I must leave the proofs to those who 've seen Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 'em; A great opinion of her own good qualities; But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it, And all may think which way their judgments lean And such, indeed, she was in her moralities; 'em, But then she had a devil of a spirit, ''T is strange—the Hebrew noun which means "I am," And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities, The English always use to govern d--n.' And let few opportunities escape Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. Some women use their tongues—she look'd a lecture, This was an easy matter with a man Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard; An all-in-all sufficient self-director, And even the wisest, do the best they can, Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly, Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector, That you might 'brain them with their lady's fan;' Whose suicide was almost an anomaly— And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, One sad example more, that 'All is vanity' And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, (The jury brought their verdict in 'Insanity'). And why and wherefore no one understands.

In short, she was a walking calculation, 'T is pity learned virgins ever wed Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers, With persons of no sort of education, Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education, Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred, Or 'Coelebs' Wife' set out in quest of lovers, Grow tired of scientific conversation: Morality's prim personification, I don't choose to say much upon this head, In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers; I 'm a plain man, and in a single station, To others' share let 'female errors fall,' But—Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual, For she had not even one—the worst of all. Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all?

O! she was perfect past all parallel— Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd—why,

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Not any of the many could divine, With such serenity her husband's woes, Though several thousand people chose to try, Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, 'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine; Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose I loathe that low vice—curiosity; Never to say a word about them more— But if there 's anything in which I shine, Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs, And saw his agonies with such sublimity, Not having of my own domestic cares. That all the world exclaim'd, 'What magnanimity!'

And so I interfered, and with the best No doubt this patience, when the world is damning Intentions, but their treatment was not kind; us, I think the foolish people were possess'd, Is philosophic in our former friends; For neither of them could I ever find, 'T is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous, Although their porter afterwards confess'd— The more so in obtaining our own ends; But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind, And what the lawyers call a 'malus animus' For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, Conduct like this by no means comprehends; A pail of housemaid's water unawares. Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue, But then 't is not my fault, if others hurt you. A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, And mischief-making monkey from his birth; And if your quarrels should rip up old stories, His parents ne'er agreed except in doting And help them with a lie or two additional, Upon the most unquiet imp on earth; I 'm not to blame, as you well know—no more is Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in Any one else—they were become traditional; Their senses, they 'd have sent young master forth Besides, their resurrection aids our glories To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home, By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all: To teach him manners for the time to come. And science profits by this resurrection— Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. Don Jose and the Donna Inez led For some time an unhappy sort of life, Their friends had tried at reconciliation, Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead; Then their relations, who made matters worse. They lived respectably as man and wife, ('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, To whom it may be best to have recourse— And gave no outward signs of inward strife, I can't say much for friend or yet relation): Until at length the smother'd fire broke out, The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, And put the business past all kind of doubt. But scarce a fee was paid on either side Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians, And tried to prove her loving lord was mad; He died: and most unluckily, because, But as he had some lucid intermissions, According to all hints I could collect She next decided he was only bad; From counsel learned in those kinds of laws Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions, (Although their talk 's obscure and circumspect), No sort of explanation could be had, His death contrived to spoil a charming cause; Save that her duty both to man and God A thousand pities also with respect Required this conduct—which seem'd very odd. To public feeling, which on this occasion Was manifested in a great sensation. She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, But, ah! he died; and buried with him lay All which might, if occasion served, be quoted; The public feeling and the lawyers' fees: And then she had all Seville for abettors, His house was sold, his servants sent away, Besides her good old grandmother (who doted); A Jew took one of his two mistresses, The hearers of her case became repeaters, A priest the other—at least so they say: Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, I ask'd the doctors after his disease— Some for amusement, others for old grudges. He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian, And left his widow to her own aversion. And then this best and weakest woman bore

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Yet Jose was an honourable man, That I must say who knew him very well; His classic studies made a little puzzle, Therefore his frailties I 'll no further scan Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, Indeed there were not many more to tell; Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, And if his passions now and then outran But never put on pantaloons or bodices; Discretion, and were not so peaceable His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius), And for their AEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious. Were forced to make an odd sort! of apology, For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology. Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him. Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him, Let 's own—since it can do no good on earth— Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample, It was a trying moment that which found him Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn him: Where the sublime soars forth on wings more No choice was left his feelings or his pride, ample: Save death or Doctors' Commons—so he died. But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one Beginning with 'Formosum Pastor Corydon.' Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands, Lucretius' irreligion is too strong, Which, with a long minority and care, For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food; Promised to turn out well in proper hands: I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, Inez became sole guardian, which was fair, Although no doubt his real intent was good, And answer'd but to nature's just demands; For speaking out so plainly in his song, An only son left with an only mother So much indeed as to be downright rude; Is brought up much more wisely than another. And then what proper person can be partial To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial? Sagest of women, even of widows, she Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon, Juan was taught from out the best edition, And worthy of the noblest pedigree Expurgated by learned men, who place (His sire was of Castile, his dam from Aragon): Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, Then for accomplishments of chivalry, The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface In case our lord the king should go to war again, Too much their modest bard by this omission, He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And pitying sore his mutilated case, And how to scale a fortress—or a nunnery. They only add them all in an appendix, Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index; But that which Donna Inez most desired, And saw into herself each day before all For there we have them all 'at one fell swoop,' The learned tutors whom for him she hired, Instead of being scatter'd through the Pages; Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral; They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop, Much into all his studies she inquired, To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, And so they were submitted first to her, all, Till some less rigid editor shall stoop Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery To call them back into their separate cages, To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. Instead of standing staring all together, Like garden gods—and not so decent either. The languages, especially the dead, The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, The Missal too (it was the family Missal) The arts, at least all such as could be said Was ornamented in a sort of way To be the most remote from common use, Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all In all these he was much and deeply read; Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they, But not a page of any thing that 's loose, Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all, Or hints continuation of the species, Could turn their optics to the text and pray, Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious. Is more than I know—But Don Juan's mother

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Kept this herself, and gave her son another. For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge.

Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, For there one learns—'t is not for me to boast, And homilies, and lives of all the saints; Though I acquired—but I pass over that, To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, As well as all the Greek I since have lost: He did not take such studies for restraints; I say that there 's the place—but 'Verbum sat.' But how faith is acquired, and then ensured, I think I pick'd up too, as well as most, So well not one of the aforesaid paints Knowledge of matters—but no matter what— As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions, I never married—but, I think, I know Which make the reader envy his transgressions. That sons should not be educated so.

This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan— Young Juan now was sixteen years of age, I can't but say that his mamma was right, Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem'd If such an education was the true one. Active, though not so sprightly, as a page; She scarcely trusted him from out her sight; And everybody but his mother deem'd Her maids were old, and if she took a new one, Him almost man; but she flew in a rage You might be sure she was a perfect fright; And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd) She did this during even her husband's life— If any said so, for to be precocious I recommend as much to every wife. Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious.

Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace; Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all At six a charming child, and at eleven Selected for discretion and devotion, With all the promise of as fine a face There was the Donna Julia, whom to call As e'er to man's maturer growth was given: Pretty were but to give a feeble notion He studied steadily, and grew apace, Of many charms in her as natural And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven, As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, For half his days were pass'd at church, the other Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. (But this last simile is trite and stupid).

At six, I said, he was a charming child, The darkness of her Oriental eye At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy; Accorded with her Moorish origin Although in infancy a little wild, (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by; They tamed him down amongst them: to destroy In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin); His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd, When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, At least it seem'd so; and his mother's joy Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, Her young philosopher was grown already. Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain.

I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, She married (I forget the pedigree) But what I say is neither here nor there: With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down I knew his father well, and have some skill His blood less noble than such blood should be; In character—but it would not be fair At such alliances his sires would frown, From sire to son to augur good or ill: In that point so precise in each degree He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair— That they bred in and in, as might be shown, But scandal 's my aversion—I protest Marrying their cousins—nay, their aunts, and nieces, Against all evil speaking, even in jest. Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.

For my part I say nothing—nothing—but This heathenish cross restored the breed again, This I will say—my reasons are my own— Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh; That if I had an only son to put For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain To school (as God be praised that I have none), Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh; 'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut The sons no more were short, the daughters plain: Him up to learn his catechism alone, But there 's a rumour which I fain would hush, No—no—I 'd send him out betimes to college, 'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. The lover, who must pay a handsome price, Because it is a marketable vice. However this might be, the race went on Improving still through every generation, Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, Until it centred in an only son, A man well looking for his years, and who Who left an only daughter; my narration Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd: May have suggested that this single one They lived together, as most people do, Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion Suffering each other's foibles by accord, I shall have much to speak about), and she And not exactly either one or two; Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes) Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire Julia was—yet I never could see why— Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend; Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, Between their tastes there was small sympathy, And love than either; and there would arise For not a line had Julia ever penn'd: A something in them which was not desire, Some people whisper but no doubt they lie, But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul For malice still imputes some private end, Which struggled through and chasten'd down the That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, whole. Forgot with him her very prudent carriage;

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow And that still keeping up the old connection, Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth; Which time had lately render'd much more chaste, Her eyebrow's shape was like th' aerial bow, She took his lady also in affection, Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, And certainly this course was much the best: Mounting at times to a transparent glow, She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth, And complimented Don Alfonso's taste; Possess'd an air and grace by no means common: And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal, Her stature tall—I hate a dumpy woman. At least she left it a more slender handle.

Wedded she was some years, and to a man I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty; With other people's eyes, or if her own And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE Discoveries made, but none could be aware 'T were better to have TWO of five-and-twenty, Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown; Especially in countries near the sun: Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, And now I think on 't, 'mi vien in mente,' Indifferent from the first or callous grown: Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue I 'm really puzzled what to think or say, Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. She kept her counsel in so close a way.

'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, And all the fault of that indecent sun, Caress'd him often—such a thing might be Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, Quite innocently done, and harmless styled, But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, When she had twenty years, and thirteen he; That howsoever people fast and pray, But I am not so sure I should have smiled The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone: When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three; What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, These few short years make wondrous alterations, Is much more common where the climate 's sultry. Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations.

Happy the nations of the moral North! Whate'er the cause might be, they had become Where all is virtue, and the winter season Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, ('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason); And much embarrassment in either eye; Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, There surely will be little doubt with some By laying whate'er sum in mulct they please on That Donna Julia knew the reason why,

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) But as for Juan, he had no more notion 'T is surely Juan now—No! I 'm afraid Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. That night the Virgin was no further pray'd.

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, She now determined that a virtuous woman And tremulously gentle her small hand Should rather face and overcome temptation, Withdrew itself from his, but left behind That flight was base and dastardly, and no man A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland Should ever give her heart the least sensation; And slight, so very slight, that to the mind That is to say, a thought beyond the common 'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand Preference, that we must feel upon occasion Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art For people who are pleasanter than others, Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. But then they only seem so many brothers.

And if she met him, though she smiled no more, And even if by chance—and who can tell? She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, The devil 's so very sly—she should discover As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store That all within was not so very well, She must not own, but cherish'd more the while And, if still free, that such or such a lover For that compression in its burning core; Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell Even innocence itself has many a wile, Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're And will not dare to trust itself with truth, over; And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. And if the man should ask, 't is but denial: I recommend young ladies to make trial. But passion most dissembles, yet betrays Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky And then there are such things as love divine, Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, Such as the angels think so very fine, And in whatever aspect it arrays And matrons who would be no less secure, Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy; Platonic, perfect, 'just such love as mine;' Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, Thus Julia said—and thought so, to be sure; Are masks it often wears, and still too late. And so I 'd have her think, were I the man On whom her reveries celestial ran. Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, Such love is innocent, and may exist And burning blushes, though for no transgression, Between young persons without any danger. Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left; A hand may first, and then a lip be kist; All these are little preludes to possession, For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger, Of which young passion cannot be bereft, But hear these freedoms form the utmost list And merely tend to show how greatly love is Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger: Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime, But not my fault—I tell them all in time. Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state; She felt it going, and resolved to make Love, then, but love within its proper limits, The noblest efforts for herself and mate, Was Julia's innocent determination For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake; In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its Her resolutions were most truly great, Exertion might be useful on occasion; And almost might have made a Tarquin quake: And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion As being the best judge of a lady's case. He might be taught, by love and her together— I really don't know what, nor Julia either. She vow'd she never would see Juan more, And next day paid a visit to his mother, Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced And look'd extremely at the opening door, In mail of proof—her purity of soul— Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another; She, for the future of her strength convinced. Grateful she was, and yet a little sore— And that her honour was a rock, or mole, Again it opens, it can be no other, Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) With any kind of troublesome control; And here thou art a god indeed divine.' But whether Julia to the task was equal The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. With the exception of the second line, For that same twining 'transport and security' Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals seizable, To the good sense and senses of mankind, Or if they did so, satisfied to mean The very thing which every body feels, Nothing but what was good, her breast was As all have found on trial, or may find, peaceable— That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals A quiet conscience makes one so serene! Or love.—I won't say more about 'entwined' Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded Or 'transport,' as we knew all that before, That all the Apostles would have done as they did. But beg 'Security' will bolt the door.

And if in the mean time her husband died, Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross Thinking unutterable things; he threw Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh'd) Himself at length within the leafy nooks Never could she survive that common loss; Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew; But just suppose that moment should betide, There poets find materials for their books, I only say suppose it—inter nos. And every now and then we read them through, (This should be entre nous, for Julia thought So that their plan and prosody are eligible, In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.) Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible.

I only say suppose this supposition: He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued Juan being then grown up to man's estate His self-communion with his own high soul, Would fully suit a widow of condition, Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, Even seven years hence it would not be too late; Had mitigated part, though not the whole And in the interim (to pursue this vision) Of its disease; he did the best he could The mischief, after all, could not be great, With things not very subject to control, For he would learn the rudiments of love, And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, I mean the seraph way of those above. Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician.

So much for Julia. Now we 'll turn to Juan. He thought about himself, and the whole earth Poor little fellow! he had no idea Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, Of his own case, and never hit the true one; And how the deuce they ever could have birth; In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars, He puzzled over what he found a new one, How many miles the moon might have in girth, But not as yet imagined it could be Of air-balloons, and of the many bars Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;— Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes.

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern His home deserted for the lonely wood, Longings sublime, and aspirations high, Tormented with a wound he could not know, Which some are born with, but the most part learn His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude: To plague themselves withal, they know not why: I 'm fond myself of solitude or so, 'T was strange that one so young should thus But then, I beg it may be understood, concern By solitude I mean a sultan's, not His brain about the action of the sky; A hermit's, with a haram for a grot. If you think 't was philosophy that this did, I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 'Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this, Where transport and security entwine, He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, And heard a voice in all the winds; and then

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover, And how the goddesses came down to men: The while the wicked world beholds delighted, He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours, Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, And when he look'd upon his watch again, Till some confounded escapade has blighted He found how much old Time had been a winner— The plan of twenty years, and all is over; He also found that he had lost his dinner. And then the mother cries, the father swears, And wonders why the devil he got heirs. Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, Boscan, or Garcilasso;—by the wind But Inez was so anxious, and so clear Even as the page is rustled while we look, Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion, So by the poesy of his own mind She had some other motive much more near Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, For leaving Juan to this new temptation; As if 't were one whereon magicians bind But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here; Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, Perhaps to finish Juan's education, According to some good old woman's tale. Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes, In case he thought his wife too great a prize. Thus would he while his lonely hours away Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted; It was upon a day, a summer's day.— Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, Summer's indeed a very dangerous season, Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, And so is spring about the end of May; A bosom whereon he his head might lay, The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason; And hear the heart beat with the love it granted, But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say, With—several other things, which I forget, And stand convicted of more truth than treason, Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. That there are months which nature grows more merry in,— Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries, March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes; She saw that Juan was not at his ease; 'T was on a summer's day—the sixth of June:— But that which chiefly may, and must surprise, I like to be particular in dates, Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease Not only of the age, and year, but moon; Her only son with question or surmise: They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates Whether it was she did not see, or would not, Change horses, making history change its tune, Or, like all very clever people, could not. Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, Leaving at last not much besides chronology, This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common; Excepting the post-obits of theology. For instance—gentlemen, whose ladies take Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman, 'T was on the sixth of June, about the hour And break the—Which commandment is 't they Of half-past six—perhaps still nearer seven— break? When Julia sate within as pretty a bower (I have forgot the number, and think no man As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous, To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. With all the trophies of triumphant song— He won them well, and may he wear them long! A real husband always is suspicious, But still no less suspects in the wrong place, She sate, but not alone; I know not well Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, How this same interview had taken place, Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, And even if I knew, I should not tell— By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious; People should hold their tongues in any case; The last indeed 's infallibly the case: No matter how or why the thing befell, And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly, But there were she and Juan, face to face— He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. When two such faces are so, 't would be wise, But very difficult, to shut their eyes. Thus parents also are at times short-sighted;

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) How beautiful she look'd! her conscious heart A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. O Love! how perfect is thy mystic art, I cannot know what Juan thought of this, Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the But what he did, is much what you would do; strong, His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss, How self-deceitful is the sagest part And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along— In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,— The precipice she stood on was immense, Love is so very timid when 't is new: So was her creed in her own innocence. She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak, And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, And of the folly of all prudish fears, The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: Who call'd her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth, Their nomenclature; there is not a day, Because that number rarely much endears, The longest, not the twenty-first of June, And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, Sees half the business in a wicked way Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. On which three single hours of moonshine smile— And then she looks so modest all the while. When people say, 'I've told you fifty times,' They mean to scold, and very often do; There is a dangerous silence in that hour, When poets say, 'I've written fifty rhymes,' A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul They make you dread that they 'll recite them too; To open all itself, without the power In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes; Of calling wholly back its self-control; At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true, The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis. Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws A loving languor, which is not repose. Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love, For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore, And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced By all the vows below to powers above, And half retiring from the glowing arm, She never would disgrace the ring she wore, Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed; Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove; Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, And while she ponder'd this, besides much more, Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist; One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown, But then the situation had its charm, Quite by mistake—she thought it was her own; And then—God knows what next—I can't go on; I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other, Which play'd within the tangles of her hair: O Plato! Plato! you have paved the way, And to contend with thoughts she could not With your confounded fantasies, to more smother Immoral conduct by the fancied sway She seem'd by the distraction of her air. Your system feigns o'er the controulless core 'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother Of human hearts, than all the long array To leave together this imprudent pair, Of poets and romancers:—You 're a bore, She who for many years had watch'd her son so— A charlatan, a coxcomb—and have been, I 'm very certain mine would not have done so. At best, no better than a go-between.

The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp, Until too late for useful conversation; As if it said, 'Detain me, if you please;' The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp I wish indeed they had not had occasion, His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze: But who, alas! can love, and then be wise? She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, Not that remorse did not oppose temptation; Had she imagined such a thing could rouse A little still she strove, and much repented

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) And whispering 'I will ne'er consent'—consented. Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 'T is said that Xerxes offer'd a reward The lisp of children, and their earliest words. To those who could invent him a new pleasure: Methinks the requisition 's rather hard, Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes And must have cost his majesty a treasure: In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, For my part, I 'm a moderate-minded bard, Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes Fond of a little love (which I call leisure); From civic revelry to rural mirth; I care not for new pleasures, as the old Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, Sweet is revenge—especially to women, O Pleasure! you are indeed a pleasant thing, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt: I make a resolution every spring Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet Of reformation, ere the year run out, The unexpected death of some old lady But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing, Or gentleman of seventy years complete, Yet still, I trust it may be kept throughout: Who 've made 'us youth' wait too—too long I 'm very sorry, very much ashamed, already And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. For an estate, or cash, or country seat, Still breaking, but with stamina so steady Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take— That all the Israelites are fit to mob its Start not! still chaster reader—she 'll be nice Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits. hence— Forward, and there is no great cause to quake; 'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, This liberty is a poetic licence, By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end Which some irregularity may make To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, In the design, and as I have a high sense Particularly with a tiresome friend: Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; To beg his pardon when I err a bit. Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot This licence is to hope the reader will We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day, Without whose epoch my poetic skill But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, For want of facts would all be thrown away), Is first and passionate love—it stands alone, But keeping Julia and Don Juan still Like Adam's recollection of his fall; In sight, that several months have pass'd; we 'll say The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd—all 's 'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure known— About the day—the era 's more obscure. And life yields nothing further to recall Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, We 'll talk of that anon.—'T is sweet to hear No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; Man 's a strange animal, and makes strange use 'T is sweet to see the evening star appear; Of his own nature, and the various arts, 'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep And likes particularly to produce From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high Some new experiment to show his parts; The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. This is the age of oddities let loose, Where different talents find their different marts; 'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark You 'd best begin with truth, and when you 've lost Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near your home; Labour, there 's a sure market for imposture. 'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come; What opposite discoveries we have seen! 'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.)

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) One makes new noses, one a guillotine, 'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; One breaks your bones, one sets them in their No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud sockets; By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright But vaccination certainly has been With the piled wood, round which the family A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets, crowd; With which the Doctor paid off an old pox, There 's something cheerful in that sort of light, By borrowing a new one from an ox. Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud: I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes; A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, But has not answer'd like the apparatus 'T was midnight—Donna Julia was in bed, Of the Humane Society's beginning Sleeping, most probably,—when at her door By which men are unsuffocated gratis: Arose a clatter might awake the dead, What wondrous new machines have late been If they had never been awoke before, spinning! And that they have been so we all have read, I said the small-pox has gone out of late; And are to be so, at the least, once more.-- Perhaps it may be follow'd by the great. The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist First knocks were heard, then 'Madam—Madam— 'T is said the great came from America; hist! Perhaps it may set out on its return,— The population there so spreads, they say 'For God's sake, Madam—Madam—here's my 'T is grown high time to thin it in its turn, master, With war, or plague, or famine, any way, With more than half the city at his back— So that civilisation they may learn; Was ever heard of such a curst disaster! And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is— 'T is not my fault—I kept good watch—Alack! Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis? Do pray undo the bolt a little faster— They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack This is the patent-age of new inventions Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly— For killing bodies, and for saving souls, Surely the window 's not so very high!' All propagated with the best intentions; Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, With torches, friends, and servants in great number; Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, The major part of them had long been wived, Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. Of any wicked woman, who contrived husband's By stealth her temples to encumber: Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what, Examples of this kind are so contagious, And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure; Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous. 'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure; I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion Few mortals know what end they would be at, Could enter into Don Alfonso's head; But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, But for a cavalier of his condition The path is through perplexing ways, and when It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, The goal is gain'd, we die, you know—and then— Without a word of previous admonition, To hold a levee round his lady's bed, What then?—I do not know, no more do you— And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword, And so good night.—Return we to our story: To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. 'T was in November, when fine days are few, And the far mountains wax a little hoary, Poor Donna Julia, starting as from sleep And clap a white cape on their mantles blue; (Mind—that I do not say—she had not slept), And the sea dashes round the promontory, Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep; And the loud breaker boils against the rock, Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, And sober suns must set at five o'clock. Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap, As if she had just now from out them crept:

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) I can't tell why she should take all this trouble Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same— To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to explore For facts against a virtuous woman's fame? But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso, Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who How dare you think your lady would go on so? Of goblins, but still more of men afraid, Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two, 'Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold And therefore side by side were gently laid, The common privileges of my sex? Until the hours of absence should run through, That I have chosen a confessor so old And truant husband should return, and say, And deaf, that any other it would vex, 'My dear, I was the first who came away.' And never once he has had cause to scold, But found my very innocence perplex Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, So much, he always doubted I was married— 'In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean? How sorry you will be when I 've miscarried! Has madness seized you? would that I had died Ere such a monster's victim I had been! 'Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er What may this midnight violence betide, I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville? A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen? Is it for this I scarce went anywhere, Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill? Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel? Search, then, the room!'—Alfonso said, 'I will.' Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were, I favor'd none—nay, was almost uncivil? He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, everywhere, Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely? Closet and clothes' press, chest and window-seat, And found much linen, lace, and several pair 'Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, Sing at my heart six months at least in vain? With other articles of ladies fair, Did not his countryman, Count Corniani, To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat: Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords, Were there not also Russians, English, many? And wounded several shutters, and some boards. The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain, And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, Under the bed they search'd, and there they Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. found— No matter what—it was not that they sought; 'Have I not had two bishops at my feet, They open'd windows, gazing if the ground The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez? Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought; And is it thus a faithful wife you treat? And then they stared each other's faces round: I wonder in what quarter now the moon is: 'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought, I praise your vast forbearance not to beat And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, Me also, since the time so opportune is— Of looking in the bed as well as under. O, valiant man! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger, During this inquisition, Julia's tongue Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure? Was not asleep—'Yes, search and search,' she cried, 'Was it for this you took your sudden journey. 'Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong! Under pretence of business indispensable It was for this that I became a bride! With that sublime of rascals your attorney, For this in silence I have suffer'd long Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible A husband like Alfonso at my side; Of having play'd the fool? though both I spurn, he But now I 'll bear no more, nor here remain, Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible, If there be law or lawyers in all Spain. Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee, And not from any love to you nor me. 'Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more, If ever you indeed deserved the name, 'If he comes here to take a deposition, Is 't worthy of your years?—you have threescore— By all means let the gentleman proceed;

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) You 've made the apartment in a fit condition: She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears, There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need— Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil, Let every thing be noted with precision, Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears I would not you for nothing should be fee'd— Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail, But, as my maid 's undrest, pray turn your spies out.' To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears 'Oh!' sobb'd Antonia, 'I could tear their eyes out.' Its snow through all;—her soft lips lie apart, And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 'There is the closet, there the toilet, there The antechamber—search them under, over; The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused; There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair, Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room, The chimney—which would really hold a lover. And, turning up her nose, with looks abused I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care Her master and his myrmidons, of whom And make no further noise, till you discover Not one, except the attorney, was amused; The secret cavern of this lurking treasure— He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb, And when 't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure. So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 'And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrown Doubt upon me, confusion over all, With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, Pray have the courtesy to make it known Following Antonia's motions here and there, Who is the man you search for? how d' ye cal With much suspicion in his attitude; Him? what 's his lineage? let him but be shown— For reputations he had little care; I hope he 's young and handsome—is he tall? So that a suit or action were made good, Tell me—and be assured, that since you stain Small pity had he for the young and fair, My honour thus, it shall not be in vain. And ne'er believed in negatives, till these Were proved by competent false witnesses. 'At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years, At that age he would be too old for slaughter, But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks, Or for so young a husband's jealous fears And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure; (Antonia! let me have a glass of water). When, after searching in five hundred nooks, I am ashamed of having shed these tears, And treating a young wife with so much rigour, They are unworthy of my father's daughter; He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes, My mother dream'd not in my natal hour Added to those his lady with such vigour That I should fall into a monster's power. Had pour'd upon him for the last half-hour, Quick, thick, and heavy—as a thunder-shower. 'Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous, You saw that she was sleeping by my side At first he tried to hammer an excuse, When you broke in upon us with your fellows: To which the sole reply was tears and sobs, Look where you please—we 've nothing, sir, to And indications of hysterics, whose hide; Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs, Only another time, I trust, you 'll tell us, Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose: Or for the sake of decency abide Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's; A moment at the door, that we may be He saw too, in perspective, her relations, Drest to receive so much good company. And then he tried to muster all his patience.

'And now, sir, I have done, and say no more; He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer, The little I have said may serve to show But sage Antonia cut him short before The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er The anvil of his speech received the hammer, The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow: With 'Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more, I leave you to your conscience as before, Or madam dies.'—Alfonso mutter'd, 'D—n her,' 'T will one day ask you why you used me so? But nothing else, the time of words was o'er; God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief!- He cast a rueful look or two, and did, Antonia! where 's my pocket-handkerchief?' He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid.

She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale With him retired his 'posse comitatus,'

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) The attorney last, who linger'd near the door Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair; Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as Even then their love they could not all command, Antonia let him—not a little sore And half forgot their danger and despair: At this most strange and unexplain'd 'hiatus' Antonia's patience now was at a stand— In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 'Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there,' An awkward look; as he revolved the case, She whisper'd, in great wrath—'I must deposit The door was fasten'd in his legal face. This pretty gentleman within the closet:

No sooner was it bolted, than—Oh shame! 'Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night— O sin! Oh sorrow! and oh womankind! Who can have put my master in this mood? How can you do such things and keep your fame, What will become on 't—I 'm in such a fright, Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind? The devil 's in the urchin, and no good— Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name! Is this a time for giggling? this a plight? But to proceed—for there is more behind: Why, don't you know that it may end in blood? With much heartfelt reluctance be it said, You 'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place, Young Juan slipp'd half-smother'd, from the bed. My mistress all, for that half-girlish face.

He had been hid—I don't pretend to say 'Had it but been for a stout cavalier How, nor can I indeed describe the where— Of twenty-five or thirty (come, make haste)— Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay, But for a child, what piece of work is here! No doubt, in little compass, round or square; I really, madam, wonder at your taste But pity him I neither must nor may (Come, sir, get in)—my master must be near: His suffocation by that pretty pair; There, for the present, at the least, he's fast, 'T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut And if we can but till the morning keep With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt. Our counsel—(Juan, mind, you must not sleep).'

And, secondly, I pity not, because Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone, He had no business to commit a sin, Closed the oration of the trusty maid: Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws, She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone, At least 't was rather early to begin; An order somewhat sullenly obey'd; But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws However, present remedy was none, So much as when we call our old debts in And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd: At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil, Regarding both with slow and sidelong view, And find a deuced balance with the devil. She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew.

Of his position I can give no notion: Alfonso paused a minute—then begun 'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle, Some strange excuses for his late proceeding; How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, He would not justify what he had done, Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding; When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, But there were ample reasons for it, none And that the medicine answer'd very well; Of which he specified in this his pleading: Perhaps 't was in a different way applied, His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, For David lived, but Juan nearly died. Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call 'rigmarole.'

What 's to be done? Alfonso will be back Julia said nought; though all the while there rose The moment he has sent his fools away. A ready answer, which at once enables Antonia's skill was put upon the rack, A matron, who her husband's foible knows, But no device could be brought into play— By a few timely words to turn the tables, And how to parry the renew'd attack? Which, if it does not silence, still must pose,— Besides, it wanted but few hours of day: Even if it should comprise a pack of fables; Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak, 'T is to retort with firmness, and when he But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. Suspects with one, do you reproach with three.

He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,—

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known, And Julia instant to the closet flew. But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds— 'Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven's sake—not a word— But that can't be, as has been often shown, The door is open—you may yet slip through A lady with apologies abounds;— The passage you so often have explored— It might be that her silence sprang alone Here is the garden-key—Fly—fly—Adieu! From delicacy to Don Juan's ear, Haste—haste! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet— To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. Day has not broke—there 's no one in the street:

There might be one more motive, which makes two; None can say that this was not good advice, Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded,— The only mischief was, it came too late; Mention'd his jealousy but never who Of all experience 't is the usual price, Had been the happy lover, he concluded, A sort of income-tax laid on by fate: Conceal'd amongst his premises; 't is true, Juan had reach'd the room-door in a. trice, His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded; And might have done so by the garden-gate, To speak of Inez now were, one may say, But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown, Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. Who threaten'd death—so Juan knock'd him down.

A hint, in tender cases, is enough; Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light; Silence is best, besides there is a tact Antonia cried out 'Rape!' and Julia 'Fire!' (That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff, But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. But it will serve to keep my verse compact)— Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire, Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough, Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night; A lady always distant from the fact: And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher; The charming creatures lie with such a grace, His blood was up: though young, he was a Tartar, There 's nothing so becoming to the face. And not at all disposed to prove a martyr.

They blush, and we believe them; at least I Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it, Have always done so; 't is of no great use, And they continued battling hand to hand, In any case, attempting a reply, For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it; For then their eloquence grows quite profuse; His temper not being under great command, And when at length they 're out of breath, they sigh, If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose Alfonso's days had not been in the land A tear or two, and then we make it up; Much longer.—Think of husbands', lovers' lives! And then—and then—and then—sit down and sup. And how ye may be doubly widows—wives!

Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon, Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted, And Juan throttled him to get away, And laid conditions he thought very hard on, And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow; Denying several little things he wanted: At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, He stood like Adam lingering near his garden, Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted, And then his only garment quite gave way; Beseeching she no further would refuse, He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there, When, lo! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair.

A pair of shoes!—what then? not much, if they Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these found (No one can tell how much I grieve to say) An awkward spectacle their eyes before; Were masculine; to see them, and to seize, Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, Was but a moment's act.—Ah! well-a-day! Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door; My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze— Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground, Alfonso first examined well their fashion, Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more: And then flew out into another passion. Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about, And liking not the inside, lock'd the out. He left the room for his relinquish'd sword,

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Here ends this canto.—Need I sing, or say, 'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, How Juan naked, favour'd by the night, 'T is woman's whole existence; man may range Who favours what she should not, found his way, The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight? Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange The pleasant scandal which arose next day, Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, The nine days' wonder which was brought to light, And few there are whom these cannot estrange; And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, Men have all these resources, we but one, Were in the English newspapers, of course. To love again, and be again undone.

If you would like to see the whole proceedings, 'You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, The depositions, and the cause at full, Beloved and loving many; all is o'er The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings For me on earth, except some years to hide Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul, My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core; There 's more than one edition, and the readings These I could bear, but cannot cast aside Are various, but they none of them are dull; The passion which still rages as before— The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney, And so farewell—forgive me, love me—No, Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. That word is idle now—but let it go.

But Donna Inez, to divert the train 'My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; Of one of the most circulating scandals But still I think I can collect my mind; That had for centuries been known in Spain, My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set, At least since the retirement of the Vandals, As roll the waves before the settled wind; First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) My heart is feminine, nor can forget— To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles; To all, except one image, madly blind; And then, by the advice of some old ladies, So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul.

She had resolved that he should travel through 'I have no more to say, but linger still, All European climes, by land or sea, And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, To mend his former morals, and get new, And yet I may as well the task fulfil, Especially in France and Italy My misery can scarce be more complete: (At least this is the thing most people do). I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; Julia was sent into a convent: she Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better meet, Shown in the following copy of her Letter:— And I must even survive this last adieu, And bear with life, to love and pray for you!' 'They tell me 't is decided; you depart: 'T is wise—'t is well, but not the less a pain; This note was written upon gilt-edged paper I have no further claim on your young heart, With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new: Mine is the victim, and would be again; Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, To love too much has been the only art It trembled as magnetic needles do, I used;—I write in haste, and if a stain And yet she did not let one tear escape her; Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears; The seal a sun-flower; 'Elle vous suit partout,' My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. The motto cut upon a white cornelian; The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 'I loved, I love you, for this love have lost State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but whether And yet can not regret what it hath cost, I shall proceed with his adventures is So dear is still the memory of that dream; Dependent on the public altogether; Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast, We 'll see, however, what they say to this: None can deem harshlier of me than I deem: Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather, I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest— And no great mischief 's done by their caprice; I 've nothing to reproach, or to request. And if their approbation we experience, Perhaps they 'll have some more about a year

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) hence. Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor Commit—flirtation with the muse of Moore. My poem 's epic, and is meant to be Divided in twelve books; each book containing, Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, His Pegasus, nor anything that 's his; A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, Thou shalt not bear false witness like 'the Blues' New characters; the episodes are three: (There 's one, at least, is very fond of this); A panoramic view of hell 's in training, Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose: After the style of Virgil and of Homer, This is true criticism, and you may kiss— So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer. Exactly as you please, or not,—the rod;

All these things will be specified in time, If any person should presume to assert With strict regard to Aristotle's rules, This story is not moral, first, I pray, The Vade Mecum of the true sublime, That they will not cry out before they 're hurt, Which makes so many poets, and some fools: Then that they 'll read it o'er again, and say Prose poets like blank-verse, I 'm fond of rhyme, (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert) Good workmen never quarrel with their tools; That this is not a moral tale, though gay; I 've got new mythological machinery, Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show And very handsome supernatural scenery. The very place where wicked people go.

There 's only one slight difference between If, after all, there should be some so blind Me and my epic brethren gone before, To their own good this warning to despise, And here the advantage is my own, I ween Led by some tortuosity of mind, (Not that I have not several merits more, Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, But this will more peculiarly be seen); And cry that they 'the moral cannot find,' They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies; Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, Should captains the remark, or critics, make, Whereas this story 's actually true. They also lie too—under a mistake.

If any person doubt it, I appeal The public approbation I expect, To history, tradition, and to facts, And beg they 'll take my word about the moral, To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, Which I with their amusement will connect To plays in five, and operas in three acts; (So children cutting teeth receive a coral); All these confirm my statement a good deal, Meantime, they 'll doubtless please to recollect But that which more completely faith exacts My epical pretensions to the laurel: Is that myself, and several now in Seville, For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil. I 've bribed my grandmother's review—the British.

If ever I should condescend to prose, I sent it in a letter to the Editor, I 'll write poetical commandments, which Who thank'd me duly by return of post— Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those I 'm for a handsome article his creditor; That went before; in these I shall enrich Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, My text with many things that no one knows, And break a promise after having made it her, And carry precept to the highest pitch: Denying the receipt of what it cost, I 'll call the work 'Longinus o'er a Bottle, And smear his page with gall instead of honey, Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.' All I can say is—that he had the money.

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope; I think that with this holy new alliance Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, I may ensure the public, and defy Southey; All other magazines of art or science, Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy: Have not essay'd to multiply their clients, With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, Because they tell me 't were in vain to try, And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy: And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 'Time is, Time was, Time 's past:'—a chymic treasure Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes— 'Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. Consule Planco,' Horace said, and so Say I; by which quotation there is meant a What is the end of Fame? 't is but to fill Hint that some six or seven good years ago A certain portion of uncertain paper: (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta) Some liken it to climbing up a hill, I was most ready to return a blow, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; And would not brook at all this sort of thing For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, In my hot youth—when George the Third was King. And bards burn what they call their 'midnight taper,' But now at thirty years my hair is grey To have, when the original is dust, (I wonder what it will be like at forty? A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. I thought of a peruke the other day)— My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was Cheops erected the first pyramid May, And largest, thinking it was just the thing And feel no more the spirit to retort; I To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; Have spent my life, both interest and principal, But somebody or other rummaging, And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. Burglariously broke his coffin's lid: Let not a monument give you or me hopes, No more—no more—Oh! never more on me Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, Which out of all the lovely things we see But I being fond of true philosophy, Extracts emotions beautiful and new, Say very often to myself, 'Alas! Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee: All things that have been born were born to die, Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew? And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power grass; To double even the sweetness of a flower. You 've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, And if you had it o'er again—'t would pass— No more—no more—Oh! never more, my heart, So thank your stars that matters are no worse, Canst thou be my sole world, my universe! And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.' Once all in all, but now a thing apart, Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse: But for the present, gentle reader! and The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art Still gentler purchaser! the bard—that 's I— Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment, And so 'Your humble servant, and good-b'ye!' Though heaven knows how it ever found a We meet again, if we should understand lodgment. Each other; and if not, I shall not try Your patience further than by this short sample— My days of love are over; me no more 'T were well if others follow'd my example. The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, Can make the fool of which they made before,— 'Go, little book, from this my solitude! In short, I must not lead the life I did do; I cast thee on the waters—go thy ways! The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er, And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, The copious use of claret is forbid too, The world will find thee after many days.' So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood, I think I must take up with avarice. I can't help putting in my claim to praise— The four first rhymes are Southey's every line: Ambition was my idol, which was broken For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine. Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure; And the two last have left me many a token O'er which reflection may be made at leisure: Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken,

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ANTHOLOGY POEM 14 – She Walks in Beauty – Lord Byron

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

LORD BYRON

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ANALYSIS AND SUMMARY – She Walks in Beauty – Lord Byron

Unlike much of Byron’s comical, shocking and provocative poetry for which he is famous (like Don Juan), this poem is very romantic and idolising in its tone.

Contrasting with many poems by men, Byron compliments not just the subject’s physical beauty but also her intellect and character. He writes “so soft, so calm, yet eloquent”. The caesurae slow the pace of the poem to emphasise the importance of these compliments, and the only polysyllabic word in the line “eloquent” focuses the reader on the importance Byron attaches to the intellectual quality of eloquence.

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Born in 1806 at Coxhoe Hall, Durham, England, Elizabeth Barrett, was an English poet of the Romantic Movement. The oldest of twelve children, Elizabeth was the first in her family born in England in over two hundred years. For centuries, the Barrett family, who were part Creole, had lived in Jamaica, where they owned sugar plantations and relied on slave labor. Elizabeth's father, Edward Barrett Moulton Barrett, chose to raise his family in England, while his fortune grew in Jamaica. Educated at home, Elizabeth apparently had read passages from Paradise Lost and a number of Shakespearean plays, among other great works, before the age of ten. By her twelfth year she had written her first "epic" poem, which consisted of four books of rhyming couplets. Two years later, Elizabeth developed a lung ailment that plagued her for the rest of her life. Doctors began treating her with morphine, which she would take until her death. While saddling a pony when she was fifteen, Elizabeth also suffered a spinal injury. Despite her ailments, her education continued to flourish. Throughout her teenage years, Elizabeth taught herself Hebrew so that she could read the Old Testament; her interests later turned to Greek studies. Accompanying her appetite for the classics was a passionate enthusiasm for her Christian faith. She became active in the Bible and Missionary Societies of her church.

In 1826 Elizabeth anonymously published her collection An Essay on Mind and Other Poems. Two years later, her mother passed away. The slow abolition of slavery in England and mismanagement of the plantations depleted the Barrett's income, and in 1832, Elizabeth's father sold his rural estate at a public auction. He moved his family to a coastal town and rented cottages for the next three years, before settling permanently in London. While living on the sea coast, Elizabeth published her translation of Prometheus Bound (1833), by the Greek dramatist Aeschylus.

Gaining notoriety for her work in the 1830s, Elizabeth continued to live in her father's London house under his tyrannical rule. He began sending Elizabeth's younger siblings to Jamaica to help with the family's estates. Elizabeth bitterly opposed slavery and did not want her siblings sent away. During this time, she wrote The Seraphim and Other Poems (1838), expressing Christian sentiments in the form of classical Greek tragedy. Due to her weakening disposition she was forced to spend a year at the sea of Torquay accompanied by her brother Edward, whom she referred to as "Bro." He drowned later that year while sailing at Torquay and Elizabeth returned home emotionally broken, becoming an invalid and a recluse. She spent the next five years in her bedroom at her father's home. She continued writing, however, and in 1844 produced a collection entitled simply Poems. This volume gained the attention of poet Robert Browning, whose work Elizabeth had praised in one of her poems, and he wrote her a letter.

Elizabeth and Robert, who was six years her junior, exchanged 574 letters over the next twenty months. Immortalized in 1930 in the play The Barretts of Wimpole Street, by Rudolf Besier (1878-1942), their romance was bitterly opposed by her father, who

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) did not want any of his children to marry. In 1846, the couple eloped and settled in Florence, Italy, where Elizabeth's health improved and she bore a son, Robert Wideman Browning. Her father never spoke to her again. Elizabeth's Sonnets from the Portuguese, dedicated to her husband and written in secret before her marriage, was published in 1850. Critics generally consider the Sonnets—one of the most widely known collections of love lyrics in English—to be her best work. Admirers have compared her imagery to Shakespeare and her use of the Italian form to Petrarch. Political and social themes embody Elizabeth's later work. She expressed her intense sympathy for the struggle for the unification of Italy in Casa Guidi Windows (1848-51) and Poems Before Congress (1860). In 1857 Browning published her verse novel Aurora Leigh, which portrays male domination of a woman. In her poetry she also addressed the oppression of the Italians by the Austrians, the child labor mines and mills of England, and slavery, among other social injustices. Although this decreased her popularity, Elizabeth was heard and recognized around Europe.

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning – Sonnet 43

SONNET 43 – HOW DO I LOVE THEE? LET ME COUNT THE WAYS

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints – I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING

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Robert Browning (1812-1819)

For many years Browning struggled to find his voice in the Victorian literary world. Charles Darwin had published his controversial theory of natural selection in The Origin of Species (1859) which was challenging orthodox beliefs; the world of religion, science, and art was in a state of change. Sometimes overshadowed by his wife Elizabeth Barrett Browning's success, Robert Browning produced collections of poetry and dramatic works for the stage, but it was not until his The Ring and The Book (published in four separate volumes between 1868 and 1869) that he finally gained financial and literary success. His profound contributions to the development of poetry through his psychological portraits and use of diction and rhythm however have long inspired poets into the twentieth century including Ezra Pound, T. S. Eliot, and Robert Frost.

Robert Browning was born on 7 May, 1812 in Camberwell, south-east London, England. He was the eldest child of Sarah Wiedemann, of German-Scottish descent, and Robert Browning, a wealthy clerk with the Bank of England who was also a scholar and collector of books; his massive library would be a great source of study for young Robert. Both his parents encouraged him to study and write; as early as the age of twelve Browning was writing poetry. In his literary pursuits, they would support him financially for many years. They also had a daughter, Sarianna, who would be devoted to her brother for the rest of her life. Up to the age of sixteen Browning was tutored at home, learning French, Greek, Hebrew, Latin, and Italian, as well as studying music (his mother was an accomplished pianist), horsemanship and drawing. At the age of sixteen, he attended the University College in London but a year later left to pursue learning at his own pace. (He would later earn honorary degrees from Oxford and Edinburgh Universities, in 1882 and 1884 respectively). Browning was also studying natural history and the romantic poets like Lord George Gordon Byron, John Keats, and Percy Bysshe Shelley.

In 1833 Browning's Shelley-inspired confessional poem Pauline: A Fragment of a Confession was published anonymously by his family, though many years later he was embarrassed by its naïveté and noted “twenty years’ endurance of an eyesore seems long enough” when he revised it in 1888. In 1834 he traveled to Russia and made his first of many forays to Italy.

In 1846 Browning married fellow English poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861). They had started a now-famous correspondence a year earlier after Browning had read and admired her Poems (1844). “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett,—and this is no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write,” —January 10, 1845. “I thank you, dear Mr. Browning, from the bottom of my heart.” — January 11, 1845. The marriage was against her father’s wishes partly because he was so protective of Elizabeth and, since her teens she had suffered a lung ailment and treated as an invalid. Despite her frail health, the happy couple settled in Florence, Italy. They were devoted to each other, “for after their marriage they were never

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LOVE THROUGH THE AGES: BISHOP JUSTUS A2 POETRY ANTHOLOGY (2nd Part) separated” writes their son in his introduction to The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1 (of 2) 1845-1846. Elizabeth’s health improved and she went on to write many highly acclaimed works. The few works Browning produced in the next fifteen years or so include Christmas Eve and Easter Day (1850). Dedicated to his wife, Browning’s Men and Women (1855) includes a poem inspired by Edgar from William Shakespeare’s King Lear (and which later inspired Stephen King's Dark Tower series), “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came”;

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Porphyria's Lover BY ROBERT BROWNING The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me — she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she;

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I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!

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The Laboratory, by Robert Browning

ANCIEN REGIME I Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling whitely, As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy-- Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?

II He is with her; and they know that I know Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow While they laughing, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear Empty church, to pray God in, for them! -- I am here.

III Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, Pound at thy powder, -- I am not in haste! Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things, Than go where men wait me and dance at the King's.

IV That in the mortar -- you call it a gum? Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come! And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue, Sure to taste sweetly, -- is that poison too?

V Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures, What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures! To carry pure death in an earring, a casket, A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree-basket!

VI Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live! But to light a pastille, and Elise, with her head And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead!

VII Quick -- is it finished? The colour's too grim! Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim? Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir, And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer!

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VIII What a drop! She's not little, no minion like me-- That's why she ensnared him: this never will free The soul from those masculine eyes, -- say, 'no!' To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go.

IX For only last night, as they whispered, I brought My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought Could I keep them one half minute fixed, she would fall, Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all!

X Not that I bid you spare her the pain! Let death be felt and the proof remain; Brand, burn up, bite into its grace-- He is sure to remember her dying face!

XI Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close: The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee-- If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me?

XII Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill, You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will! But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings Ere I know it -- next moment I dance at the King's!

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Emily Jane Brontë (30 July 1818 – 19 December 1848)

Emily Jane Brontë was an English novelist and poet, best remembered for her only novel, Wuthering Heights, now considered a classic of English literature. Emily was the third eldest of the four surviving Brontë siblings, between the youngest Anne and her brother Branwell. She wrote under the pen name Ellis Bell.

In 1846, the sisters' poems were published in one volume as Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. The Brontë sisters had adopted pseudonyms for publication, preserving their initials: Charlotte was Currer Bell, Emily was Ellis Bell and Anne was Acton Bell. Charlotte wrote in the 'Biographical Notice of Ellis and Acton Bell' that their "ambiguous choice" was "dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at assuming Christian names positively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves women, because... we had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice".

Charlotte contributed 20 poems, and Emily and Anne each contributed 21. Although the sisters were told several months after publication that only two copies had sold, they were not discouraged (of their two readers, one was impressed enough to request their autographs). The Athenaeum reviewer praised Ellis Bell's work for its music and power, singling out his poems as the best: "Ellis possesses a fine, quaint spirit and an evident power of wing that may reach heights not here attempted", and The Critic reviewer recognized "the presence of more genius than it was supposed this utilitarian age had devoted to the loftier exercises of the intellect."

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The Visionary

Silent is the house: all are laid asleep: One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep, Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.

Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor; Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door; The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far: I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding-star.

Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame! Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame: But neither sire nor dame nor prying serf shall know, What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.

What I love shall come like visitant of air, Safe in secret power from lurking human snare; What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray, Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.

Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear— Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air: He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me; Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.

Emily Brontë

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‘Remembrance’ (‘Cold in the earth’)

Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover That noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers From those brown hills have melted into spring: Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along: Sterner desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven; No second morn has ever shone for me: All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy, Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy;

Then did I check the tears of useless passion, Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.

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And even yet I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in Memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

Emily Brontë

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Christina Rossetti

Christina Georgina Rossetti (5 December 1830 – 29 December 1894) was an English poet who wrote a variety of romantic, devotional, and children's poems. She is famous for writing "Goblin Market" and "Remember", and the words of the Christmas carol "In the Bleak Midwinter".

After her death many critics saw her poems through a Freudian perspective, as often sexually repressed writing.

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ANTHOLOGY POEM 15 – Remember – Christina Rossetti

Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

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Analysis and summary - Remember – Christina Rossetti

Using the form of a sonnet, Rossetti’s poem contemplates the parting of two lovers through the death of the poem’s voice. The voice commands her partner to remember her in happiness not through grief and pain.

The form of a sonnet fits with the form’s generic association of love and dedication.

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Thomas Hardy (June 1840 – 11 January 1928)

Thomas Hardy was an English novelist and poet. A Victorian realist in the tradition of George Eliot, he was influenced both in his novels and in his poetry by Romanticism, especially William Wordsworth, Charles Dickens was another important influence. Like Dickens, he was highly critical of much in Victorian society, though Hardy focused more on a declining rural society.

While Hardy wrote poetry throughout his life and regarded himself primarily as a poet, his first collection was not published until 1898. Initially, therefore, he gained fame as the author of novels. However, beginning in the 1950s Hardy has been recognised as a major poet.

In a recent biography on Hardy, Claire Tomalin argues that Hardy became a truly great English poet after the death of his first wife, Emma, beginning with the elegies he wrote in her memory. Tomalin declares these poems among "the finest and strangest celebrations of the dead in English poetry."

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I said to love

I said to Love, "It is not now as in old days When men adored thee and thy ways All else above; Named thee the Boy, the Bright, the One Who spread a heaven beneath the sun," I said to Love.

I said to him, "We now know more of thee than then; We were but weak in judgment when, With hearts abrim, We clamoured thee that thou would'st please Inflict on us thine agonies," I said to him.

I said to Love, "Thou art not young, thou art not fair, No faery darts, no cherub air, Nor swan, nor dove Are thine; but features pitiless, And iron daggers of distress," I said to Love.

"Depart then, Love! . . . - Man's race shall end, dost threaten thou? The age to come the man of now Know nothing of? - We fear not such a threat from thee; We are too old in apathy! Mankind shall cease.--So let it be," I said to Love.

Thomas Hardy

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The Going

Why did you give no hint that night That quickly after the morrow's dawn, And calmly, as if indifferent quite, You would close your term here, up and be gone Where I could not follow With wing of swallow To gain one glimpse of you ever anon!

Never to bid good-bye Or lip me the softest call, Or utter a wish for a word, while I Saw morning harden upon the wall, Unmoved, unknowing That your great going Had place that moment, and altered all.

Why do you make me leave the house And think for a breath it is you I see At the end of the alley of bending boughs Where so often at dusk you used to be; Till in darkening dankness The yawning blankness Of the perspective sickens me!

You were she who abode By those red-veined rocks far West, You were the swan-necked one who rode Along the beetling Beeny Crest, And, reining nigh me, Would muse and eye me, While Life unrolled us its very best.

Why, then, latterly did we not speak, Did we not think of those days long dead, And ere your vanishing strive to seek That time's renewal? We might have said, "In this bright spring weather We'll visit together Those places that once we visited."

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Well, well! All's past amend, Unchangeable. It must go. I seem but a dead man held on end To sink down soon. . . . O you could not know That such swift fleeing No soul foreseeing— Not even I—would undo me so!

Thomas Hardy

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ANTHOLOGY POEM 16 – The Ruined Maid – Thomas Hardy

"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?" — "O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.

— "You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!" — "Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.

— "At home in the barton you said thee' and thou,' And thik oon,' and theäs oon,' and t'other'; but now Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!" — "Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.

— "Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!" — "We never do work when we're ruined," said she.

— "You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!" — "True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.

— "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" — "My dear — a raw country girl, such as you be, Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.

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Analysis and Summary – The Ruined Maid – Thomas Hardy

The poem presents the concept that female loss of virginity makes a woman unclean or impure. From the Bible (The Virgin Mary) and throughout literature, we see women seen as either virginal or unclean, as if somehow sexual activity “ruins” or taints a woman.

Hardy does not seek to judge the eponymous “ruined maid”. He observes how a woman in poverty, with little education, shown through the colloquialisms and dialect used in the poem, has few choices to earn money to survive.

Written in a Victorian era where the society proudly saw itself as Christian and morally correct, while alcoholism, poverty and prostitution was rife in cities across Britain, Hardy highlights the judgementl nature of society and forces the reader to sympathise with the “maid” (which archaically means “virgin”) and question the judgemental nature of Victorian society.

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ANTHOLOGY POEM 17 – At an inn - Thomas Hardy

WHEN we as strangers sought Their catering care, Veiled smiles bespoke their thought Of what we were. They warmed as they opined Us more than friends— The kiss their zeal foretold, That we had all resigned And now deemed come, For love’s dear ends. Came not: within his hold Love lingered numb. And that swift sympathy Why cast he on our port With living love A bloom not ours? Which quicks the world—maybe Why shaped us for his sport The spheres above, In after-hours? Made them our ministers, Moved them to say, As we seemed we were not “Ah, God, that bliss like theirs That day afar, Would flush our day!” And now we seem not what We aching are. And we were left alone O severing sea and land, As Love’s own pair; O laws of men, Yet never the love-light shone Ere death, once let us stand Between us there! As we stood then! But that which chilled the breath Of afternoon, And palsied unto death THOMAS HARDY The pane-fly’s tune.

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ANTHOLOGY POEM 12 – At an inn - Thomas Hardy

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She,

To Him 1

When you shall see me lined by tool of Time, My lauded beauties carried off from me, My eyes no longer stars as in their prime, My name forgot of Maiden Fair and Free;

When in your being heart concedes to mind, And judgment, though you scarce its process know, Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined, And you are irked that they have withered so:

Remembering that with me lies not the blame, That Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill, Knowing me in my soul the very same— One who would die to spare you touch of ill!— Will you not grant to old affection’s claim The hand of friendship down Life’s sunless hill?

Thomas Hardy

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She, To Him 2

Perhaps, long hence, when I have passed away, Some other’s feature, accent, thought like mine, Will carry you back to what I used to say, And bring some memory of your love’s decline.

Then you may pause awhile and think, “Poor jade!” And yield a sigh to me—as gift benign, Not as the tittle of a debt unpaid To one who could to you her all resign—

And thus reflecting, you will never see That your thin thought, in two small words conveyed, Was no such fleeting phantom-thought to me, But the Whole Life wherein my part was played; And you amid its fitful masquerade A Thought—as I in yours but seem to be.

Thomas Hardy

She, To Him 3

I WILL be faithful to thee; aye, I will! And Death shall choose me with a wondering eye That he did not discern and domicile One his by right ever since that last Good-bye!

I have no care for friends, or kin, or prime Of manhood who deal gently with me here; Amid the happy people of my time Who work their love's fulfilment, I appear

Numb as a vane that cankers on its point, True to the wind that kissed ere canker came; Despised by souls of Now, who would disjoint The mind from memory, and make Life all aim,

My old dexterities of hue quite gone, And nothing left for Love to look upon.

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Thomas Hardy

She, To Him 4

THIS love puts all humanity from me; I can but maledict her, pray her dead, For giving love and getting love of thee-- Feeding a heart that else mine own had fed!

How much I love I know not, life not known, Save as some unit I would add love by; But this I know, my being is but thine own-- Fused from its separateness by ecstasy.

And thus I grasp thy amplitudes, of her Ungrasped, though helped by nigh-regarding eyes; Canst thou then hate me as an envier Who see unrecked what I so dearly prize? Believe me, Lost One, Love is lovelier The more it shapes its moans in selfish-wise.

Thomas Hardy

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Ernest Dowson

Ernest Christopher Dowson (2 August 1867 – 23 February 1900) was an English poet, novelist, short-story writer, often associated with the Decadent movement.

Ernest Dowson was born in Lee, London, in 1867. His great-uncle was Alfred Domett, a poet and politician who became Premier of New Zealand and had allegedly been the subject of Robert Browning's poem "Waring." Dowson attended The Queen's College, Oxford, but left in March 1888 before obtaining a degree.

In November 1888, he started work with his father at Dowson and Son, a dry- docking business in Limehouse, east London, which had been established by the poet's grandfather. He led an active social life, carousing with medical students and law pupils, going to music halls and taking the performers to dinner. He was also working assiduously at his writing during this time. He was a member of the Rhymers' Club, which included W. B. Yeats and Lionel Johnson. He was a contributor to such literary magazines as The Yellow Book and The Savoy.

In 1889, aged 23, Dowson became infatuated with the eleven-year-old Adelaide "Missie" Foltinowicz, daughter of a Polish restaurant owner; in 1893 he unsuccessfully proposed to her. To Dowson's despair, Adelaide was eventually to marry a tailor.

In August 1894, Dowson's father, who was in the advanced stages of tuberculosis, died of an overdose of chloral hydrate. His mother, who was also consumptive, hanged herself in February 1895. Soon after her death, Dowson began to decline rapidly. The publisher Leonard Smithers gave him an allowance to live in France and write translations, but he returned to London in 1897 (where he stayed with the Foltinowicz family, despite the transfer of Adelaide's affections).

In 1899, Robert Sherard found Dowson almost penniless in a wine bar and took him back to the cottage in Catford, where Sherard was living. Dowson spent the last six weeks of his life at Sherard's cottage where he died at age 32. He had become a Catholic in 1892 and was interred in the Roman Catholic section of nearby Brockley and Ladywell Cemeteries. After Dowson's death, Oscar Wilde wrote: "Poor wounded wonderful fellow that he was, a tragic reproduction of all tragic poetry, like a symbol, or a scene. I hope bay leaves will be laid on his tomb and rue and myrtle too for he knew what love was".

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ANTHOLOGY POEM 18 – Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae – Ernest Dowson

NON SUM QUALIS ERAM BONAE SUB REGNO CYNARAE

Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was grey: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind, But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. ERNEST DOWSON

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Analysis and summary – Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae – Ernest Dowson

Dowson had been educated in France, and he was a translator of Verlaine. This week's poem, "Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae", owes some of its dreamy music to the 12-syllable French line, the Alexandrine, which dominates the beginning of each stanza, and carries the poem's story, such as it is.

The title, from Horace's Odes, Book 4, 1, translates as "I am not as I was in the reign of good Cinara." In Horace's poem, the speaker implores Venus to wage no further erotic wars on him. He is advanced in years, he says, and she should bother some younger man, better endowed for love. But there is a fascinating turn at the end, when the speaker declares, in tears, the presence of a new and unattainable erotic attraction, a young man called Ligurinus.

Cinara is unimportant in Horace's poem. Her name merely provides the impulse for his recusatio, his rebuttal, of Venus's powers. She symbolises the attachment her former lover no longer claims – or pretends no longer to claim, since he now loves someone new.

Dowson's Cynara represents the lost love who has become a constant obsession. The image the poet briefly draws of her is rather pre-Raphaelite, her "pale, lost lilies" contrasting with the prostitute's "bought red mouth" and the flung roses of dissipation. The diction is archaic: ("yesternight", "betwixt", "yea") but the scenes could not be more fin de siècle, more knowingly decadent. And yet the impression is of pure unfeigned emotion.

In the poem's most famous line, "I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind," the subject of "gone with the wind" appears to be "I", not Cynara. This stanza reveals the lover's frantic onward movement, his dance of death. That Cynara is ever-present, in spite of everything, is all the poem wants to say, the whole of its simple story. Getting to the refrain is what matters, riding the delirious emotional sweep from "passion" to "fashion", obsessively re-igniting the old flame. The tense shifts to present in the final stanza: "then falls thy shadow, Cynara", "And I am desolate" (my italics), evoking the live current of the compulsion. "Sick" is not a poeticism, under the circumstances: this love is near to disease. And perhaps, had the poem been a stanza longer, we might have got sick of the old passion, too. As it is, Dowson stops well before his reader can start yawning. He has found not only the right form but the right length for this slight but emotionally overwhelming story.

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Ted Hughes

Edward James (Ted) Hughes was born in Mytholmroyd, in the West Riding district of Yorkshire, on August 17, 1930. His childhood was quiet and dominately rural. When he was seven years old his family moved to the small town of Mexborough in South Yorkshire, and the landscape of the moors of that area informed his poetry throughout his life.

After high school, Hughes entered the Royal Air Force and served for two years as a ground wireless mechanic. He then moved to Cambridge to attend Pembroke College on an academic scholarship. While in college he published a few poems, majored in Anthropolgy and Archaeology, and studied mythologies extensively.

Hughes graduated from Cambridge in 1954. A few years later, in 1956, he co- founded the literary magazine St. Botolph’s Review with a handful of other editors. At the launch party for the magazine, he met Sylvia Plath. A few short months later, on June 16, 1956, they were married.

Plath encouraged Hughes to submit his first manuscript, The Hawk in the Rain, to The Poetry Center's First Publication book contest. The judges, Marianne Moore, W. H. Auden, and Stephen Spender, awarded the manuscript first prize, and it was published in England and America in 1957, to much critical praise.

Hughes lived in Massachusetts with Plath and taught at University of Massachusetts Amherst. They returned to England in 1959, and their first child, Freida was born the following year. Their second child, Nicholas, was born two years later.

In 1962, Hughes left Plath for Assia Gutmann Wevill. Less than a year later, Plath committed suicide. Hughes did not write again for years, as he focused all of his energy on editing and promoting Plath’s poems. He was also roundly lambasted by the public, who saw him as responsible for his wife’s suicide. Controversy surrounded his editorial choices regarding Plath’s poems and journals.

In 1965, Wevill gave birth to their only child, Shura. Four years later, like Plath, she also commited suicide, killing Shura as well. The following year, in 1970, Hughes married Carol Orchard, with whom he remained married until his death.

Hughes’s lengthy career included over a dozen books of poetry, translations, non- fiction and children’s books, such as the famous The Iron Man (1968). His books of poems include: Wolfwatching (1990), Flowers and Insects (1986), Selected Poems 1957-1981 (1982), Moortown (1980), Cave Birds (1979), Crow (1971), and Lupercal (1960). His final collection, The Birthday Letters (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1998), published the year of his death, documented his relationship with Plath.

Hughes's work is marked by a mythical framework, using the lyric and dramatic monologue to illustrate intense subject matter. Animals appear frequently

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Hughes won many of Europe’s highest literary honors, and was appointed Poet Laureate of England in 1984, a post he held until his death. He passed away in October 28, 1998 in Devonshire, England, from cancer.

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‘Lovesong’ Ted Hughes (1930-1998)

He loved her and she loved him. His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to He had no other appetite She bit him she gnawed him she sucked She wanted him complete inside her Safe and sure forever and ever Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows He gripped her hard so that life Should not drag her from that moment He wanted all future to cease He wanted to topple with his arms round her Off that moment's brink and into nothing Or everlasting or whatever there was

Her embrace was an immense press To print him into her bones His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace Where the real world would never come Her smiles were spider bites So he would lie still till she felt hungry His words were occupying armies Her laughs were an assassin's attempts His looks were bullets daggers of revenge His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets His whispers were whips and jackboots Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks And their deep cries crawled over the floors Like an animal dragging a great trap His promises were the surgeon's gag Her promises took the top off his skull She would get a brooch made of it His vows pulled out all her sinews He showed her how to make a love-knot Her vows put his eyes in formalin At the back of her secret drawer Their screams stuck in the wall

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face

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‘Bride and Groom Lie Hidden for Three Days’ Ted Hughes (1930-1998)

She gives him his eyes, she found them Among some rubble, among some beetles

He gives her her skin He just seemed to pull it down out of the air and lay it over her She weeps with fearfulness and astonishment

She has found his hands for him, and fitted them freshly at the wrists They are amazed at themselves, they go feeling all over her

He has assembled her spine, he cleaned each piece carefully And sets them in perfect order A superhuman puzzle but he is inspired She leans back twisting this way and that, using it and laughing Incredulous

Now she has brought his feet, she is connecting them So that his whole body lights up

And he has fashioned her new hips With all fittings complete and with newly wound coils, all shiningly oiled He is polishing every part, he himself can hardly believe it

They keep taking each other to the sun, they find they can easily To test each new thing at each new step

And now she smoothes over him the plates of his skull So that the joints are invisible

And now he connects her throat, her breasts and the pit of her stomach With a single wire

She gives him his teeth, tying the the roots to the centrepin of his body

He sets the little circlets on her fingertips

She stitches his body here and there with steely purple silk

He oils the delicate cogs of her mouth

She inlays with deep cut scrolls the nape of his neck

He sinks into place the inside of her thighs

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So, gasping with joy, with cries of wonderment Like two gods of mud Sprawling in the dirt, but with infinite care They bring each other to perfection.

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‘Fidelity’ Ted Hughes (1930-1998)

It was somewhere to live. I was Just hanging around, courting you. Afloat on the morning tide and tipsy feelings Of my twenty-fifth year. Gutted, restyled A la mode, the Alexandria House Became a soup-kitchen. Those were the days Before the avant-garde of coffee bars. The canteen clatter of the British Restaurant, One of the war’s utility leftovers, Was still the place to repair the nights with breakfasts. But Alexandria House was the place to be seen in. The girls that helped to run it lived above it With a retinue of loose-lifers, day-sleepers Exhausted with night-owling. Somehow I got a mattress up there, in a top room, Overlooking Petty Cury. A bare Mattress, on bare boards, in a bare room. All I had, my notebook and that mattress. Under the opening, bud-sticky chesnuts, On into June, my job chucked, I laboured Only at you, squandering all I’d saved. Free of University I dangled In its liberties. Every night I slept on that mattress, under one blanket, With a lovely girl, escaped freshly From her husband to the frontier exposure Of work in the soup-kitchen. What Knighthood possessed me there? I think of it As a kind of time that cannot pass, That I never used, so still possess. She and I slept in each other’s arms, Naked and as easy as lovers, a month of nights, Yet never once made love. A holy law Had invented itself, somehow, for me. But she too served it, like a priestess, Tender, kind and stark naked beside me. She traced out the fresh rips you had inscribed Across my back, seeming to join me In my obsession, in my concentration, To keep my preoccupation intact. She never once invited, never tempted. And I never stirred a finger beyond Sisterly comforting. I was like her sister. It never seemed unnatural. I was focused, So locked onto you, so brilliantly, Everything that was not you was blind-spot. I still puzzle over it — doubtful, now, Whether to envy myself, or pity. Her friend, Who had a bigger room, was wilder.

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We moved in with her. That lofty room Became a dormitory and HQ Alternative to St Botolph’s. Plump and pretty, With a shameless gap-tooth laugh, her friend Did all she could to get me inside her. And you will never know what a battle I fought to keep the meaning of my words Solid with the world we were making. I was afraid, if I lost that fight, Something might abandon us. Lifting Each of those naked girls, as they smiled at me In their early twenties, I laid them Under the threshold of our unlikely future As those who wanted protection for a new home Used to bury, under the new threshold, A sinless child.

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Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

Sylvia Plath (1932-1963) is a poet whose troubled life and powerful work remains a source of controversy. Born in Boston in the USA she was precociously intelligent, publishing her first poem at the age of eight. The same year her German father, Otto, died suddenly, a trauma which surfaces in her poetry repeatedly. Plath suffered from bouts of severe depression throughout her life, her first serious breakdown occurring in 1953 and later remembered in her autobiographical novel The Bell Jar (1963). This episode led to her first suicide attempt, but she recovered and graduated from Smith College, Massachusetts before winning a Fullbright Scholarship to Cambridge University. Here she met the English poet, Ted Hughes, their passionate courtship leading quickly to marriage in June 1956.

After two years teaching in the United States the couple returned to the UK when Plath became pregnant, their daughter Frieda being born in April 1960. By this time Hughes was established as a significant new voice in British poetry, but now Plath's own first collection The Colossus was published and began to receive attention. After the birth of their son in 1962 their marriage became increasingly fraught with Plath's mental instability and Hughes' infidelity both likely contributing factors. The couple separated and Plath took the children to live with her in London. During an extraordinary burst of creativity in the autumn of 1962 Plath wrote most of the poems on which her reputation now rests.

However, that winter was particularly severe and Plath became increasingly isolated and depressed: on February 11th 1963 she committed suicide by gassing herself in the kitchen of her flat. Debate has raged ever since over who was to blame for Plath's early death, the feminist movement adopting her as an icon and interpreting Hughes' role as her literary executor, particularly his destruction of her final journal, as continuing a patriarchal oppression she had experienced in life. More recently this interpretation has been challenged, not least by Hughes himself in his collection Birthday Letters, which give his view of their marriage in a series of tender and searing poems. Plath's own work, with its intense sometimes shocking use of metaphor and her exploration of extreme states of mind, refuses to be overshadowed by her tragic biography: in 1982 she became the first poet to be posthumously awarded the Pulitzer Prize for her Collected Poems.

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‘Daddy’ Sylvia Plath (1932-1963) You do not do, you do not do I have always been scared of you, Any more, black shoe With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. In which I have lived like a foot And your neat mustache For thirty years, poor and white, And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Daddy, I have had to kill you. Not God but a swastika You died before I had time-- So black no sky could squeak through. Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Every woman adores a Fascist, Ghastly statue with one gray toe The boot in the face, the brute Big as a Frisco seal Brute heart of a brute like you.

And a head in the freakish Atlantic You stand at the blackboard, daddy, Where it pours bean green over blue In the picture I have of you, In the waters off beautiful Nauset. A cleft in your chin instead of your foot I used to pray to recover you. But no less a devil for that, no not Ach, du. Any less the black man who

In the German tongue, in the Polish town Bit my pretty red heart in two. Scraped flat by the roller I was ten when they buried you. Of wars, wars, wars. At twenty I tried to die But the name of the town is common. And get back, back, back to you. My Polack friend I thought even the bones would do.

Says there are a dozen or two. But they pulled me out of the sack, So I never could tell where you And they stuck me together with glue. Put your foot, your root, And then I knew what to do. I never could talk to you. I made a model of you, The tongue stuck in my jaw. A man in black with a Meinkampf look

It stuck in a barb wire snare. And a love of the rack and the screw. Ich, ich, ich, ich, And I said I do, I do. I could hardly speak. So daddy, I'm finally through. I thought every German was you. The black telephone's off at the root, And the language obscene The voices just can't worm through.

An engine, an engine If I've killed one man, I've killed two-- Chuffing me off like a Jew. The vampire who said he was you A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. And drank my blood for a year, I began to talk like a Jew. Seven years, if you want to know. I think I may well be a Jew. Daddy, you can lie back now.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna There's a stake in your fat black heart Are not very pure or true. And the villagers never liked you. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck They are dancing and stamping on you. And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack They always knew it was you. I may be a bit of a Jew. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

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‘Mad Girl’s Love Song’ Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan's men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)"

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Simon Armitage (1963 - )

Simon Armitage was born in Marsden, West Yorkshire. Armitage first studied at Colne Valley High School, Linthwaite, Huddersfield and went on to study geography at Portsmouth Polytechnic. He was a post-graduate student at Manchester University where his MA thesis concerned the effects of television violence on young offenders. Until 1994 he worked as Probation Officer in Greater Manchester. He was awarded an Honorary Doctor of Letters in 1996 from the University of Portsmouth. He then lectured on creative writing at the University of Leeds, the University of Iowa and the Manchester Metropolitan University. In February 2011 he took up the position as Professor of Poetry at the University of Sheffield. He lives in West Yorkshire. Armitage's poetry collections include Book of Matches (1993) and The Dead Sea Poems (1995). He has written two novels, Little Green Man (2001) and The White Stuff (2004), as well as All Points North (1998), a collection of essays on the north of England. He produced a dramatised version of Homer's Odyssey and a collection of poetry entitled Tyrannosaurus Rex Versus The Corduroy Kid (which was shortlisted for the TS Eliot Prize), both of which were published in July 2006. Many of Armitage's poems appear in the AQA (Assessment and Qualifications Alliance) GCSE syllabus for English Literature in the United Kingdom. Some of these include: "Homecoming", "November", "Kid", "Hitcher", and a selection of poems from Book of Matches, most notably of these "Mother any distance...". His writing is characterised by a dry, native Yorkshire wit combined with "an accessible, realist style and critical seriousness."

Armitage also writes for radio, television, film and stage. He is the author of four stage plays, including Mister Heracles, a version of Euripides' The Madness of Heracles. He was commissioned in 2004 by the National Theatre in London to write Eclipse for the Connections series, a play based on the disappearance of a girl in Hebden Bridge at the time of the 1999 solar eclipse in Cornwall. Most recently he wrote the libretto for an opera scored by Scottish composer Stuart MacRae, The Assassin Tree, based on a Greek myth recounted in The Golden Bough. The opera premiered at the 2006 Edinburgh International Festival, Scotland, before moving to the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, London. Saturday Night (Century Films, BBC2, 1996) – wrote and narrated a fifty minute poetic commentary to a documentary about night-life in Leeds. Directed by Brian Hill. In 2010, Armitage walked the 264 mile Pennine Way, walking South from Scotland to Derbyshire. Along the route he stopped to give poetry readings, often in exchange for donations of money, food or accommodation and is writing a book about his journey.

He has received numerous awards for his poetry, including The Sunday Times Author of the Year, a Forward Prize, a Lannan Award, and an Ivor Novello Award for his song lyrics in the Channel 4 film Feltham Sings. Kid and CloudCuckooLand were short-listed for the Whitbread poetry prize. The Dead Sea Poems was short-listed for the Whitbread, the Forward Poetry Prize and the T. S. Eliot Prize. The Universal Home Doctor was also short-listed for the T.S. Eliot. In 2000, he was the UK's official Millennium Poet and went on to judge the 2005 Griffin Poetry Prize, the 2006 Man Booker Prize for Fiction and the 2010 Manchester Poetry Prize. In 2004, Armitage was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and

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Mother, any distance greater than a single span

Mother, any distance greater than a single span requires a second pair of hands. You come to help me measure windows, pelmets, doors, the acres of the walls, the prairies of the floors.

You at the zero-end, me with the spool of tape, recording length, reporting metres, centimetres back to base, then leaving up the stairs, the line still feeding out, unreeling years between us. Anchor. Kite.

I space-walk through the empty bedrooms, climb the ladder to the loft, to breaking point, where something has to give; two floors below your fingertips still pinch the last one-hundredth of an inch...I reach towards a hatch that opens on an endless sky to fall or fly.

Simon Armitage

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Homecoming Think, two things on their own and both at once. The first, that exercise in trust, where those in front stand with their arms spread wide and free-fall backwards, blind, and those behind take all the weight. The second, one canary-yellow cotton jacket on a cloakroom floor, uncoupled from its hook, becoming scuffed and blackened underfoot. Back home the very model of a model of a mother, yours, puts two and two together, makes a proper fist of it and points the finger. Temper, temper. Questions in the house. You seeing red. Blue murder. Bed. Then midnight when you slip the latch and sneak no further than the phonebox at the corner of the street; I'm waiting by the phone, although it doesn't ring because it's sixteen years or so before we'll meet. Retrace that walk towards the garden gate; in silhouette a father figure waits there, wants to set things straight. These ribs are pleats or seams. These arms are sleeves. These fingertips are buttons, or these hands can fold into a clasp, or else these fingers make a zip or buckle, you say which. Step backwards into it and try the same canary-yellow cotton jacket, there like this, for size again. It still fits. SIMON ARMITAGE

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Margaret Atwood (1939- )

A Canadian poet, novelist, literary critic, essayist, and environmental activist. She is among the most-honoured authors of fiction in recent history; she is a winner of the Arthur C. Clarke Award and Prince of Asturias award for Literature, has been shortlisted for the Booker Prize five times, winning once, and has been a finalist for the Governor General's Award seven times, winning twice. While she is best known for her work as a novelist, she is also a poet, having published 15 books of poetry to date. Many of her poems have been inspired by myths and fairy tales, which have been interests of hers from an early age. Atwood has published short stories in Tamarack Review, Alphabet, Harper's, CBC Anthology, Ms., Saturday Night, and many other magazines. She has also published four collections of stories and three collections of unclassifiable short prose works.

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‘Variations on the Word Love’ Margaret Atwood (1939-)

This is a word we use to plug holes with. It's the right size for those warm blanks in speech, for those red heart- shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing like real hearts. Add lace and you can sell it. We insert it also in the one empty space on the printed form that comes with no instructions. There are whole magazines with not much in them but the word love, you can rub it all over your body and you can cook with it too. How do we know it isn't what goes on at the cool debaucheries of slugs under damp pieces of cardboard? As for the weed- seedlings nosing their tough snouts up among the lettuces, they shout it. Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising their glittering knives in salute.

Then there's the two of us. This word is far too short for us, it has only four letters, too sparse to fill those deep bare vacuums between the stars that press on us with their deafness. It's not love we don't wish to fall into, but that fear. this word is not enough but it will have to do. It's a single vowel in this metallic silence, a mouth that says O again and again in wonder and pain, a breath, a finger grip on a cliffside. You can hold on or let go.

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Seamus Heaney (1939-2013)

Seamus Heaney was born in County Derry in Northern Ireland. Death of a Naturalist, his first collection of poems, appeared in 1966, and was followed by poetry, criticism and translations which established him as the leading poet of his generation. In 1995 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, and twice won the Whitbread Book of the Year, for The Spirit Level (1996) and Beowulf (1999). Stepping Stones, a book of interviews conducted by Dennis O’Driscoll, appeared in 2008; Human Chain, his last volume of poems, was awarded the 2010 Forward Prize for Best Collection. He died in 2013.

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‘Act of Union’ II Seamus Heaney And I am still imperially I Male, leaving you with pain, The rending process in the colony, To-night, a first movement, a pulse, The battering ram, the boom burst from As if the rain in bogland gathered head within. To slip and flood: a bog-burst, The act sprouted an obsinate fifth column A gash breaking open the ferny bed. Whose stance is growing unilateral. Your back is a firm line of eastern coast His heart beneath your heart is a wardrum And arms and legs are thrown Mustering force. His parasitical Beyond your gradual hills. I caress And ignmorant little fists already The heaving province where our past has Beat at your borders and I know they're grown. cocked I am the tall kingdom over your shoulder At me across the water. No treaty That you would neither cajole nor ignore. I foresee will salve completely your tracked Conquest is a lie. I grow older And stretchmarked body, the big pain Conceding your half-independant shore That leaves you raw, like opened ground, Within whose borders now my legacy again. Culminates inexorably.

‘Twice Shy’ Seamus Heaney

Her scarf a la Bardot, In suede flats for the walk, Our Juvenilia She came with me one evening Had taught us both to wait, For air and friendly talk. Not to publish feeling We crossed the quiet river, And regret it all too late - Took the embankment walk. Mushroom loves already Had puffed and burst in hate. Traffic holding its breath, Sky a tense diaphragm: So, chary and excited, Dusk hung like a backcloth As a thrush linked on a hawk, That shook where a swan swam, We thrilled to the March twilight Tremulous as a hawk With nervous childish talk: Hanging deadly, calm. Still waters running deep Along the embankment walk. A vacuum of need Collapsed each hunting heart But tremulously we held As hawk and prey apart, Preserved classic decorum, Deployed our talk with art.

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‘Rite of Spring’ Seamus Heaney

So winter closed its fist And got it stuck in the pump. The plunger froze up a lump

In its throat, ice founding itself Upon iron. The handle Paralysed at an angle.

Then the twisting of wheat straw into ropes, lapping them tight Round stem and snout, then a light

That sent the pump up in a flame It cooled, we lifted her latch, Her entrance was wet, and she came.

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‘Punishment’ Seamus Heaney

I can feel the tug of the halter at the nape of her neck, the wind on her naked front.

It blows her nipples to amber beads, it shakes the frail rigging of her ribs.

I can see her drowned body in the bog, the weighing stone, the floating rods and boughs.

Under which at first she was a barked sapling that is dug up oak-bone, brain-firkin:

her shaved head like a stubble of black corn, her blindfold a soiled bandage, her noose a ring

to store the memories of love. Little adultress, before they punished you

you were flaxen-haired, undernourished, and your tar-black face was beautiful. My poor scapegoat,

I almost love you but would have cast, I know, the stones of silence. I am the artful voyeur

of your brain's exposed and darkened combs, your muscles' webbing and all your numbered bones:

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I who have stood dumb when your betraying sisters, cauled in tar, wept by the railings,

who would connive in civilized outrage yet understand the exact and tribal, intimate revenge.

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Brian Patten (1946 –) ‘Song for Last Year’s Wife’ Brian Patten ‘Sometimes it Happens’ Brian Patten Alice, this is my first winter of waking without you, of knowing And sometimes it happens that you are friends and then that you, dressed in familiar clothes You are not friends, are elsewhere, perhaps not even And friendship has passed. conscious of our anniversary. Have And whole days are lost and among them you noticed? The earth’s still as hard, A fountain empties itself. the same empty gardens exist; it is as if nothing special had changed. And sometimes it happens that you are loved and I wake with another mouth feeding then from me, yet still feel as if You are not loved, Love had not the right And love is past. to walk out of me. A year now. So And whole days are lost and among them what? you say. I send out my spies A fountain empties itself into the grass. to discover what you are doing. They smile, return, tell me your body’s as firm, And sometimes you want to speak to her and then you are as alive, as warm and inviting You do not want to speak, as when I knew you first... Perhaps it is Then the opportunity has passed. the winter, its isolation from other seasons, Your dreams flare up, they suddenly vanish. that sends me your ghost to witness when I wake. Somebody came here today, And also it happens that there is nowhere to go and asked then how you were keeping, what There is somewhere to go, you were doing. I imagine you, Then you have bypassed. waking in another city,touched And the years flare up and are gone, by this same hour. So ordinary Quicker than a minute. a thing as loss comes now and touches

So you have nothing. You wonder if these things matter and then As soon you begin to wonder if these things matter They cease to matter, And caring is past. And a fountain empties itself into the grass.

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VARIED MODERN POETS

‘May I feel’ E. E. Cummings (1894-1962) may i feel said he (i'll squeal said she just once said he) it's fun said she

(may i touch said he how much said she a lot said he) why not said she

(let's go said he not too far said she what's too far said he where you are said she) may i stay said he (which way said she like this said he if you kiss said she may i move said he is it love said she) if you're willing said he (but you're killing said she but it's life said he but your wife said she now said he) ow said she

(tiptop said he don't stop said she oh no said he) go slow said she

(cccome?said he ummm said she) you're divine!said he (you are Mine said she)

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‘Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep’ ’Lullaby’ Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004) W. H. Auden (1907-1973)

Do not stand at my grave and weep, Lay your sleeping head, my love, I am not there, I do not sleep. Human on my faithless arm; I am in a thousand winds that blow, Time and fevers burn away I am the softly falling snow. Individual beauty from I am the gentle showers of rain, Thoughtful children, and the grave I am the fields of ripening grain. Proves the child ephemeral: I am in the morning hush, But in my arms till break of day I am in the graceful rush Let the living creature lie, Of beautiful birds in circling flight, Mortal, guilty, but to me I am the starshine of the night. The entirely beautiful. I am in the flowers that bloom, I am in a quiet room. Soul and body have no bounds: I am in the birds that sing, To lovers as they lie upon I am in each lovely thing. Her tolerant enchanted slope Do not stand at my grave and cry, In their ordinary swoon, I am not there. I do not die. Grave the vision Venus sends Of supernatural sympathy, Universal love and hope; While an abstract insight wakes Among the glaciers and the rocks The hermit's carnal ecstasy.

Certainty, fidelity On the stroke of midnight pass Like vibrations of a bell And fashionable madmen raise Their pedantic boring cry: Every farthing cost, All the dreaded cards foretell, Shall be paid, but from this night Not a whisper, not a thought, Not a kiss nor look be lost.

Beauty, midnight, vision dies: Let the winds of dawn that blow Softly round your dreaming head Such a day of welcome show Eye and knocking heart may bless, Find our mortal world enough; Noons of dryness find you fed By the involuntary powers, Nights of insult let you pass Watched by every human love.

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‘IX’ from Twelve Songs W. H. Auden (1907-1973) Our history books refer to it In cryptic little notes, Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, It's quite a common topic on Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, The Transatlantic boats; Silence the pianos and with muffled drum I've found the subject mentioned in Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Accounts of suicides, And even seen it scribbled on Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead The backs of railway-guides. Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, public doves, Or boom like a military band? Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton Could one give a first-rate imitation gloves. On a saw or a Steinway Grand? Is its singing at parties a riot? He was my North, my South, my East and West, Does it only like classical stuff? My working week and Sunday rest, Does it stop when one wants to quiet? My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; O tell me the truth about love. I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. I looked inside the summer-house; It wasn't ever there: The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; I tried the Thames at Maidenhead, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; And Brighton's bracing air. Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; I don't know what the blackbird sang, For nothing now can ever come to any good. Or what the tulip said; But it wasn' in the chicken-run, Or underneath the bed. ‘XII’ from Twelve Songs W. H. Auden (1907-1973) Can it pull extraordinary faces? Is it usually sick on a swing? Some say that love's a little boy, Does it spend all its time at the races, And some say it's a bird, Or fiddling with pieces of string? Some say it makes the world round, Has it views of its own about money? And some say that's absurd, Does it think Patriotism enough? And when I asked the man next-door, Are its stories vulgar but funny? Who looked as if he knew, O tell me the truth about love. His wife got very cross indeed, And said it wouldn't do. When it comes, will it come without warning Just as I'm picking my nose? Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, Will it knock on the door in the morning, Or the ham in a temperance hotel? Or tread in the bus on my toes? Does its odour remind one of llamas, Will it come like a change in the weather? Or has it a comforting smell? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, Will it alter my life altogether? Or soft as eiderdown fluff? O tell me the truth about love. Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about love.

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‘One Flesh’ Elizabeth Jennings (1926-)

Lying apart now, each in a separate bed, He with a book, keeping the light on late, She like a girl dreaming of childhood, All men elsewhere - it is as if they wait Some new event: the book he holds unread, Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.

Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion, How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch, Or if they do it is like a confession Of having little feeling - or too much. Chastity faces them, a destination For which their whole lives were a preparation.

Strangely apart, yet strangely close together, Silence between them like a thread to hold And not wind in. And time itself's a feather Touching them gently. Do they know they're old, These two who are my father and my mother Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?

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‘Men’ Maya Angelou (1928-)

When I was young, I used to Watch behind the curtains As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men. Young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always Going somewhere. They knew I was there. Fifteen Years old and starving for them. Under my window, they would pauses, Their shoulders high like the Breasts of a young girl, Jacket tails slapping over Those behinds, Men.

One day they hold you in the Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you Were the last raw egg in the world. Then They tighten up. Just a little. The First squeeze is nice. A quick hug. Soft into your defenselessness. A little More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a Smile that slides around the fear. When the Air disappears, Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly, Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered. It is your juice That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes. When the earth rights itself again, And taste tries to return to the tongue, Your body has slammed shut. Forever. No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon Your mind. There, just beyond The sway of curtains, men walk. Knowing something. Going someplace. But this time, I will simply Stand and watch.

Maybe.

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‘Remembrance’ Maya Angelou (1928-)

Your hands easy weight, teasing the bees hived in my hair, your smile at the slope of my cheek. On the occasion, you press above me, glowing, spouting readiness, mystery rapes my reason

When you have withdrawn your self and the magic, when only the smell of your love lingers between my breasts, then, only then, can I greedily consume your presence.

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‘Valentine’ Carol Ann Duffy (1955-)

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. It promises light like the careful undressing of love.

Here. It will blind you with tears like a lover. It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion. Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips, possessive and faithful as we are, for as long as we are.

Take it. Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring, if you like.

Lethal. Its scent will cling to your fingers, cling to your knife.

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