human
Can you write a poem for me in the style of Jean K. (Jean Katherine) Baird?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem in the style of Jean K. (Jean Katherine) Baird:
  MARAH OF SHADOWTOWN. Verses. Anne Throop
DIES IRAE. Verses. William Mountain
GLIMPSES OF PRESENT-DAY POETS. A Selective Reading Course. II. An
'Songs from the Ghetto' and 'A Vision of Hellas.' Harriott S.
Olive.--Col. Higginson's 'Contemporaries' and Mrs. Howe's
Portent.--Goethe's Iphigenia at Harvard. H. S. O.--Is Browning a
Published by POET-LORE CO., 16 Ashburton Place.
-->_Address all editorial communications to_
POET-LORE COMPANY, 16 Ashburton Place, Boston.
POET-LORE COMPANY, 16 Ashburton Place, Boston.
--_wilt thou not haply saie,
Truth needs no collour with his collour fixt,
Beautie no pensell, beauties truth to lay:
But best is best if never intermixt.
Excuse no silence so, for 't lies in thee,
To make him much outlive a gilded tombe:
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office_----
The young Prince, her son.          Ottar,   >  The Duke's men.
Anna Goldhair, her attendant.       Gylf,   /
Coelestin, her Major-domo.           The Burial-wife.
The Chancellor.                     Miklas, a peasant.
Widwolf, Duke of Gotland.           An old fisherman, a page,
people.
Behind a juniper bush,
On a night in July warm and red,
Was my poor mother of me brought to bed
Behind a juniper bush,
Between cock's crow and morning red,
I struck in drink my father dead,
Behind a juniper bush,
When all the vermin have had their bite,
I'll stretch myself out and give up the fight
Yet one thing I know: anywhere hereabouts, a mile-stone or a
readiness for any sort of bout; my spirits swell to bursting
_Burial-wife_ [_entering_]. Tell me, my little Hans, hast been
industrious? Hast made a fine soft bed?
_Burial-wife_. My little Hans, my son, why stormest thou so?
_Hans_. Let me curse.
_Hans_. On the grave-straw? [_Lies down with a grimace._]
_Hans_. Do I know him!
_Hans_. The way to death!
_Hans_. And if he brings them?
_Ottar_ [_sticking his head through the bushes_]. Holloa, Gylf!
_Gylf_ [_coming out_]. What is it? [_The others also appear._]
_Ottar_. What's the matter?
dragon? How comes the bold rascal here?
_The Second_ [_who has raised up the lump of amber_]. I tell you,
_Ottar_. Death and the devil! Then we are in Amberland.
_The Third_ [_staring_]. That is amber?
_The Second_. I found it--it is mine!
_Ottar_. Thou gorging maw!
_Ottar_. Dog! I'll strike thee dead!
_The Two Others_. Yes, come! [_The three go into the tower._]
_Skoell_. Thou dost not go along?
_Skoell_. What is this?
_Ottar_. What do you call this? Seize her!
_The First_. Seize her! Easy to say! Dost thou court the palsy?
_The Second_. Or fits, at least!
_Hans_ [_snatches his sword, that hangs on a tree, and throws the
_All_ [_burst out laughing_]. Hans, Hans! Poor old Hans!
_Ottar_ [_sings_]. Ho, Hans is playing with his love!
_Hans_. Have a care!
_Skoell_. Hanschen, has thou clean forgot who was the fiercest
_Ottar_. Thou wouldst draw us out then?
_Hans_. No need. I know that trade a thousand miles away. You are
_Hans_ [_half to himself_]. See, see!
_Hans_. And your Duke?
murder-cry: Ho huzzah!
_All_. Ho huzzah!
_Ottar_. In what battle? We have no more battles.
_Hans_. Are you so sure of it?
_The First_. Past bearing.
_Hans_. No need, my lord, I have my pay.
conscience.
_Hans_ [_gazing out to sea._] Perhaps. It may be.
_Duke_. Where hast thou stayed so long?
_Hans_ [_without stirring_]. I am a servant. I have served.
_Duke_. What drivest thou now?
_Hans_. I drive naught, my lord, I am driven.
_Duke_ [_threateningly_]. It pleases thee to jest.
_Hans_. And thee to be galled thereat.
_Duke_. Seize him.
_Hans_ [_casting himself at the_ Prince's _feet with a shout of
_Prince_. I brought not the heron's feathers with me? My nightly
_Prince_. Thou wert right. I knew it well.
standard of my fortunes.
_Hans_. Thy story, master,--come, tell it to me!
_Hans_. A good two years, master.
_Hans_. I will go.
_Prince_. But yet thou mutterest?
_Prince_. Yet why? Her work is pious and she tends it faithfully.
_Hans_. But if she weaves enchantment, master?
shrinking, to hasten on forever and never gain the end.
_Prince_ [_pointing to his helmet with a smile_]. Look there!
_Prince_. Thou ravest.
_Hans_. Too late. It has begun. [_Whispers._] It looks as if the
_Prince_. Burial-wife! Look me in the face!
_Burial-wife_. Thou hast come! Welcome, dear son!
_Burial-wife_. What dost thou ask?
_Hans_ [_boldly opposing him_]. What wilt thou do?
_Prince_. Out of the way? [_He opens the door of the tower._]
_Prince_ [_looks about wildly_]. I see naught.
_Hans_. Thou hast bewitched him finely.
_Hans_. I am armed. [_To the_ Burial-wife.] The hangman--
_Skoell_ [_in his sleep_]. Brother--thy health!
_Page_. Look! The fellow is still drunk.
_Coelestin_. Hast thou seen aright? The Pommeranian?
_Hans Lorbass's Voice_. Open the door!
_Page_. What shall I do?
_Coelestin_. Who art thou, and what wouldst thou here? Speak!
_Skoell_ [_dreaming_]. Hans Lorbass--seize him!
_Hans_. Whither then?
_Coelestin_. We have for our guests--they will show it to thee.
_Prince_. They crowd in early at your doors,--have I come to a
festival?
_Prince_. And this one--who is he?
_Skoell_ [_in his sleep_]. Quite right.
_Hans_. What's that? Eh, there, sleepy-head, wake up!
_Skoell_. Leave me alone! When I sleep I am happy.
_Skoell_. Well, old fellow, what wilt thou in this berth?
_Hans_. Thy master is here?
_Skoell_. What now? Why now, we will have a drink.
_Hans_. What draws you here!
_Herald_. Way there, the Queen approaches!
_Skoell_. All good spirits praise--
_Prince_. Whatever it was, I will go gladly.
_Skoell_ [_crossing himself_]. All good spirits praise the Lord!
_Prince_. Why, who was that, that went out in such a hurry?
_Prince_. Where are my--?
_Hans_. Here is thy shield. Quick, take it.
_Prince_. Where is that ape that just now--
_Hans_. Let the filthy rascal go, whoever he is, and come!
_Duke_. Hans Lorbass, thou shalt pay for this!
_Hans_ [_aside_]. Control thyself, master, all this can be borne.
_Coelestin_. What, stranger, art thou also of princely blood?
_Coelestin_. Still thou sawest her when she and her women--
_Prince_. I saw her, yes.
_Duke_. Perhaps. And again perhaps, if this braggart who was sent
_Queen_. O go not, stranger!
_Another_. She who was never used to address a stranger.
_Prince_. Thou liest.
_Hans_ [_whispers_]. Now defend thyself. Treason to thy being's
sanctuary is a half-voluntary deed.
_Prince_. O, that mine lay not so far from here! There, where the
_Skoell_. Who knows?
_Duke_. But was there not a great feast to-night?
_Skoell_. Yes. But they flung us out just now.
_Skoell_. Eh? Yes, indeed.
_The Young Prince_. Ah, mother!
_Duke_. Thou knowest me well.
_Coelestin_. We are groping here in a black riddle.
_Chancellor_ [_to_ Prince Witte]. Witness thyself.
_Prince Witte_. If there is a man here in whom dwells a spirit of
_Duke_. It seems to me, my lords, that the sword will show.
_Chancellor_. True enough. If the Queen will.
_Prince Witte_ [_alarmed_]. Where are the feathers?
_Prince_. They are quite safe.
_Queen_. While we go to throw upon his life.
_Skoell_. Well, my heart's brother, so we are alone again.
_Second Guard_. Back! The passage is forbidden.
_Hans_. I am the Prince's servant!
_Second Guard_. That may all be; but hast thou not seen--
_Hans_. I counsel thee, take off thy hands!
_Skoell_. What should I do?
_Skoell_. Not so fierce!
_Hans_. Wipe it off! Whisk it away! That little blood-letting but
_Skoell_. That was a blow! [_Shouting down._] Hail to King Wid--
tyranny, bleeding and weaponless as he who lies below.
_Skoell_. Woe is me! Alas! [_He slips behind the church door and
disappears._]
_Coelestin_. Look! What a sight!
_Queen_ [_approaching him_]. Not even I, my friend?
themselves and the ensuing race the holy fount of justice?
_Queen_. What seekest thou, dear one?
_Hans_ [_close by him_]. Take care what thou sayest.
_Hans_. When thou canst.
_The Young Prince_. Say, mother, will the father come soon?
_Queen_. Of course.
_The Young Prince_. Will he come before my bed-time?
_Queen_. I do not know.
_The Young Prince_. The wood is full of darkness, is it not?
_The Young Prince_. And she pretends to me she is so wise!
_Queen_. Run, run, my child!
_Anna Goldhair_ [_frightened_]. What troubles thee, beloved Lady?
_Queen_. It is nothing,--nothing!... Why, here! What seek you my
children?... What not a word? Have you a favor to be granted, a
complaint to make? If you cannot speak, why then you must go away
_Anna Goldhair_. We honored thy sorrow, my Queen.
_Queen_. The King is come? Thou wouldst announce him?
_Queen_. Stop! You, my women, seek your rest; my son, to bed!
_Queen_. And goodnight!
_Coelestin_. Lady, I know not how I shall begin. The words come
_Queen_. It is your too easily wounded love complains of him.
_Coelestin_. If that danger--
_Queen_ [_without listening to him_]. I see it, but I scarce can
_Coelestin_. And thy oath, Lady?
_Queen_. My oath?
_Queen_. But tell me, my dear friend, did he not conquer?
_Coelestin_. What madness has so blurred events for thee?
_Queen_. I know he conquered, for he is here!
_Coelestin_. Here indeed he is, but with what right?
_Chancellor_. My lord, while thou didst tread the forest paths,
_Chancellor_. This time--
_King_ [_mocking_]. "This time "--I wager the state will crack in
graciously and kindly.
King [_starting_]. Duke Widwolf!
_Chancellor_. Is mustering an army!
King [_feigning calmness_]. What then?
_King_. The avenging spirit is a worthy part for him to play.
_King_. What sayest thou?
_Chancellor_. We rue it not, my King!
_King_. Well, my wife?
_Queen_. Thou lookest at me so earnestly.
_King_. I am smiling.
_Queen_. Thou torturest thyself.
_Queen_ [_repeats half dreamily_]. I love thee.
_King_. Art thou still awake, my son?
_The Voice of the Young Prince_. Papa, may I come in?
_The Young Prince_ [_running to the_ King]. Papa, papa!
_Queen_. He begged me, and I let him.
_King_. So then. [_To himself._] Now calm, quite calm!
_King_. Thy name is Anna with the golden hair?
_Anna Goldhair_ [_shyly_]. They call me Goldhair--but--
_King_. Let it be, it is true. [_To the_ Prince.] Come here!
_The Young Prince_. Yes, father.
_The Young Prince_. The father is angry.
_Queen_. The father jests.
_The Young Prince_. Good night!
_King_. Good night!
_Hans Lorbass_. I serve.
_King_. Is that the reason?
people,--but laugh and feel thyself a man once more!
_Hans Lorbass_. Dost thou hate her so?
_Hans Lorbass_. Then come, escape!
_King_ [_smiling wearily_]. True, the door stands open.
_King_. Yes, for his own, not for a stranger's.
_Hans Lorbass_. Then get some of thy own.
_Hans Lorbass_. What is in thy head?
_King_. Say naught! A man may wear his shame, may panting draw it
shriek,--oh, save me from my daily burden, friend!
_King_. The what?
_King_ [_feeling in his breast. Angrily_]. Be still.
_Hans Lorbass_. Since thou still wearest them on thy heart, why--
_King_. Be still, I tell thee, churl!
longing.
_King_. Hast thou forgot what else she said?
_Hans Lorbass_. What she said--she spoke of the third feather.
_King_. Suppose she should come now and vanish again?
_Hans Lorbass_. But why?
_King_. Danger--for whom?
_Hans Lorbass_. Let me stay with thee! Crouched in the farthest
_King_. The charm says it must be done alone.
_King_ [_turning round_]. What wilt thou here?
_Queen_ [_opening her eyes_]. Didst thou not call?
_Queen_. I came because thou--
_King_. Hast called me? Was that it? I knew it well.
_Queen_. And if thou hadst not called--
_Queen_. For God's sake, what burns there?
_King_. My manhood! Let it burn, child, let it burn! While I sat
_Queen_. No more.
_King_. Shall I be free, Maria?
empoverished frame.
_Queen_. We sit here hand in hand, and, third in our company sits
_Queen_. I thought that he was dear to thee.
_King_. Let the child be. I love him, thou knowest it. A little
_Queen_. What shall I say? Am I so powerful, then? And yet--I am!
_Hans Lorbass_. Master!... No answer.
_Hans Lorbass_. And before the door, the foe.
_Coelestin_. We are to suffer for his sins.
_Hans Lorbass_ [_stretching out his arms_]. Come, mighty hour!
_Coelestin_. Good! [_Going out._] I am cold.
_Anna Goldhair_ [_gets up trembling_]. I do not know.
_Hans Lorbass_. Is he asleep somewhere?
_Hans Lorbass_. Where have the women gone, then,--those wanton
flaunting blossoms of his?
_Hans Lorbass_. How was he before that?
echoing passages.
_Hans Lorbass_. And to-night--which way did he go?
_Hans Lorbass_. Give me a light.
_Anna Goldhair_. Hans--dost thou know what the Queen says of me?
_Anna Goldhair_. Yes, sire.
_King_. I thank thee. [_Caressing her._] Why dost thou shroud thy
_King_. What offer did he make?
_Hans Lorbass_. A respite until day-break, in which time to yield
_King_. Me, Hans, and alone.
_King_. And what was the decision of the people?
_Hans Lorbass_. The people will fight.
_Hans Lorbass_. Like their King himself.
_Coelestin_ [_outside_]. Open the door for the King's son.
_King_. What now?
_Coelestin_. My Prince, my little Prince!
manhood. Lo, there it glistens in thy burning grasp; and to that
surround the tower and call upon thee in their need.
sheaves, it shall be naught to me,--it comes too late.
_Coelestin_. Good! Though thou so hatest thy people--
_King_. I hate ye not.
_Coelestin_. As to appease thy long-cherished revenge by scornful
weaponless body to the slaughter.
_The young Prince_ [_clinging to_ Hans]. I am afraid.
_King_ [_bewildered_]. What dost thou mean?
_King_. I understand thee not.
_Hans Lorbass_. Wilt thou come back?
me--more than--in short, I am beloved by him--
_Coelestin_. Good reason for it.
_Coelestin_. It would be possible? Thou couldst?
_Hans Lorbass_. Yes. But I need the Prince.
_Coelestin_. The Princeling,--why?
_Coelestin_. And then?
_Hans Lorbass_. Then, Major-domo,--that is my affair.
_Coelestin_. And may God bless thee in thy task.
_Coelestin_. Come, poor wench.
_The Young Prince_. May Anna stay here, too?
_Hans Lorbass_ [_grimly_]. My Prince!
_The Young Prince_ [_tenderly_]. My Hans!
_Hans Lorbass_. And still it grips me cruelly hard.
_Hans Lorbass_. Let us fight, child! If thou knewest how to fight
_Hans Lorbass_. Quite true.
_The Young Prince_. Will he come inside?
_Hans Lorbass_. Not yet. Before long.
_The Young Prince_. How long?
_Hans Lorbass_. Until the drums sound the attack.
_Hans Lorbass_. Very soon.
_The Young Prince_. If I were not,--what then?
_Hans Lorbass_. Put it down!
_Hans Lorbass_. Put it down!
_The Young Prince_. Oh-oo! That is sharp!
_Hans Lorbass_. Thou knowest who alone may carry that?
_Hans Lorbass_. Well then.
_The Young Prince_. But he left it there!
_Hans Lorbass_ [_laughing grimly_]. The fiend torment--
_The Young Prince_. Thou bleedest--O me!
_Hans Lorbass_. The very weakness of this child avenges itself in
_The Young Prince_. Wilt thou not scold me! [_Unfastening his
_The Young Prince_. Is that the signal?
_Hans Lorbass_. What signal?
_The Young Prince_. For the attack?
_Hans Lorbass_. Yes. For the attack and--
_Hans Lorbass_. Come here!
_Hans Lorbass_. Come here!
_Hans Lorbass_. How dost thou know?
_Hans Lorbass_. About the father.
_Hans Lorbass_. Hasten,--thou knowest not what it means to thee!
_The Young Prince_. And looked at me so stern and wild that I was
_Chancellor_ [_meanwhile aside to_ Coelestin
]. Send above to the King
_Murmur of Voices_. The King comes.
_Queen_ [_coming forward_]. My King!
_King_. What? Who? The--the--am I the Prince's keeper?
_King_ [_to himself_]. If Hans understood me rightly--
_Queen_. Stoop to it. It is worth the stooping for.
_Queen_. I trust in it as in immortal life.
_King_. Believest thou also that miracles still come to pass?
_Queen_. I believe in thee.
_Coelestin_. Hans Lorbass was with him.
_King_. An hour since was this blade still clean.... I seemed too
_King_ [_in frenzied joy throwing himself upon the_ Prince]. My
miracle!
_Hans Lorbass_. If you would save yourself, barricade this door,
_King_. Thou art wrong, my friend. The door--fling open!
_King_ [_who has seized the sword and shield_]. To me, man of the
_Hans Lorbass_ [_tickling_ Skoell _under the nose with his
sword-blade_]. Who has it now, thou clown?
_King_. I thank you noble lords, and put it from me.
fetters from my body, which weakness, shame, unwilling gratitude,
_King_ [_kissing her hand, overcome with feeling_]. I thank thee.
_The Young Prince_ [_timidly_]. Papa!
_Fisherman_. This is the place, my lord.
_Fisherman_ [_nodding_]. And above it cross on cross.
_Miklas_. Yes, my lord.
_Coelestin_. How many?
_Coelestin_. And thou didst open it?
_Miklas_. Yes. I had lain a long time in bed, but I arose. The
moonlight fell bright through the window-bars. I saw them and was
_Coelestin_. Thou will still--?
_Miklas_. Whoever looked into that eye, must know, my lord: Hans
Lorbass stood before me.
_Coelestin_. And the other?
_Miklas_. It is hard to say.
_Coelestin_. Still thou knowest him?
_Miklas_. As I know myself, my lord.
_Miklas_. Yes, my lord. His step indeed was heavier, his face was
_Coelestin_. Thinkest thou thy son--?
coming.
_Hans Lorbass_ [_with hair grown quite white, and a wooden leg,
_King_. Dost thou think--
_Hans Lorbass_. Oh let it be, no matter!
_King_. Here is a fire. Is there corn in the sack?
_Hans Lorbass_ [_opening the sack_]. Wait.... Yes.
_King_. Good! I am hungry.
_Hans Lorbass_. I am not, too?
_King_. The corn was dear. Sometimes it costs us money, sometimes
_Hans Lorbass_. We do not pay the blood.
_Hans Lorbass_. If it be not happiness it is life.
_King_. What a life!
_King_. Cook us our supper first.
_Hans Lorbass_. Until a heron came.
_King_. Hans, be still!
_Hans Lorbass_. How can I, here in this place, where the sea and
_King_. Why, that spring is coming.
_Hans Lorbass_. Whither now?
_King_. Do not ask.
_Hans Lorbass_. Thou lookest toward the south,--what seekest thou
_Hans Lorbass_. What is the matter?
_King_. The Burial-wife? [Hans Lorbass _nods._]
_King_. Out with her!
_Coelestin_. There they stand!
_The Young Prince_. My father!
_King_ You would mock the man that fled from you?
_The Young Prince_. Down on your knees and honor him as I do!
follows it._]
_Prince_. Mother! Speak one word to me!
_The Young Prince_ [_in tears_]. Ah, Mother!
_Hans Lorbass_ [_blocking the way with drawn sword_]. Away there!
The days pass by in Shadowtown
Wearily, wearily;--
Sighs drearily, drearily.
"Mother, tell him to come to me
While my hair is gold and beautiful
And my lips and eyes are young
While the songs that are welling up in my heart
May still be sung.
"The days go by so wearily
Like crooked goblins, eerily,
Like silly shadows, fast and still,
Wind-driven and drearily.
"Like the gray clouds are my eyes gray, mother,
Like them, heavy as things grown old
Only the clouds' tears are but dream-tears--
Lifeless, cold.
"Last night I had the strangest dream,--
It seemed I stood on a barren hill
Where the wings of the ragged clouds went by
Hurrying and still.
"And all of a sudden the moon came out
Making a pathway over the down,--
And turned my hair to a gold mist, mother,
To light the way to Shadowtown.
"But when I did not see him coming,
And because the clouds grew dark and gray
I walked through the shadows down the hillside
To help him better to find the way.
"And in some wise I came to a forest
When all around was so strange and dim,--
That I thought, 'If I should be lost in the darkness,
How could my hair be light for him?'
"But groping, I found I was on a pathway
Where low soft branches swept my face,--
When suddenly, close beside, and before me
I knew dim forms kept even pace.
"They were so cowering, shivering, white
That I felt some ill thing came behind
And I heard a moan on the wind go by
'Ah, but the end of the path to find!'
"Then I looked behind, and saw that near
Like a wan marsh-fog, came a cloud
Hurrying on,--and I knew it wrapped
A dead love--as a shroud.
"And guiltily the figures went,
Like coward things in a guilty race
And not one dared to look behind
For fear he knew that dead love's face.
"Then suddenly at my side I knew
He I loved went;--but, for my hair,
Shadowed and blown about my face,
He knew me not beside him there.
"And he, too, cowered with shaking hands
Over his eyes, for fear to meet
Haunting and still, my pallid face
In that strange mist of winding-sheet.
"So on the shadowy figures went
Hurrying the loathed cloud before,--
Seeking an end of a fated path
That went winding evermore.
"Oh, Mother, that path was hideous,--
Long and ill and hideous--
And the way was so near to Shadowtown,--
But the gold of my hair shall not light the way
For anyone else to Shadowtown."
Gray-eyed Marah of Shadowtown
Turns away wearily, wearily
Weaving her gold hair back and forth,
Thus she sings, and drearily--
"Little Love, when you shall die, then so shall I,
Ha, merrily!
"Then let them put us in some deep spot
Where one the growing of trees' roots hears
And you at my heart, all wet with tears,
All wet with tears.
"Your wings are draggled and limp and wet,--Little Love,--
From what rainy land have you come, and far,--
Or who that has held you was crying so,--
Who, little Love--?
My eyes are heavy and wet with tears
Whose eyes besides are heavy so--?
"Then, poor Love, that has lived in my heart
Come, take my hand, we will go together,
Hemlock boughs are full of sleep
Out of the way of the weather.
"For a cavern of cold gray mist is my heart
Will not the hemlock boughs be better
Over our feet and under our heads
Keeping us from the weather?"
Her gold hair duskily glints in her hands
Marah of Shadowtown sings--"Together,--
You, little Love, and I, will go
Go fight your fight with Tagal and with Boer,
Cheer in the lust of strength and brutal pride;
Beat down the lamb to fatten up the fox,
Shout victory o'er the prostrate shape of truth.
Take cross and pike and gold and sophistry,
To pray and prod and purchase, wheedle, wile;
Stamp out the roses in a waste of weeds,
Shout while the trembling voice of truth is hushed.
Shatter with iron heel the poet's dream,
The prophet's protest, and the ages' hope,
Of brotherhood and light and love on earth--
Of peace and plenty and a perfect race.
Tear down the fabric of ten thousand years,
The world's best wisdom woven in its woe;
Lift ruthless hands to rend the fairy fane
That holds the heart hopes of humanity.
Let loose greed, envy, lust, and avarice,
The myriad throated dragon of desire;
Let might rule, riot, batten on the meek,
The tyranny of man o'er man seem right.
Forget the Lord Christ smiled, forgave, and died;
Frowned down every appeal to brutish strength;
Bade man put up the sword, lest by the sword
He perish; prayed evil might be paid by good.
Forget he turned cheek to the coward blow,
Cried "Pardon!" yes, seven and seventy times! "Judge not;
Do not condemn; give coat as well as cloak;
Resist not evil, wrong's not made right by wrong."
Forget each drop of blood burns in the race,
Cries for atonement while the last man lives;
That murder for the state is murder still,
The gilded not less guilty though more great.
Forget, and flay and flame; in din grow deaf
To piteous cries without, and voice within;
Conquer, triumph, and when the world is won,
Turn terroring towards the demon in your heart.
In its formed philosophical theories it may err, but not in its
Nevertheless Shelley's inspired interpretation of life can but be
Those of us who read thoughtlessly, without formed theory, accept
As a child boldly states a problem as though it were a solution,
Beowulf naively says: "Fate always aids the undoomed man, if his
Have we learned much more to-day? We cannot fail to recognize the
recognized.
"Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie
Which we ascribe to heaven; the fated sky
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull."
'Macbeth,' with its successive steps of unhappiness following one
_Lear_. Dost thou call me fool, boy?
Once accept physical life, and science is, in so far, free from
"The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But here or there as strikes the Player goes;
And he that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all--He knows--He knows."
Again he says:
In 'Rhoda Fleming' who is it but Algernon, "the fool," who says:
It is of Algernon, likewise, that the author says:
"fool," the "craven," and the "sentimentalist," but that it is a
responsibility for their own lives on fate. Let us seek for his
positive message.
In the 'Adventures of Harry Richmond' he says:
"In tragic life, God wot,
No villain need be! Passions spin the plot;
We are betrayed by what is false within."
"I take the hap
Of all my deeds. The wind that fills my sails
Propels; but I am helmsman. Am I wrecked,
I know the devil has sufficient weight
To bear; I lay it not on him, or fate.
Besides, he's damned. That man I do suspect
A coward, who would burden the poor deuce
With what ensues from his own slipperiness."
Extreme fatalists declare that the former is true. Moralists,
idealists, believers in freedom, support the latter view.
reward.
Beowulf asserts the general truth that Circumstance and Character
Browning would advance a step and teach us, as his age taught the
nineteenth century of ours.
book gains force, as all these novels do, from its striking
In her relations with Anthony Hope, Rhoda takes the part of the
reputation, falls in love. Clotilde is a beautiful, bright woman;
While submitting to her father's command, while writing words of
dismissal to Alvan, and even accepting the attentions of a former
conventional and otherwise. He finally forces permission from
"He perished of his weakness, but it was a strong man that fell."
inclined by fits to antic and dive into gulfs."
The "Tragedy of Hamlet" has its origin in the murder of Hamlet's
('Hamlet,' Variorum Edition, Furness, Vol. II., p. 121). In the
important an influence upon her life, to the mere vaporings of a
madman. It has been suggested that he is putting on "an antic
Hamlet's gentle sweetheart, and so to lacerate her soul by way of
"He took me by the wrist and held me hard.
Then goes he to the length of all his arm,
And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face
As he would draw it. Long time stayed he so.
At last--a little shaking of my arm,
And thrice his head thus waving up and down--
He raised a sigh so piteous and profound
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk
And end his being. That done, he lets me go,
And with his head over his shoulder turned
He seemed to find his way without his eyes;
For out o' doors he went without their help,
And to the last bended their light on me."
considering the means of executing his dread command, and he has
Shakespeare saw fit to change the order of these scenes, but this
concealment must necessarily undeceive him; the King, Queen, and
conviction that she has transferred her affections to the King.
"_Oph_.  My lord, I have remembrances of yours
That I have longed long to redeliver;
I pray you now receive them.
I never gave you aught.
"_Oph_.  My honor'd lord, you know right well you did,
And with them words of so sweet breath compos'd
As made the things more rich. Their perfume lost,
Take them again; for to the noble mind
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind."
"_Ham_.  Ha, ha! are you honest?
"_Ham_.  Are you fair?
"_Oph_.  What means your lordship!
"_Oph_.  Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with
honesty?
"_Ham_.  Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform
Though expressed figuratively, there can be no doubt of Hamlet's
discovered her secret visit to the King, it has become reality.
At this juncture Hamlet discovers Polonius, as is evident by his
When Hero is charged by Claudio with unchastity, she fancies that
"_Pol_.  Do you know me, my lord?
"_Ham_.  Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.
"_Ham_.  Then I would you were so honest a man.
"_Pol_.  Honest, my lord?
"_Ham_.  Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one
man picked out of ten thousand.
"_Pol_.  That's very true, my lord.
"_Ham_.  For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god
kissing carrion--Have you a daughter?
"_Pol_.  I have, my lord.
"_Ham_.  Let her not walk i' the sun. Conception is a blessing,
but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to it.
"_Pol_.  How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter. Yet
carrion," even so will the sun of this realm (the King) engender
misdeeds in you, a corrupt man caressed by an earthly god. In
Polonius as a procurer for the King.
Hamlet's meaning is made so plain by this construction, that it
indicate "the King."
countenance against him; he was already a dead man. (Compare the
Bolingbroke ... Shall see us rising on our throne, the east, His
similar uses of the word "sun," which need not now be cited.
"_Ham_.  'O Jephthah, judge of Israel,' what a treasure hadst
thou!
"_Pol_.  What treasure had he, my lord?
"_Ham_.  Why 'One fair daughter, and no more, the which he loved
passing well.'
"_Pol_.  Still on my daughter [_aside_].
"_Ham_.  Am I not i' the right, old Jephthah?
"_Pol_.  If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that
"_Ham_.  Nay, that follows not.
"_Pol_.  What follows then, my lord?
mistook"; and it furnishes Hamlet with an adequate motive for his
"When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a man's good wit
The phantasmal lords of life of the poem 'Experience,' which we
"Always there stood before him, night and day,
Of wayward vary-colored circumstance
The imperishable presences serene,
Colossal, without form, or sense, or sound,
Dim shadows but unwaning presences
Four-faced to four corners of the sky."
"I hear the spending of the stream,
Through years, through men, through nature fleet,
Through love and thought, through power and dream."
At the close of the poem 'Wealth' there is a bit of scientific
nature-ethics which is a little obscure. The greater part of the
poem is a series of graphic pictures, detailing the process of
"But, though light-headed man forget,
Remembering Matter pays her debt:
Still, through her motes and masses, draw
Electric thrills and ties of Law,
Which bind the strength of Nature wild
To the conscience of a child."
transgressor and caresses and soothes him who obeys. In her own
"They reach no term, they never sleep,
In equal strength through space abide;
Though, feigning dwarfs, they crouch and creep,
The strong they slay, the swift outstride."
"The living Heaven thy prayers respect,
House at once and architect,
Quarrying man's rejected hours,
Builds therewith eternal towers;
Sole and self-commanded works,
Fears not undermining days,
Grows by decays,
And, by the famous might that lurks
In reaction and recoil,
Makes flame to freeze and ice to boil;
Forging, through swart arms of Offence,
The silver seat of Innocence."
publish your lapse. Punishment and reward are fruits that ripen
unsuspected in the deeds of men.
Phaethon is shown perhaps by the allusion (in the last stanza) to
"Space grants beyond his fated road
No inch to the god of day,
And copious language still bestowed
One word, no more, to say."
Emerson chooses him as the vehicle of his own whimsey about the
condensed homunculus chiefly on account of one famous sentence
sarcastically twits Nature with her depleted stocks, her run-out
"I cannot spare water or wine,
Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose;
From the earth-poles to the line,
All between that works or grows,
Everything is kin of mine.
Give me agates for my meat;
Give me cantharids to eat;
From air and ocean bring me foods,
From all zones and altitudes."
As late as 1787 "mithridate" was the name for an antidote against
"Too long shut in strait and few,
Thinly dieted on dew,
I will use the world, and sift it,
To a thousand humors shift it,
As you spin a cherry.
O doleful ghosts and goblins merry!
O all you virtues, methods, mights,
Means, appliances, delights,
Reputed wrongs and braggart rights,
Smug routine, and things allowed,
Minorities, things under cloud!
Hither! take me, use me, fill me,
Vein and artery, though ye kill me!"
In brief, "I have run the gauntlet of experience, sounded all the
"God! I will not be an owl,
These lines Emerson wisely dropped.
"No speed of mine avails
To hunt upon their shining trails"
sketch, tender and delicately toned as if with a silver point, is
"The chains of kind
The distant bind;
Deed thou doest she must do,"
Search the whole world through, you shall find no predecessor of
Shakespeare, and much admired by Emerson:--
"Let the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree.
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey."
"Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape,
That I intoxicated,
And by the draught assimilated,
May float at pleasure through all natures;
Quickened so, will I unlock
Every crypt of every rock,"--
translates Hafiz thus:--
"Bring me wine! By my puissant arm
The thick net of deceit and of harm
Which the priests have spread over the world
Shall be rent and in laughter be hurled.
Bring me wine! I the earth will subdue.
Bring me wine! I the heaven will storm through.
Bring me wine, bring it quick, make no halt!
To the throne of both worlds will I vault.
All is in the red streamlet divine.
Bring me wine! O my host, bring me wine!"
"I serve you not, if you I follow,
Shadowlike, o'er hill and hollow;
Vainly valiant, you have missed
The manhood that should yours resist."
"The common waters fell
As costly wine into his well.
The zephyr in his garden rolled
From plum-trees vegetable gold.
Stream could not so perversely wind
But corn of Guy's was there to grind."
'Xenophanes' embodies poetically the doctrine of the earnest old
Greek agnostic and monist of that name, that God, or the All, is
convertibility of forces. Or, as Emerson puts it in his haunting
"By fate, not option, frugal Nature gave
One scent to hyson and to wall-flower,
One sound to pine-groves and to waterfalls,
One aspect to the desert and the lake.
It was her stern necessity."
"Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys
Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs."
"When I heard the Earth-song,
I was no longer brave;
My avarice cooled
Like lust in the chill of the grave."
"Test of the poet is knowledge of love,
For Eros is older than Saturn or Jove.
Never was poet, of late or of yore,
Who was not tremulous with love-lore."
"Dante shall give fame leave to set thee higher
Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory."
"A new commandment, said the smiling Muse,
I give my darling son, Thou shalt not preach."
inferior ideals, can never adequately requite his love, yet nobly
"To him who scorns their charities
Their arms fly open wide."
But the parallelism somewhat halts. For mark: In the one case
"The sharpest-sighted spirit of all in heav'n."
"Or ever the wild Time coined itself
Into calendar months and days,"
he saw the worlds a-forming,--earth, sun, and stars. Emerson (or
Fortunately it has long been admitted that Homer sometimes nods,
As described by himself the poet of 'Pauline' was
"Made up of an intensest life
Of a most clear idea of consciousness
Of self, distinct from all its qualities,
From all affections, passions, feelings, powers;
And thus far it exists, if tracked, in all:
But linked in me to self-supremacy,
Existing as a centre to all things,
Most potent to create and rule and call
Upon all things to minister to it."
This sense of an over-consciousness is the mark of an objective
complement only in an ideal of absolute Love.
"Even hate is but a mask of love's
To see a good in evil and a hope
In ill success,"
But as the creations of Brahmah return into himself, so the human
It has, of course, been objected that philosophical and ethical
Another advantage, gained from the dramatic form and this is most
We who have grown up under the dispensation, so to speak, of the
'Cherries', 'The Sun', in 'A Bean Stripe also Apple Eating', and
especially in that remarkable poem 'A Pillar at Sebzevar' that
"As gain--mistrust it! Not as means to gain:
Lacquer we learn by: cast in firing-pot,
We learn,--when what seemed ore assayed proves dross--
Surelier true gold's worth, guess how purity
I' the lode were precious could one light on ore
Clarified up to test of crucible.
The prize is in the process: knowledge means
Ever-renewed assurance by defeat
That victory is somehow still to reach."
Ferishtah, who declares "I know nothing save that love I can
boundlessly, endlessly."
unfolding of love in the human soul.
Ferishtah denies in his recognition of the part evil plays in the
Bidpai's, we have the poet's own word that all the others are
ourselves growing fond of the wise and clever Ferishtah, who like
If we see the thoughtful and brilliant Browning in the 'Fancies'
"Sage-leaf is bitter-pungent--so's a quince:
Eat each who's able!
But through all three bite boldly--lo, the gust!
Flavor--no fixture--
Flies, permeating flesh and leaf and crust
In fine admixture.
So with your meal, my poem masticate
Sense, sight, and song there!
Digest these, and I praise your peptics' state,
Nothing found wrong there."
"What avails sun's earth-felt thrill
To me? Mind seeks to see,
Touch, understand, by mind inside me,
The outside mind--whose quickening I attain
To recognize--I only."
Daniel Bartoli, an extremely superstitious old Jesuit of the 17th
"Play the fool,
Abjuring a superior privilege?
Please simply when your function is to rule--
By thought incite to deed? Ears and eyes
Want so much strength and beauty, and no less
Nor more, to learn life's lesson by."
faculty of the visions in 'Christmas Eve' and 'Easter Day.'
indignation vigorously at some length, showing plainly his own
"Knowledge so far impinges on the cause
Before me, that I know--by certain laws
Wholly unknown, what'ere I apprehend
Within, without, me, had its rise: thus blend
I, and all things perceived in one effect."
"Enough, stop further fooling,"
and to show how a modern poet greets a landscape he flings in the
"Dance, yellows, and whites and reds."
"'Do and no wise dream,' he exclaims
'Earth's young significance is all to learn;
The dead Greek lore lies buried in its urn
Where who seeks fire finds ashes.'"
profusion. Everything in language--talk almost colloquial, dainty
interests?
workmanship the very source of her lyric excellence.
"In a distant wilderness a bird stands alone and looks about him,
The poet's aim is as serious as was that of Milton or Dante--"to
redemption of the world.
"The lover's rapture Elysian,
The poet's fury, the prophet's vision,
The serene world-sight of the thinker."
standards of life and of art.
Colonel Higginson might have added to his 'Contemporaries' as a
sub-title: 'Our Nineteenth Century Roll of Honor,' for he makes
One paper, upon John Brown's Household, printed in 1859 and quite
The value of an author's judgment upon his contemporaries, is
unquestioned; the advantage of a personal share in the lives and
judgment. But testimony such as this will surely have value in a
decision.
gratitude.
portend--what?
Some larger, more spiritual unity, it may be guessed, that shall
----To the leaders of the commercial world-movement, their
The tumults of South Africa and China are but signs of the vaster
A great poet, a drama of transcendent power and beauty, actors of
Is Browning to be ranked as a legitimate member of the Victorian
They want to cut and fit a man's ability and achievement to a
particular class of work, to press him down, as it were, into a
frequently much more, besides. Our poet is a Victorian poet and
dwelling in a time of psychological inquiry. Almost the whole of
'Asolando' is musical. Remember the poem 'Reverie':
"I know there shall dawn a day
--Is it here on homely earth?
Is it yonder, worlds away,
Where the strange and new have birth
That Power comes full in play?"
Who is not impressed with the strength and sweep of 'Cristina'?
"There are flashes struck from mid-nights, there are fire-flames
noon-days kindle,
We cannot ignore the graceful flow of 'Confessions':
"How sad and bad and mad it was--
But then, how it was sweet!"