Johnson Final Exam

Blake -humilatas trope -classical vs. romantic -nocere - 'to harm' -vales rejoice** -Fall of Fragmentation Felix Culpa: literally "happy fault." idea of the fortunate Fall (one of the premises for Blake's Songs of Experience) -SYNECHDOCHE -THEODICY

-breaks away from 18th century -work is much more CHRISTIAN than what we've read -a christian radical -blake represents a religious left -chuch in Blake's time was very much an institution BLAKE'S EARLY SKETCHES: -his friends put it together WHAT VALUES ARE BEING PUT FORTH? -HUMILITAS TROPE (we see this with burns as well) -claim being made, what stands out as the most positive thing - POETIC ORIGINALITY. how much is that connected to untutored youth? -IRREGULATY, DEFECTS, ORIGINALITY CLASSICAL* (regularity, polish, rules, models)emphasis on form/reason, polemic (telling people what to do; preaching) (The Deserted Village) ROMANTIC (originality, "sketch", novelty) emotion, pastoral world, nature, introspection (The Deserted Village) (turns towards romanticism with blake) SONGS OF INNOCENCE -who should be the audience for these kinds of poems? -->form is suggestive of NURSERY RHYMES INNOCENCE: NOCERE - TO HARM -youth, ignorence, purity, naive, hope, holiness, joy, lack, vulnerability ECHOING GREEN: -speaker is probably a child -reminds of Goldsmith's deserted village -primarily a space for gathering here -intergenerational element to it -whats the feeling o fate old folk looking gat these children playing? -final stanza: reference to the end of the day -"sport no more scene on the darkening green" -why is it the ECHOING green? -NATURE AND HUMANITY AS MUCH MORE UNIFIED - THEME IN SONGS OF INNOCENCE "The Lamb" -symbolic cornerstone ( an important quality or feature on which a particular thing depends or is based: a national minimum wage remained the cornerstone of policy) of Songs of Innocence -really explicit here that the SPEAKER IS A CHILD -CHILD TALKING TO THE LAMB ABOUT GOD -VERB GIVE -VALES REJOICE: an echoing back of nature -Jesus is the lamb because he is going to be sacrificed -Lamb to god, god to child, child to god, this relationship WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A METAPHOR AND A SYMBOL -lamb becoems a symbol -metammpor for the safe of comparison but doesn't involve a CONCRETE REALITY LIKE A SYMBOL DOES -ex. gown is a symbol of academic excellence. not a metaphor, but rather a CONCRETE REALITY. THE ACTUALY PHYSICAL GOWN. that points to a larger thing. ex. flag is a SYMBOL of a nation, not a metaphor for a our nation!! lamb- symbolizes purity, innocence, jesus -oddities in Blakes punctuation: ambiguity in first line is purposeful -->little lamb, who made the -lamb also MADE thee (jesus) HOW DOES THE CHILD KNOW THESE THINGS? -LIKE TO THINK HE'S GOT AN INSTINCTIVE UNDERSTANDING OF THIS TOO sense of childs INNATE UNDERSTANDING - something we get throughout the songs of innocence, def. a major theme (theme of nature and Linate understanding, humanity and nature much more tied together) SONGS OF EXPERIENCE: -a lot more naked figures, more clothed are in SOI -interior scenes as opposed to outdoor/exterior scenes -closed doors, heavy drapery -WHAT DO YOU NOTICE VERBALLY OR THEMATICALLY? -resist seeing songs of innocence as not reality and songs of experience as reality -it is important to see songs of experience and innocence as blindspot/incomplete world view too -experience tends to narrow/limit; its forgotten a kind of expansiveness and unity and innate understanding the the child has got here INNOCENCE AND EXPERIENCE ARE COMPLEMENTARY RATHER AND CONTRADICTORY -->CAN INNOCENCE HEIGHTEN AN AWARENESS OF EXPERPERIENCE? CHILD KNOWING LAMB IS JESUS, DARKENING GREEN -ultimatly, INNOCENCE HEIGHTENS AN AWARENESS OF EXPEREIENCE ** THESIS FALL OF FRAGMENTATION: FELIX CULPE: THE HAPPY FAULT; FORTUNATE FALL; IDEA THAT WHEN HUMANITY FALLS IN THE GARDEN IT MAKES IT POSSIBLE FOR GOD TO COME INTO WORLD AND HAVE A MUCH MORE PURE AND MATURE RELATIONSHIP (HAVE TO HAVE DARK TO HAVE THE LIGHT); see it in other writers too - milton, etc. THE TYGER: -we could read innocence by itself by not experience by itself (hence the titles: songs of innocence and songs of innocence AND experience) -here again, QUESTIONS ABOUT CREATER BEING ADDRESSED TO CREATURE -"hand" "eye" singling out parts to represent the whole. A metaphor. Doesn't literally mean hands but hands are the part that is working - SYNECDOCHE -fire- destructive, dangerous -symmetry: duality in nature?beautiful and dangerous. -WHAT KIND OF GOD DO WE HAVE HERE -"dared" - challenge, courage, who dare you; but also a judgment implied, how DARE you? -Icarus, Promethius - figures of great courage but over-reaching figures, figures of presumption speaker as judging god a little: -speaker sort of judging God for what he's done THEODICY: justification; justyfying God. Exampling whats called the 'problem of evil". If God is all powerful and god is good, how does evil come into the world? This is a problem that blake is really interested in -Tiger not evil but represents the bad, bloodier aspects of nature -You could extend this and ask: how did satan come into the world? God made satan too... tiger seemed to be hammered out of metal in fire IS THIS IN SOME WAYS ABOUT HOW WE FRAME THINGS? WHAT WE PERCIEVE TO BE EVIL? -poem about ART AND ABOUT REPRESENTATION -when I imagine God, I imagine the Giver. I imagine someone scared, alone, and guilty. It's all too much. Scared of what he could do. I relate to this. -God rendered as fallen HUMAN BEING WHO COULD DO WRONG - interesting depiction of God, right. makes me much more sympathetic towards him and makes me see him as much more relationship. i was scared of myself, i was scared of my anger (me and japanese lady in film with air glider) -SOI: printed during revolution, evolved into Reign of Terror; English Gov very afraid or revolution and that the revolution would spread. A mindset that creates evil by seeing evil -what happens when that kind of energy (rev) gets twisted and perverted - you get bloodshed. -sense that experience is created by human beings -EXPERIENCE TRIES TO FIND REASON WHERE AS INNOCENCE DOES NOT, NATURE AND HUMANITY AS MUCH MORE UNIFIED IS A THEME IN SONGS OF INNOCENCE, INNOCENCE HAS INATE UNDERSTANDING, INNOCENCE HEIGHTENS EXPERIENCE, INNOCENCE CAN STAND ALONE BUT ESPERIENCE CANNOT (HENCE THE TITLE) COMPARISON POEMS: do they cancel each other out of can they both exist in your m ind -even when they are contradictory, to hold both these contradictory elements in our mind, thats what Micheal thinks that blake wants us do to LONDON: charter'd streses: mapped, loaded word, having to do with wrights, sense that certain people have those rights and others don't. think about how economics govern the situation of all the ppl in the poem. chartered -london: word chartered and economic conditions of the word -how BUYING AND SELLING covers the conditions of a cit THEL: wish, desire, or will CATABASIS: a descent or downward movement, see it in denied and in underworld. an encounter with shades of the underworld. the purpose of the ascent is to gain knowledge, to share with othersShe has her databases here. -YOU CANT HAVE EXPERIENCE WITHOUT ACTUALLY GOING AND EXPERIENCING IT YOURSELF thels descent is a regrsision -other themes: the question, the quest for knowledge, experience, maybe happens what are the sources of wisdom and knowledge -question of detaching yourself from the maddening

Genius Loci* superfluous violated --------- artificiers NIMBY Thy GENIUS, Colebrooke, faithless to his charge, Amid thy woods and vales, thy rocks and streams, Form'd for the Train that haunt poetic dreams, Naiads, and Nymphs,--now hears the toiling Barge And the swart Cyclops ever-clanging forge Din in thy dells;--permits the dark-red gleams, From umber'd fires on all thy hills, the beams, Solar and pure, to shroud with columns large Of black sulphureous smoke, that spread their veils Like funeral crape upon the sylvan robe Of thy romantic rocks, pollute thy gales, And stain thy glassy floods;--while o'er the globe To spread thy stores metallic, this rude yell Drowns the wild woodland song, and breaks the Poet's spell. [The end] Anna Seward's poem: Sonnet 63: To Colebrooke Dale

Anna Seward, "Colebrook Dale" -offers us a glimpse into the INDUSTRIAL LANDSCAPE "Colebrook Dale" - Seward Coal mining & iron smelting, but much changed with Abraham Darby & industrialism Location was ideal - plenty of coal, limestone, etc. First cast-iron bridge was built over the River Severn Picturesque rendering: harmonious view; MINING TOWN with natural elements like trees, river, etc. Seward's opinion: bad influence; superfluous (unessecary) The miners aren't interested in landscape, they just want to use the resources Line 2: "violated" - violation of law produces violation of landscape; personal invasion (even rape?) GENIOUS LOCI*: spirit of the place; spirit is protective, slumbering because it has been bribed by money, even the people have been bought/paid off - each feature of nature has its own spirit/god Lines 9-10: feminine beauty POET CAN SEE SOME ALIVENESS OF THE PLACE THAT THE AVERAGE PEOPLE CANNOT SEE Ascetic environmentalism? Economic environmentalism? Coalbrookdale: -had been COAL-MINING -ex of how industrial revolution didn't really start in cities, started in places like this -picturesque rendering of Coalbrookdale -coke- form of coal -DELOUTHERBOURG, Coalbrook dale by night -a lime kiln at coalbrookdale -PANTERS FASCINATED BY NEW WAY OF PORTRAYING LANDSCAPE; POETS WERE TOO -INDUSTRY; INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION; COAL-MINING; STRIPPING THE LAND OF ITS RECOURSES; SEXUAL VIOLATION poem; starts with an APOSTROPHE: -"superflous grace and wasted bloom" -->superfluous can mean extra but also pointlessness -->wasted can also mean pointless VIOLATED -related to violence -violation of law produces a violation of landscape -personal violation GENIUS LOCI** -genius means 'spirit' and 'loci' means of the place -idea that the spirit is protective -genius is asleep on the job -spirit of the place; spirit is protective, slumbering because it has been bribed by money, even the people have been bought/paid off - each feature of nature has its own spirit/god plutus - god of wrath; idea that MONEY HAS BOUGHT OFF THIS PLACE Imagery of FEMININE BEAUTY: RUDELY INTERRUPTED AND VIOLATED BY NATURE Poet: ONLY ONE THAT CAN SEE A KIND OF ALIVENESS TO THE PLACE (SEWARD, THINK SEWAGE THAT COMES FROM TEH DIRTY, VIOLATING MINERS IN THE TOWN OF COALBROOK DALE: Compare: Dyer, The Fleece ( a fleece goes in the dryer, and when you are doing laundry, you are doing work) -->this is a GEORGIC, WORK POEM -incoreperates a growing industry - weaving -incoreperates that process into his poem - weaving industry -as a constrast to Anna Sewards "Coalbrook Dale" poem -imagining the nymphs watching over the coal fires -Dyre is joining all processes of work in the nation -she feels different - intrusion of industry violates the landscape -that whole scene is gone, how they've been usurped by cyclops -ARTIFICIERS: glossed as laborers, but also artifice (clever or cunning devices or expedients, especially as used to trick or deceive others) Her attitude toward Birmingham line 75 uneasy relationship between art and nature: -slippage between art and nature -science and poetry NIMBY: not in my back yard; expression that arose environmental history: -dams-->pink flamingo-->raping the landscape -human and natural word here are being driven apart and there is no place for them to co-exist -could see it as an EARLY ENVIRONMENTAL POEM -a lot of ambiguity in this poem -professor spence, tellico, tVA, pink flamingo, Chicago etc. INDUSTRY POEMS

-rural realism The village life, and every care that reigns O'er youthful peasants and declining swains; What labour yields, and what, that labour past, Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last; What forms the real picture of the poor, Demands a song—the Muse can give no more. Fled are those times, if e'er such times were seen, When rustic poets praised their native green; No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse, Their country's beauty or their nymphs' rehearse; Yet still for these we frame the tender strain, Still in our lays fond Corydons complain, And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal, The only pains, alas! they never feel. On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounteous reign, If Tityrus found the Golden Age again, Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong, Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song? From truth and nature shall we widely stray, Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the way? Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy swains, Because the Muses never knew their pains. They boast their peasants' pipes, but peasants now Resign their pipes and plod behind the plough; And few amid the rural tribe have time To number syllables and play with rhyme; Save honest Duck, what son of verse could share The poet's rapture and the peasant's care? Or the great labours of the field degrade With the new peril of a poorer trade? From one chief cause these idle praises spring, That themes so easy few forbear to sing; They ask no thought, require no deep design, But swell the song and liquefy the line; The gentle lover takes the rural strain, A nymph his mistress and himself a swain; With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer, But all, to look like her, is painted fair. I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms For him that gazes or for him that farms; But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace The poor laborious natives of the place, And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray, On their bare heads and dewy temples play; While some, with feebler heads and fainter hearts, Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts: Then shall I dare these real ills to hide In tinsel trappings of poetic pride? No, cast by Fortune on a frowning coast, Which can no groves nor happy valleys boast; Where other cares than those the Muse relates, And other shepherds dwell with other mates; By such examples taught, I paint the cot, As truth will paint it, and as bards will not: Nor you, ye poor, of lettered scorn complain, To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain; O'ercome by labour and bowed down by time, Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme? Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, By winding myrtles round your ruined shed? Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower, Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour? Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er, Lends the light turf that warms the neighboring poor; From thence a length of burning sand appears, Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears; Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye: There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, And to the ragged infant threaten war; There poppies, nodding, mock the hope of toil, There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil; Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, And the wild tare clings round the sickly blade; With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, And a sad splendor vainly shines around. So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn, Betrayed by man, then left for man to scorn; Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose; Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress, Exposing most, when most it gilds distress. Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race, With sullen woe displayed in every face; Who far from civil arts and social fly, And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye. Here too the lawless merchant of the main Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain; Want only claimed the labor of the day, But vice now steals his nightly rest away. Where are the swains, who, daily labor done, With rural games played down the setting sun; Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball, Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall; While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong, Engaged some artful stripling of the throng, And, foiled, beneath the young Ulysses fell, When peals of praise the merry mischief tell? Where now are these?—Beneath yon cliff they stand, To show the freighted pinnace where to land; To load the ready steed with guilty haste; To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste, Or, when detected in their straggling course, To foil their foes by cunning or by force; Or, yielding part (when equal knaves contest), To gain a lawless passport for the rest. Here, wand'ring long amid these frowning fields, I sought the simple life that Nature yields; Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurped her place, And a bold, artful, surly, savage race; Who, only skilled to take the finny tribe, The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe Wait on the shore and, as the waves run high, On the tossed vessel bend their eager eye, Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way, Theirs, or the ocean's, miserable prey. As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, And wait for favoring winds to leave the land; While still for flight the ready wing is spread: So waited I the favouring hour, and fled; Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign, And cried, Ah! hapless they who still remain; Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore; Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway, Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away; When the sad tenant weeps from door to door, And begs a poor protection from the poor! But these are scenes where Nature's niggard hand Gave a spare portion to the famished land; Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain Of fruitless toil and labor spent in vain; But yet in other scenes, more fair in view, Where Plenty smiles—alas! she smiles for few And those who taste not, yet behold her store, Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore, The wealth around them makes them doubly poor. Or will you deem them amply paid in health, Labor's fair child, that languishes with wealth? Go then! and see them rising with the sun, Through a long course of daily toil to run; Like him to make the plenteous harvest grow, And yet not shard the plenty they bestow; See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat, When the knees tremble and the temples beat; Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er The labour past, and toils to come explore; See them alternate suns and showers engage, And hoard up aches and anguish for their age; Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue, When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew; Then own that labour may as fatal be To these thy slaves, as luxury to thee. Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide; There may you see the youth of slender frame Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame: Yet urged along, and proudly loth to yield, He strives to join his fellows of the field; Till long-contending nature droops at last, Declining health rejects his poor repast, His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees, And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease. Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell, Though the head droops not, that the heart is well; Or will you urge their homely, plenteous fare, Healthy and plain and still the poor man's share! Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel, Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal; Homely not wholesome, plain not plenteous, such As you who envy would disdain to touch. Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease, Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please; Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share, Go, look within, and ask if peace be there: If peace be his—that drooping weary sire, Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire, Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand. Nor yet can time itself obtain for these Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease; For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age Can with no cares except his own engage; Who, propped on that rude staff, looks up to see The bare arms broken from the withering tree, On which, a boy, he climbed the loftiest bough, Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now. He once was chief in all the rustic trade, His steady hand the straightest furrow made; Full many a prize he won, and still is proud To find the triumphs of his youth allowed. A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes, He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs: For now he journeys to his grave in pain; The rich disdain him, nay, the poor disdain; Alternate masters now their slave command, And urge the efforts of his feeble hand; Who, when his age attempts its task in vain, With ruthless taunts of lazy poor complain. Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep, His winter-charge, beneath the hillock weep; Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow O'er his white locks and bury them in snow; When, roused by rage and muttering in the morn, He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn: "Why do I live, when I desire to be At once from life and life's long labour free? Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away, Without the sorrows of a slow decay; I, like yon withered leaf, remain behind, Nipped by the frost, and shivering in the wind; There it abides till younger buds come on, As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone; Then, from the rising generation thrust, It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust. "These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see, Are others' gain, but killing cares to me; To me the children of my youth are lords, Slow in their gifts but hasty in their words: Wants of their own demand their care, and who Feels his own want and succors others too? A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go, None need my help and none relieve my woe; Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid, And men forget the wretch they would not aid." Thus groan the old, till, by disease oppressed, They taste a final woe, and then they rest. Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; There children dwell, who know no parents' care, Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there; Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; Dejected widows with unheeded tears, And crippled age with more than childhood-fears; The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot and the madman gay. Here too the sick their final doom receive, Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, Mixed with the clamors of the crowd below; Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man: Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide, And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride embitters what it can't deny. Say ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance With timid eye to read the distant glance; Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease To name the nameless ever-new disease; Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, Which real pain, and that alone, can cure; How would ye bear in real pain to lie, Despised, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, Where all that's wretched paves the way for death? Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the sloping sides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud is all that lie between; Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives way To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day. Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; For him no hand the cordial cup applies, Nor wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, Nor promise hope till sickness wears a smile. But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls. Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat, All pride and business, bustle and conceit; With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe, With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go, He bids the gazing throng around him fly, And carries fate and physic in his eye; A potent quack, long versed in human ills, Who first insults the victim whom he kills; Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy bench protect, And whose most tender mercy is neglect. Paid by the parish for attendance here, He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer; In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies, Impatience marked in his averted eyes; And, some habitual queries hurried o'er, Without reply, he rushes on the door: His drooping patient, long inured to pain, And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain; He ceases now the feeble help to crave Of man, and mutely hastens to the grave. But ere his death some pious doubts arise, Some simple fears, which "bold bad" men despise; Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove His title certain to the joys above; For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who calls The holy stranger to these dismal walls; And doth not he, the pious man, appear, He, "passing rich with forty pounds a year"? Ah! no; a shepherd of a different stock, And far unlike him, feeds this little flock: A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task As much as God or man can fairly ask; The rest he gives to loves and labors light, To fields the morning and to feasts the night; None better skilled the noisy pack to guide, To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide; Sure in his shot, his game he seldom missed, And seldom failed to win his game at whist; Then, while such honors bloom around his head, Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal To combat fears that ev'n the pious feel Now once again the gloomy scene explore, Less gloomy now; the bitter hour is o'er, The man of many sorrows sighs no more. Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slow The bier moves winding from the vale below; There lie the happy dead, from trouble free, And the glad parish pays the frugal fee. No more, oh Death! thy victim starts to hear Churchwarden stern, or kingly overseer; No more the farmer gets his humble bow, Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou! Now to the church behold the mourners come, Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb; The village children now their games suspend, To see the bier that bears their ancient friend: For he was one in all their idle sport, And like a monarch ruled their little court; The pliant bow he formed, the flying ball, The bat, the wicket, were his labours all; Him now they follow to his grave, and stand Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand; While bending low, their eager eyes explore The mingled relics of the parish poor. The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round, Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound; The busy priest, detained by weightier care, Defers his duty till the day of prayer; And, waiting long, the crowd retire distressed, To think a poor man's bones should lie unblessed.

George Crabbe, "The Village" -compare to Goldsmith's "The Deserted Village" -Aldburgh. Similar to Goldsmith's vanished "auburn" in "The Deserted Village" -CRABBE IS CRABBY. REMEMBER THE SCARY MOVIE THE VILLAGE (the reality) sad. -continue discussion of rural poverty and poetry's role in all that The village: -narrative poem -constrasts the traditional representation of the rural ideal in Augustan poetry w/ the realities of village life -continue discussion of rural poetry and poetry's role in all of that -a bleak portrait of village life -depression -fascination w/mental disorders - psychosis, paranoia, hallucination -opium -burned his work -preference for the heroic couplet, stern commitment to 'truth' and professed contempt for visionary, imaginative poetry -rugid life The Village, Crabbe -two books -Crabbes' most famous work -stark description of the parish (community) workhouse -bitter memories of Aldeburgh -similar to Goldsmith's vanished 'Auburn' in the deserted village -like Goldsmith's poem, The Village contains angry passages of social polemic directed at a complacent establishment indifferent to the suffering of the rural poor -Yet whereas Goldsmith participates in the pastoral myth by evoking a lost world or rustic bliss, Crabbe denies that such a world ever existed (bitter) -Goldsmiths vignettes of country innocence bs. Crabbes sense of theft and violence -Goldsmith idealizes the laboring poor at expense of the bloated rich, CRABBE SEES IN RICH AND POOR A MIRROR OF EACH OTHER'S VICES -exploits gap (make full use of and derive benefit from) between pastoral ((especially of land or a farm) used for or related to the keeping or grazing of sheep or cattle: scattered pastoral farms. • associated with country life: the view was pastoral, with rolling fields and grazing sheep. • (of a work of art) portraying or evoking country life, typically in a romanticized or idealized form.) convention and rural reality, none with same grim irony as village though -Crabbe writes about the peasantry as much like the magistrate (civil officer, police, judge) as the poet -determined to show you their WORST SIDE, and as their simple pleasures, he knows little or nothing about them brutally honest here. brutal. RURAL REALISM!!! -'ugly realism' -strange eery beauty of the Suffolk coast -tone - bitter, honest, dialogue, narrative poem -sickly blade, slimy mallow -EXPOSING THE TRUTH, THE UGLY REALISM OF RURAL LIFE -questions -vice - stretched of Anglican coast were havens for local smugglers who evaded heavy import duties on continental liquor -155- luxery -'thine excess' - Crabbes attack on luxury links the village w/ Goldsmith's deserted village. (the "compare" to Goldsmith's "Deserted Village" -directe refernce to Goldsmith: "Then own that labour may as fatal be To these thy slaves as luxery to thee" - line 165 -preist- spends his time -ends with funeral for man who just died and PRIEST doesn't even show up (only works on sundays) -->leaves his bones unblessed -sin to humanity but also maybe a sin to God? -this poem DOESN'T IDEALIZE EITHER THE POOR NOR THE RICH -the deserted village vs. the village -->the before and after aspect "THE MUSE CAN GIVE NO MORE" - how is that a response to Goldsmith? What about the way he describes the poor? -line 85 -"amphibious" -sullenness- not very attractive -trying to level everything in book 2 - saying WERE ALL BAD -reflects a VERY DARK VIEW OF HUMAN NATURE BOTH: (THE COMPARE) Goldsmiths "The Deserted Village" and Crabbes "The Village:" -FIXED SOCIAL ORDER (i.e. the poor will always be poor) -partial picture from both but PICTURE INFORMED BY THEIR OWN EXPERIENCES -using the POOR AS A TOOL FOR ART -CAN POETRY BE A FORCE FOR SOCIAL CHANGE? OR CAN POETRY CREATE AND ALTERNATE WORLD TO WHICH WE CAN ESCAPE? (touching on this idea of the use for poetry in the rural country side) Image: -WOODCUTTER AND MILKMAID (a girl or woman who milks cows or does other work in a dairy) -realism in terms of rural life -LANDSCAPE PAINTINGS being to show people more in this period - are they a feature OF the landscape or separate from it? -the CONTRAST (not the compare) between Goldsmiths "The Deserted Village" and Crabbes "The Village" -a relentless portrait of poverty -hellish existence in the poorhouse whereas Goldsmith describes a SIMPLICITY in being poor (things easier in the depression in a way, what Reishman was talking about) - this is a DIRECT CONTRAST. CRABBE IS SAYING THINGS WERENT EASY IN THE DEPRESSION -"only work on Sundays"

landscape paintings during this period - are they a feature of the landscape or separate from it?

George Crabbe, "The Village" -Gainsborough, Woodcutter Courting a Milkmaid

-kilmarnock edition* -HUMILITAS TROPE -feminine rhyme Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickerin brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry Man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle, At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss 't! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary Winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the Winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy! Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! "To a Louse, On Seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet at Church" by Burns -AIRS* Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlan ferlie! Your impudence protects you sairly: I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Owre gawze and lace; Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely, On sic a place. Ye ugly, creepan, blastet wonner, Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner, How daur ye set your fit upon her, Sae fine a Lady! Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner, On some poor body. Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle, Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations; Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle, Your thick plantations. Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight, Na faith ye yet! ye'll no be right, Till ye've got on it, The vera topmost, towrin height O' Miss's bonnet. My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an' gray as onie grozet: O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't, Wad dress your droddum! I wad na been surpriz'd to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On 's wylecoat; But Miss's fine Lunardi, fye! How daur ye do 't? O Jenny dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin! Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin! O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us An' foolish notion: What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n Devotion!

Burns, "To a Mouse" (think of twas the night before christmas opening page with mouse snuggled in its bed with hay)" "To a Louse" -more educated and better off than yearly -son of a tenant farmer, a lot of manuel work at a young age -died 35, young -fathered his first child w/one of his mother's servants -republican opinions, anti monarchy -very popular -1st edition of Burns' poems called the KILMARNOCK EDITION* -distinciton between poet and rhymer - makes this in epistle too -'rhymer' sounds more amateur, poet sounds more professional -why would he try to downplay his own education? -a HUMILITAS TROPE* (burns and blake do this);Humilitas Trope: down playing skill in order to make skill have more of an effect -downplaying his own skill, that too is a POETIC CONVENTION -a move to deflect criticism, to lower people's expectations, to come across as the humble writer -dialect: SCOTS (midway between english and gaelic) -what might be the point of choosing the dialect instead -POLITICAL STATEMENT to be made by writing in the vernacular - saying MY OWN LANGUAGE IS WORTHY OF WRITING POETRY IN THIS (Dante writing in Italien for Dante's inferno) -tends to use a stanza from part of this region -3 lines of iambic pentameter -uses a lot of FEMININE RHYME: - 2 syllable rhyme with unstressed syllable at end (beasty, breast) "TO A MOUSE" -said to have been made while he was holding the plow -meditative, philosophic, mankind's place in the world and difference/kindship between the human and animal kindoms -plays with questions of ECONOMICS AND SOCIAL JUSTICE, THE MOUSE IS EVICTED AND ROBBED OF THE FRUITS OF ITS LABOUR -ON WRITING IT TO A MOUSE!! HE WRITES THIS to A MOUS -What is his attitude to the mouse? -Sympathetic attitude towards the mouse -2nd stanza: shifts move to english. English for concrete words, scot for more abstract -3rd stanza - addresses fact that mouse MIGHT BE STEALING FROM HIM -very EGALITARIAN; thinks you shouldn't begrudge someone from taking a little who has more than enough!!! -also making a statement here about the poor stealing form the rich -you can make a serious argument in a poem that has some elements of humor -image to associate with this poem: mouse in a christmas story snuggled in its bed with hay sleeping - openng picture on first page "TO A LOUSE," by burns who is the object of satire? -1) the people with the louse on them -->particularly Jenny, the one who has the lice on her 2) EASYNESS/MOBILITY OF THE MOUSE TO MOVE UWARDS IN SOICETY -LUNARDI: equivelent to prada shoes or handbag -further satire: -this is all happening in church. Its not able to hold their attention. Also church as a place to be seen, to show off your new easter dress and money etc. (this very much happens at Westminster) -they are not paying attention to church, clearly -in reality, you shoulvnt be drawing attention to the self in church, supposed to be worshiping something else (GOD) -AIRS: an inflated sense of self (pride, Rieshman, worst of seven deadly sins) -social satire, dramatic satire "Epistle on J. Lapraik", Burns Epistle on J. Laprak, Burns (handout) -Burns is writing to another scottish "bard" whose song he heard in a pub. He is PAYING COMPLIMENT TO LAPRAIK AND ALSO SETTING FOURTH HIS OWN THEORY OF POETRY: -EPISTLE: LETTER IN VERSE -burnes taking part in an established genre here -notice he's inspired by springtime and elements of nature -HE'S WRITING TO SOMEONE HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW - THIS IS IMPORTANT -a lot of fun going on here in this poem -emotional power of the story -"It thirl'd my heart strings through the breast" -EMOTIONAL AUTHENTICITY is really important to burns -notice how its placed in particular region -setting out his own theory of poetry and what he thinks is important -"jingle" making up a little song -distinction between rhymer and poet - I'm not a poet just a rhymer -I jingle at her -hyposcrisy of cloaking your ignorance under by words -letter to unlettered poet by yearsley - reminds of - "may touch the heart" 115-120 - black - small coin. What point is he making in this stanza? ppl who would place money over more human conditions -get a sense of how it presents a social att and what he claims is MOST IMPORTANT ABOUT POETRY - THAT IT TOUCHES THE HEART AND COMES NATURALLY FROM ONE'S EXPERIENCE WITH NATURE, NOT FROM ACADEMIC ETX. THIS IS HIS POETIC THEORY; BURNS' POETIC THEORY moralism we see and have seen: SIMPLICITY, DEMOCRATIC FEELINGS STEMMPING FROM BURNS: interest in restoring British antiwuty HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER: -topical poem, happened to burn's friend, Hamilton -presbyterian prevailing at the time, Calvanism -Hamilton was brought up fro not attending public worship -Holy willie is the character that was outraged by this Burns imagnies Willie praying after this defeat -B TOUCHING ON WEAKNESS IN DOCTRINE OF PREDESTINATION: DOESN'T GIVE ANY REASON TO BE GOOD DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE: what is the fault thats revealed here ? HYPOCRISY

-rural realism (not a real term) -pastoral vs. georgic The THRESHER's LABOUR. To the Revd. Mr. STANLEY. THE grateful Tribute of these rural Lays, Which to her Patron's Hand the Muse conveys, Deign to accept: 'Tis just she Tribute bring To him, whose Bounty gives her Life to sing; To him, whose gen'rous Favours tune her Voice; And bid her, 'midst her Poverty, rejoice. Inspir'd by these, she dares herself prepare, To sing the Toils of each revolving Year; Those endless Toils, which always grow anew, And the poor Thresher's destin'd to pursue: Ev'n these, with Pleasure, can the Muse rehearse, When you and Gratitude demand her Verse. Page 11 SOON as the golden Harvest quits the Plain, And CERES' Gifts reward the Farmer's Pain; What Corn each Sheaf will yield, intent to hear, And guess from thence the Profits of the Year, He calls his Reapers forth: Around we stand, With deep Attention, waiting his Command. To each our Task he readily divides, And pointing, to our diff'rent Stations guides. As he directs, to distant Barns we go; Here two for Wheat, and there for Barley two. But first, to shew what he expects to find, These Words, or Words like these, disclose his Mind: " So dry the Corn was carry'd from the Field, " So easily 'twill thresh, so well 'twill yield; " Sure large Days-works I well may hope for now: " Come, strip and try; let's see what you can do." Page 12 DIVESTED of our Cloathes, with Flail in Hand, At proper Distance, Front to Front we stand: And first the Threshal's gently swung, to prove Whether with just Exactness it will move: That once secure, we swiftly whirl them round; From the strong Planks our Crab-tree Staves rebound, And echoing Barns return the rattling Sound. Now in the Air our knotty Weapons fly, And now with equal Force descend from high; Down one, one up, so well they keep the Time, The CYCLOPS' Hammers could not truer chime; Nor with more heavy Strokes could Aetna groan, When VULCAN forg'd the Arms for THETIS' Son. In briny Streams our Sweat descends apace, Drops from our Locks, or trickles down our Face. No Intermission in our Work we know; The noisy Threshal must for ever go. Page 13 Their Master absent, others safely play; The sleeping Threshal does itself betray. Nor yet, the tedious Labour to beguile, And make the passing Minutes sweetly smile, Can we, like Shepherds, tell a merry Tale; The Voice is lost, drown'd by the louder Flail. But we may think—Alas! what pleasing thing, Here, to the Mind, can the dull Fancy bring? Our Eye beholds no pleasing Object here, No chearful Sound diverts our list'ning Ear. The Shepherd well may tune his Voice to sing, Inspir'd with all the Beauties of the Spring. No Fountains murmur here, no Lambkins play, No Linnets warble, and no Fields look gay; 'Tis all a gloomy, melancholy Scene, Fit only to provoke the Muse's Spleen. When sooty Pease we thresh, you scarce can know Our native Colour, as from Work we go. Page 14 The Sweat, the Dust, and suffocating Smoak, Make us so much like Ethiopians look, We scare our Wives, when Ev'ning brings us home; And frighted Infants think the Bugbear come. Week after Week, we this dull Task pursue, Unless when winn'wing Days produce a new: A new, indeed, but frequently a worse! The Threshal yields but to the Master's Curse. He counts the Bushels, counts how much a Day; Then swears we've idled half our Time away: " Why, look ye, Rogues, d'ye think that this will do? " Your Neighbours thresh as much again as you." Now in our Hands we wish our noisy Tools, To drown the hated Names of Rogues and Fools. But wanting these, we just like School-boys look, When angry Masters view the blotted Book: They cry, "their Ink was faulty, and their Pen;" We, "the Corn threshes bad, 'twas cut too green." Page 15 BUT soon as Winter hides his hoary Head, And Nature's Face is with new Beauty spread; The lovely Spring appears, refreshing Show'rs New cloath the Field with Grass, and blooming Flow'rs. Next her, the rip'ning Summer presses on, And SOL begins his longest Race to run. Before the Door our welcome Master stands; Tells us, the ripen'd Grass requires our Hands. The grateful Tidings presently imparts Life to our Looks, and Spirits to our Hearts. We wish the happy Season may be fair; And, joyful, long to breathe in op'ner Air. This Change of Labour seems to give such Ease, With Thoughts of Happiness ourselves we please. But, ah! how rarely's Happiness complete! There's always Bitter mingled with the Sweet. Page 16 When first the Lark sings Prologue to the Day, We rise, admonish'd by his early Lay; This new Employ with eager Haste to prove, This new Employ, become so much our Love. Alas! that human Joys should change so soon! Our Morning Pleasure turns to Pain at Noon. The Birds salute us, as to Work we go, And with new Life our Bosoms seem to glow. On our right Shoulder hangs the crooked Blade, The Weapon destin'd to uncloath the Mead: Our left supports the Whetstone, Scrip, and Beer; This for our Scythes, and these ourselves to chear. And now the Field, design'd to try our Might, At length appears, and meets our longing Sight. The Grass and Ground we view with careful Eyes, To see which way the best Advantage lies; And, Hero-like, each claims the foremost Place. At first our Labour seems a sportive Race: Page 17 With rapid Force our sharpen'd Blades we drive, Strain ev'ry Nerve, and Blow for Blow we give. All strive to vanquish, tho' the Victor gains No other Glory, but the greatest Pains. BUT when the scorching Sun is mounted high, And no kind Barns with friendly Shade are nigh; Our weary Scythes entangle in the Grass, While Streams of Sweat run trickling down apace. Our sportive Labour we too late lament; And wish that Strength again, we vainly spent. THUS, in the Morn, a Courser have I seen With headlong Fury scour the level Green; Or mount the Hills, if Hills are in his Way, As if no Labour could his Fire allay; Till PHOEBUS, shining with meridian Heat, Has bath'd his panting Sides in briny Sweat: Page 18 The lengthen'd Chace scarce able to sustain, He measures back the Hills and Dales with Pain. WITH Heat and Labour tir'd, our Scythes we quit, Search out a shady Tree, and down we sit: From Scrip and Bottle hope new Strength to gain; But Scrip and Bottle too are try'd in vain. Down our parch'd Throats we scarce the Bread can get; And, quite o'erspent with Toil, but faintly eat. Nor can the Bottle only answer all; The Bottle and the Beer are both too small. Time flows: Again we rise from off the Grass; Again each Mower takes his proper Place; Not eager now, as late, our Strength to prove; But all contented regular to move. We often whet, and often view the Sun; As often wish, his tedious Race was run. Page 19 At length he veils his purple Face from Sight, And bids the weary Labourer Good-night. Homewards we move, but spent so much with Toil, We slowly walk, and rest at ev'ry Stile. Our good expecting Wives, who think we stay, Got to the Door, soon eye us in the Way. Then from the Pot the Dumplin's catch'd in haste, And homely by its Side the Bacon plac'd. Supper and Sleep by Morn new Strength supply; And out we set again, our Work to try; But not so early quite, nor quite so fast, As, to our Cost, we did the Morning past. SOON as the rising Sun has drank the Dew, Another Scene is open to our View: Our Master comes, and at his Heels a Throng Of prattling Females, arm'd with Rake and Prong; Page 20 Prepar'd, whilst he is here, to make his Hay; Or, if he turns his Back, prepar'd to play: But here, or gone, sure of this Comfort still; Here's Company, so they may chat their Fill. Ah! were their Hands so active as their Tongues, How nimbly then would move the Rakes and Prongs? THE Grass again is spread upon the Ground, Till not a vacant Place is to be found; And while the parching Sun-beams on it shine, The Hay-makers have Time allow'd to dine. That soon dispatch'd, they still sit on the Ground; And the brisk Chat, renew'd, afresh goes round. All talk at once; but seeming all to fear, That what they speak, the rest will hardly hear; Till by degrees so high their Notes they strain, A Stander by can nought distinguish plain. Page 21 So loud's their Speech, and so confus'd their Noise, Scarce puzzled ECHO can return the Voice. Yet, spite of this, they bravely all go on; Each scorns to be, or seem to be, outdone. Meanwhile the changing Sky begins to lour, And hollow Winds proclaim a sudden Show'r: The tattling Crowd can scarce their Garments gain, Before descends the thick impetuous Rain; Their noisy Prattle all at once is done, And to the Hedge they soon for Shelter run. THUS have I seen, on a bright Summer's Day, On some green Brake, a Flock of Sparrows play; From Twig to Twig, from Bush to Bush they fly; And with continu'd Chirping fill the Sky: But, on a sudden, if a Storm appears, Their chirping Noise no longer dins your Ears: Page 22 They fly for Shelter to the thickest Bush; There silent sit, and All at once is hush. BUT better Fate succeeds this rainy Day, And little Labour serves to make the Hay. Fast as 'tis cut, so kindly shines the Sun, Turn'd once or twice, the pleasing Work is done. Next Day the Cocks appear in equal Rows, Which the glad Master in safe Ricks bestows. THE spacious Fields we now no longer range; And yet, hard Fate! still Work for Work we change. Back to the Barns we hastily are sent, Where lately so much Time we pensive spent: Not pensive now, we bless the friendly Shade; And to avoid the parching Sun are glad. Yet little Time we in the Shade remain, Before our Master calls us forth again; Page 23 And says, "For Harvest now yourselves prepare; " The ripen'd Harvést now demands your Care. " Get all things ready, and be quickly drest; " Early next Morn I shall disturb your Rest." Strict to his Word! for scarce the Dawn appears, Before his hasty Summons fills our Ears. His hasty Summons we obey; and rise, While yet the Stars are glimm'ring in the Skies. With him our Guide we to the Wheat-field go, He to appoint, and we the Work to do. YE Reapers, cast your Eyes around the Field; And view the various Scenes its Beauties yield: Then look again, with a more tender Eye, To think how soon it must in Ruin lie! For, once set in, where-e'er our Blows we deal, There's no resisting of the well-whet Steel: Page 24 But here or there, where-e'er our Course we bend, Sure Desolation does our Steps attend. THUS, when Arabia's Sons, in Hopes of Prey, To some more fertile Country take their Way, How beauteous all Things in the Morn appear! There rural Cots, and pleasant Villa's here! So many grateful Objects meet the Sight, The ravish'd Eye could willing gaze till Night. But long ere then, where-e'er their Troops have past, These pleasing Prospects lie a gloomy Waste. THE Morning past, we sweat beneath the Sun; And but uneasily our Work goes on. Before us we perplexing Thistles find, And Corn blown adverse with the ruffling Wind. Behind our Master waits; and if he spies One charitable Ear, he grudging cries, Page 25 " Ye scatter half your Wages o'er the Land." Then scrapes the Stubble with his greedy Hand. LET those who feast at Ease on dainty Fare, Pity the Reapers, who their Feasts prepare: For Toils scarce ever ceasing press us now; Rest never does, but on the Sabbath, show; And barely that our Masters will allow. Think what a painful Life we daily lead; Each Morning early rise, go late to Bed: Nor, when asleep, are we secure from Pain; We then perform our Labours o'er again: Our mimic Fancy ever restless seems; And what we act awake, she acts in Dreams. Hard Fate! Our Labours ev'n in Sleep don't cease; Scarce HERCULES e'er felt such Toils as these! Page 26 BUT soon we rise the bearded Crop again, Soon PHOEBUS' Rays well dry the golden Grain. Pleas'd with the Scene, our Master glows with Joy; Bids us for Carrying all our Force employ; When strait Confusion o'er the Field appears, And stunning Clamours fill the Workmens Ears; The Bells and clashing Whips alternate sound, And rattling Waggons thunder o'er the Ground. The Wheat, when carry'd, Pease, and other Grain, We soon secure, and leave a fruitless Plain; In noisy Triumph the last Load moves on, And loud Huzza's proclaim the Harvest done. OUR Master, joyful at the pleasing Sight, Invites us all to feast with him at Night. A Table plentifully spread we find, And Jugs of humming Ale, to chear the Mind; Page 27 Which he, too gen'rous, pushes round so fast, We think no Toils to come, nor mind the past. But the next Morning soon reveals the Cheat, When the same Toils we must again repeat; To the same Barns must back again return, To labour there for Room for next Year's Corn. THUS, as the Year's revolving Course goes round, No Respite from our Labour can be found: Like SISYPHUS, our Work is never done; Continually rolls back the restless Stone. New-growing Labours still succeed the past; And growing always new, must always last. I MMORTAL Bard! thou Favrite of the Nine! Enrich'd by Peers, advanc'd by CAROLINE! Deign to look down on One that's poor and low Remembering you yourſelf was lately ſo ; Accept theſe Lines : Alas ! what can you have From her, who ever was, and's ſtill a Slave? B [ 6 ] No Learning ever was beſtow'd on me ; My Live was always ſpent in Drudgery : And not alone ; alas ! with Grief I find, It is the Portion of poor Woman-kind. Oft have I thought as on my Bed I lay, Eas'd from the tireſome Labours of the Day, Our firſt Extraction from a Maſs refin'd, Could never be for Slavery deſign'd ; Till Time and Cuſtom by degrees deſtroy'd That happy State our Sex at firſt enjoy'd. When Men had us'd their utmoſt Care and Toil, Their Recompence was but a Female Smile ; When they by Arts or Arms were render'd Great, They laid their Trophies at a Woman's Feet ; They, in thoſe Days, unto our Sex did bring Their Hearts, their All, a Free-will Offering ; And as from us their Being they derive, They back again ſhould all due Homage give. JOVE once deſcending from the Clouds, did drop In Show'rs of Gold on lovely Danae's Lap ; [ 7 ] The ſweet-tongu'd Poets, in thoſe generous Days, Unto our Shrine ſtill offer'd up their Lays : But now, alas ! that Golden Age is paſt, We are the Objects of your Scorn at last. And you, great DUCK, upon whoſe happy Brow The Muſes ſeem to fix the Garland now, In your late Poem boldly did declare Alcides' Labours can't with your's compare ; And of your annual Task have much to Say, Of Threshing, Reaping, Mowing Corn and Hay ; oaOting your daily Toil, and nightly Dream, But can't conclude your never-dying Theme, And let our hapleſs Sex in Silence lie Forgotten, and in dark Oblivion die ; But on our abject State you throw your Scorn And Women wrong, your Verſes to adorn. You of Hay-making ſpeak a Word or two, As if our Sex but little Work could do : This makes the honeſt Farmer ſmiling ſay, He'll ſeek for Women ſtill to make his Hay ; For if his Back be turn'd, their Work they mind As well as Men, as far as he can find. B 2 [ 8 ] For my own Part, I many a Summer's Day Have ſpent in throwing, turning, making Hay ; But ne'er could ſee, what you have lately found, Our Wages paid for ſitting on the Ground. 'Tis true, that when our Morning's Work is done, And all our Graſs expos'd unto the Sun, While that his ſcorching Beams do on it ſhine, As well as you, we have a Time to dine : I hope, that ſince we freely toil and ſweat To earn our Bread, you'll give us Time to eat. That over, ſoon we muſt get up again, And nimbly turn our Hay upon the Plain ; Nay, rake and prow it in, the Caſe is clear ; Or how ſhould Cocks in equal Rows appear ? But if you'd have what you have wrote believ'd, I find, that you to hear us talk are griev'd : In this, I hope, you do not ſpeak your Mind, For none but Turks, that ever I could find, Have Mutes to ſerve them, or did e'er deny Their Slaves, at Work to chat it merrily. Since you have Liberty to ſpeak your Mind, And are to talk, as well as we, inclin'd [ 9 ] Why ſhould you thus repine, becauſe that we, Like you, enjoy that pleaſing Liberty ?? What ! would you lord it quite, and take away The only Privilege our Sex enjoy ? WHEN Ev'ning does approach, we homeward hie, And our domeſtic Toils Inceſſant ply : Againſt your coming Home prepare to get Our Work all done, our Houſe in order ſet ; Bacon and Dumpling in the Pot we boil, Our Beds we make, our Swine we fee the while ; Then wait at Door to ſee you coming Home, And ſet the Table out againſt you come : Early next Morning we on you attend ; Our Children dreſs and feed, their Cloaths we mend ; And in the Field our daily Task renew, Soon as the riſing Sun has dry'd the Dew. WHEN Harveſt comes, into the Field we go, And help to reap the Wheat as well as you ; Or elſe we go the Ears of Corn to glean ; No Labour ſcorning, be it e'er ſo mean ; [ 10 ] But in the Work we freely bear a Part, And what we can, perform with all our Heart. To get a Living we ſo willing are, Our tender Babes into the Field we bear, And wrap them in our Cloaths to keep them warm, While round about we gather up the Corn ; And often unto them our Courſe do bend, To keep them ſafe, that nothing them offend : Our Children that are able, bear a Share In gleaning Corn, ſuch is our frugal Care. When Night comes on, unto our Home we go, Our Corn we carry, and our Infant too ; Weary, alas ! but 'tis not worth our while Once to complain, or reſt at ev'ry Stile ; We must make haſte, for when we Home are come, Alas ! we find our Work but juſt begun ; So many Things for our Attendance call, Had we ten Hands, we could employ them all. Our Children put to Bed, with greateſt Care We all Things for your coming Home prepare : You ſup, and go to Bed without delay, And reſt yourſelves till the enſuing Day ; [ 11 ] While we, alas ! but little Sleep can have, Becauſe our froward Children cry and rave ; Yet, without fail, ſoon as Day-light doth ſpring, We in the Field again our Work begin And there, with all our Strength, our Toil renew, Till Titan's golden Rays have dry'd the Dew ; Then home we go unto our Children dear, Dreſs, feed, and bring them to the Field with care. Were this your Caſe, you juſtly might complain That Day nor Night you are ſecure from Pain ; Thoſe mighty Troubles which perplex your Mind, (Thiſtles before, and Females come behind) Would vaniſh ſoon, and quickly diſappear, Were you, like us, encumber'd thus with Care. What you would have of us we do not know : We oft' take up the Corn that you do mow ; We cut the Peas, and always ready are In ev'ry Work to take our proper Share ; And from the Time that Harveſt doth begin, Until the Corn be cut and carry'd in, Our Toil and Labour's daily ſo extreme, That we have hardly ever Time to dream. [ 12 ] THE Harveſt ended, Reſpite none we find ; The hardeſt of our Toil is ſtill behind : Hard Labour we moſt chearfully purſue, And our, abroad, a Charing often go : Of which I now will briefly tell in part, What fully to declare is paſt my Art ; So many Hardſhips daily we go through, I boldly ſay, the like you never knew. WHEN bright Orion glitters in the Skies In Winter Nights, then early we muſt riſe ; The Weather ne'er ſo bad, Wind, Rain, or Snow, Our Work appointed, we muſt riſe and go ; While you on eaſy Beds may lie and ſleep, Till Light does thro' your Chamber-windows peep. When to the Houſe we come where we ſhould go, How to get in, alas ! we do not know : The Maid quite tir'd with Work the Day before, O'ercome with Sleep ; we ſtanding at the Door Oppreſs'd with Cold, and often call in vain, E're to our Work we can Admittance gain : [ 13 ] But when from Wind and Weather we get in, Briskly with Courage we our Work begin ; Heaps of fine Linen we before us view, Whereon to lay our Strength and Patience too ; Cambricks and Muſlins, which our Ladies wear, Laces and Edgings, coſtly, fine, and rare, Which muſt be waſh'd with utmoſt Skill and Care ; With Holland Shirts, Ruffles and Fringes too, Faſhions which our Fore-fathers never knew. For ſeveral Hours here we work and ſlave, Before we can one Glimpſe of Day-light have ; We labour hard before the Morning's paſt, Becauſe we fear the Time runs on too faſt. AT length bright Sol illuminates the Skies, And ſummons drowſy Mortals to ariſe ; Then comes our Miſtreſs to us without fail, And in her Hand, perhaps, a Mug of Ale To cheer our Hearts, and alſo to inform Herſelf, what Work is done that very Morn ; Lays her Commands upon us, that we mind Her Linen well, nor leave the Dirt behind : C [ 14 ] Not this alone, but alſo to take care We don't her Cambricks nor her Ruffles tear ; And theſe moſt ſtrictly does of us require, To ſave her Soap, and ſparing be of Fire ; Tells us her Charge is great, nay furthermore, Her Cloaths are fewer than the Time before. Now we drive on, reſolv'd our Strength to try, And what we can, we do moſt willingly ; Until with Heat and Work, 'tis often known, Not only Sweat, but Blood runs trickling down Our Wriſts and Fingers ; ſtill our Work demands The conſtant Action of our lab'ring Hands. NOW Night comes on, from whence you have Relief, But that, alas ! does but increaſe our Grief ; With heavy Hearts we often view the Sun, Fearing he'll ſet before our Work is done ; For either in the Morning, or at Night, We piece the Summer's Day with Candle-light. Tho' we all Day with Care our Work attend, Such is our Fate, we know not when 'twill end : [ 15 ] When Ev'ning's come, you Homeward take your Way, We, till our Work is done, are forc'd to ſtay ; And after all our Toil and Labour paſt, Six-pence or Eight-pence pays us off at laſt ; For all our Pains, no Proſpect can we ſee Attend us, but Old Age and Poverty. THE Waſhing is not all we have to do : We oft change Work for Work as well as you. Our Miſtreſs of her Pewter doth complain, And 'tis our Part to make it clean again. This Work, tho' very hard and tireſome too, Is not the worſt we hapleſs Females do : When Night comes on, and we quite weary are, We ſcarce can count what falls unto our Share ; Pots, Kettles, Sauce-pans, Skillets, we may ſee, Skimmers and Ladles, and ſuch Trumpery, Brought in to make complete our Slavery. Tho' early in the Morning 'tis begun, 'Tis often very late before we've done ; Alas ! our Labours never know an End ; On Braſs and Iron we our Strength muſt ſpend ; C 2 [ 16 ] Our tender Hands and Fingers ſcratch and tear : All this, and more, with Patience we muſt bear. Colour'd with Dirt and Filth we now appear ; Your threſhing ſooty Peas will not come near. All the Perfections Woman once could boaſt, Are quite obſcur'd, and altogether loſt. Once more our Miſtreſs ſends to let us know She wants our Help, becauſe the Beer runs low : Then in much haſte for Brewing we prepare, The Veſſels clean, and ſcald with greateſt Care ; Often at Midnight, from our Bed we riſe At other Times, ev'n that will not ſuffice ; Our Work at Ev'ning oft we do begin, And 'ere we've done, the Night comes on again. Water we pump, the Copper we muſt fill, Or tend the Fire ; for if we e'er ſtand ſtill, Like you, when threſhing, we a Watch muſt keep, Our Wort Boils over if we dare to ſleep. BUT to rehearſe all Labour is in vain, Of which we very juſtly might complain : [ 17 ] For us, you ſee, but little Reſt is found ; Our Toil increaſes as the Year runs round. While you to Syſiphus yourſelves compare, With Danaus' Daughters we may claim a Share ; For while he labours hard againſt the Hill, Bottomleſs Tubs of Water they muſt fill. SO the induſtrious Bees do hourly ſtrive To bring their Loads of Honey to the Hive ; Their ſordid Owners always reap the Gains, And poorly recompenſe their Toil and Pains.

Duck, "The Thresher's Labour" and Collin's "A Woman's Labour" (A response to Duck) -duck committed suicide when he was about 50 years old thresher: a device that firs separates the head of a stalk of grain from the straw and then further separates the kernel -both Duck and Collins are WORKING CLASS POETS: what does this mean: RURAL LABOUR instead of IDEALIZED VERSION OF RURAL LIFE - does this give them more legitimacy in my opinion? yes. new perspective a little -GRAPHIC ACCOUNT, edged with RESENTMENT of the working year FROM THE LABOURERS PERSPECTIVE -FESTIVE HARVEST SUPPER - a cheat because the next day is work - wealthy like aw look at them they get this when in reality its like i mean the next day they have to go straight back to work sooooo -threshing - constant motif in the laborer's year -praised for 'RURAL REALISM (we also see this in Crabbe's "The Village") -"WORKING" POET -DUCKS PATRONIZING DISMISSAL OF WOMEN WORKERS PROVOKED MARY COLLIN'S TRANCHANT REPOSE The women's labour: -duck's success inspired a series of working poets to make their voices hear, Collins is just one (Georgic and pastoral are the chief classical poetic genres for treating rural subjects.) PASTORAL*: category, poetry having to do with shepherds (work with the sheep), genre; poetry involving an idealized portrayal of country life. landscape; green; pastures, sheep, etc GEORGIC*: a work poem, the thresher's labor is a georgic poem; a 'how to' kind of poem, instructive poem about farming, PRESENCE OF WORK distinguished georgic (which has a presence of work) whereas pastoral doesn't; instructive poem about farming work (The Thresher's Labour). different from a pastoral in that work is visible, present in a georgic What distinguishes georgic form pastoral? presence of work distinguishes pastoral from georgic does duck sound uneducated? -no, he alludes to the Illiad What does he say about women in the field? -that they aren't actually working -argument has been made - epic smilies - connecting human effort with the natural world -simile of the sparrows term "master" -duck is not farming his own land, he's working for someone else image of the HARVEST FEAST: -there's really no break from the labour -happens once a year and then have to work the next day -wealth being like oh its not so bad look at them having this harvest feast Ducks poem: inspired many other responses -collins is not only response "The Thresher's Labour" - Duck Just found out they will be going out to reap in the fields Moments of joy/hope, but it's not constant Threshing: separating part of grain you can use from outer-stalk Vivid detail Kind of WORK THAT DISFIGURES HIS HUMANITY Distinguishes threshing from pastoral work Virgil's Georgics & Iliad alluded to Compares the workers to bees - "worker bees" "Master," "farmer" → working for someone else -----THE WOMAN'S LABOUR---- COLLIER -how does she specificall address his slander? -shes like we dont even GO to bed - women are working a double shift -even though they are talking they are still getting work done -middle of 316: introduces another kind of labour -value of poem: just to give us a glimpse into what world was like -she ends, with a description of bees -poetic qualities: what do u think of her as a poet as compared to duck? "The Woman's Labor" - Collier Starts by immediately & sarcastically addressing Duck "I'm just like you, but you've been elevated in royalty" Women work "double shift" - field and then children & husbands The fact that we're talking doesn't mean we're not working (women) Field, house, and being maid when agriculture season is over More compelling because she's reacting to something

-polemic vs. introspection -movement of enclosure -apostrophe -nostalgia -splendid Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheared the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed, DEAR LOVELY BOWERS OF INNOCENCE AND EASE, (personal relation to place, introspection) Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene! How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made! How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And slights of art and feats of strength went round; And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove! THESE WERE THY CHARMS, SWEET VILLAGE; SPORTS LIKE THESE, WITH SWEET SUCCESSION, TAUGHT EVEN TOIL TO PLEASE; These round thy bowers their chearful influence shed, THESE WERE THY CHARMS—BUT ALL THESE CHARMS ARE FLED. (apostrophe, addressing someone directily in this way) Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choaked with sedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers, in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; AND, TREMBLING, SHRINKING FROM THE SPOILER'S HAND, (sense of masculine hand that has violated) FAR, FAR AWAY, THY CHILDREN LEAVE THE LAND. ILL FARES THE LAND, TO HASTENING ILLS A PREY, WHERE WEALTH ACCUMULATES, AND MEN DECAY:(different here, making a critical judgment here) Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A TIME THERE WAS, ERE ENGLAND'S GRIEFS BEGAN, WHEN EVERY ROOD OF GROUND MAINTAINED ITS MAN; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, JUST GAVE WHAT LIFE REQUIRED, BUT GAVE NO MORE: His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose; And every want to oppulence allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brightened all the green; These, far departing seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. SWEET AUBURN! PARENT OF THE BLISSFUL HOUR, THY GLADES FORLORN CONFESS THE TYRANT'S POWER.(making a maternal reference here) HERE AS I TAKE MY SOLITARY ROUNDS, AMIDST THY TANGLING WALKS, AND RUINED GROUNDS, AND, MANY A YEAR ELAPSED, RETURN TO VIEW Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs—and God has given my share— I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose. I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to shew my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening groupe to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return—and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns, in shades like these A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state To spurn imploring famine from the gate, But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend; Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His Heaven commences ere the world be past! Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I past with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thing That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry ****** from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was, to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sate by his fire, and talked the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and shewed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings leaned to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies; He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was layed, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns, dismayed The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed, with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest: To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had he: Full well the busy whisper circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing too, the parson owned his skill, For even tho' vanquished, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thundering sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place; The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew, Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Vain transitory splendours! Could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall! Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art; Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies. While thus the land adorned for pleasure, all In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female unadorned and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes. But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed: In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed; But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprize; While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms—a garden, and a grave. Where then, ah where, shall poverty reside, To scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And ev'n the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped—What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To see those joys the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charm'd before, The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men, more murderous still than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, That called them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round their bowers, and fondly looked their last, And took a long farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. The good old sire the first prepared to go To new found worlds, and wept for others woe. But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose; And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! Kingdoms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own; At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land: Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excell, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! Farewell, and O where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether were equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain, Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Tho' very poor, may still be very blest; THAT TRADE'S PROUD EMPIRE HASTES TO SWIFT DECAY, AS OCEAN SWEEPS THE LABOUR'D MOLE AWAY; WHILE SELF-DEPENDENT POWER CAN TIME DEFY, AS ROCKS RESIST THE BILLOWS AND THE SKY. (samuel johnson wrote these last four lines)

Oliver Goldsmith, "The Deserted Village" -(think gold, made up city, auburn, goldsmith) -also can think of auburn the school as a gold place sense its colors are navy and orange and i associate with light and keely and sun and football etc. -like Gray, shows some of conflicting of his time Classical: form reason POLEMIC* (contrasted w/ introspection - "self-reflection", an inward thing) - looking outward; telling others what they out to be doing, online def: a strong verbal or written attack on someone or something - me chastising G so harshly over text - "like you abuse your body" Romantic: emotion pastoral world nature instropection - "self-refleciton" POLEMIC. VS. INSTROPECTION Deserted Village: sets his desire for a place to retreat when he RETIRES; IDEALIZED, IMAGINARY VILLAGE -vs. urban population Reason for Depopulation (aka why there is a deserted village): 1) wealthy buying land -->these shacks are blocking my view, lets get rid of them -->*ENCLOSURE: a movement that caused depopulation in villages, it is the privitization of what had formals been public lands; those displaced went to colonies (here). This movement was very much responsible for the way that the english countryside looks today - all broken up. It would've been much more open back then. Poem: goes between polemic and introspection -line 5 vs. line 51 -without these personal reflection the poem might not have been as effective dedicated: to reynauls -trying to send a message to that establishment SWEET AUBURN: -village who (he) eulogizes (praise highly in speech or writing) -NOT A REAL PLACE; prolly based on Goldsmith's experience in Ireland (think gold, made up city, auburn, goldsmith) -deserted town, a place that's dead -1st thirty lines or so are in past tense -APOSTROPHE* - directly addressing someone in this formal way, line 35 -In poetry, an apostrophe is a figure of speech in which the poet addresses an absent person, an abstract idea, or a thing. Apostrophes are found throughout poetry, but they're less common since the early 20th century. Poets may apostrophize a beloved, the Muse, God, love, time, or any other entity that can't respond in reality. Auburn personified: -its a "she" (POETIC TOOL OF PERSONOFYING AUBURN) -both mother and lover, mother and bride -line 34 -dress, charms, recurring pattern with these words -->becomes a metaphor; simple dress of the maiden line 340 line 289 line 130-131 1) female figure -->imagines homeless woman 2) female figures -->simile 2) gathering watercress (a cress that grows in running water and whose pungent leaves are used in salad) from the stream to eat - wouldn't be very good to eat -->SERIES OF ABANDONED OR HOPELESS WOMEN THAT IN SOME WAYS REPRESENT THE VILLAGE. 34- SENSE OF MASCULINE HAND THAT HAS VIOLATED: "these were thy charms, but all thy charms are fled" Function of nature: growing over wall What's the speakers relationship to this place: -->speakers relationship to this place is that he is there as a witness How does he describe the life of the villagers? --->what was it like? -he doesn't deny their labor but he does talk about the end of the day uses DEVICE OF TIME TO MOVE BACK AND FOURTH BETWEEN PAST AND IDEALIZED FUTURE 75 - maternal reference "sweeet auburn! parent of the blissful hour" NOSTALGIA*: NOSTOS; PAIN OF HOME, OFTEN ASSOCIATED WITH PAIN OF PAST -HE WANTED TO GO BACK THERE AND RETIRE -he hopes for a simple death -the community is gone - he can't go back to it anyways -delays the exodus (a mass departure of people, especially emigrants) Who or what does he BLAME: the TYRANT keeps coming up -->THE WEALTHY -even more than specific individuals, it seems to be this THIRST FOR WEALTH (desire to acquire?) 56, 57: "A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man" -way he works with TIME becomes very explicit -"just gave what life required but gave no more" -->speaking out against the excess -HES NOT ENDORSING A CAPITALIST GREED THAT ACCUMULATES MORE AND MORE -capitalism (an economic and political system in which a country's trade and industry are controlled by private owners for profit, rather than by the state; the free market) 1) abandoned women 2) sampling to its inhabitants - village teacher and the schoolmaster -->138, 139 -40 pounds: persepcitive. not rich at time but rich in their terms -we hear about his preaching -can conv -int. simile -transition to the school master Description of the pub: -not just about drinking -community, sharing of stories, of information -220 255- contrasts these native charms with all the gloss of art -specifically addresses the statesman -SPLENDID*: ornamented and improved, truly happy, me at bonaroo; bonaroo was splendid. 305 - asks a metaphorical question 343- "through tori tracks" What are this virtues" -407 -pliant - not, shall we say, pity -rustic virtues Why is it important that POETRY IS ALSO LEAVING THE SCENE: -he's saying goodbye to poetry -CONNECTING POETRY TO VIRTUE, IMPORTANT** Samual Johnson wrote these last four lines: -does it fit? -how does it fit into sense of NOSTALGIA AND PERSONAL LOSS that we've seen elsewhere in this poem -IDENTYFYING POETRY WITH SIMPLE, HUMBLE VIRTUES** -classical world or person. and a romantic world Continue discussion of: RURAL POVERTY AND POETRY'S ROLE IN ALL THAT

-clious -swain 1 THE CURFEW TOLLS THE KNELL OF PARTING DAY, 2 THE LOWING HERD WIND SLOWLY O'ER THE LEA, 3 THE PLOUGHMAN HOMEWARD PLODS HIS WEARY WAY, 4 AND LEAVES THE WORLD TO DARKNESS AND TO ME. 5 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 6 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 7 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 8 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 9 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 10 The moping owl does to the moon complain 11 Of such, as wandering near her secret bower, 12 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 13 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 14 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 15 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 16 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 17 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 18 The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 19 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 20 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 21 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 22 Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 23 No children run to lisp their sire's return, 24 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 25 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 26 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 27 How jocund did they drive their team afield! 28 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 29 LET NOT AMBITION MOCK THEIR USEFUL TOIL, 30 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 31 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, 32 The short and simple annals of the poor. 33 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 34 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 35 Awaits alike the inevitable hour. 36 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 37 Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, 38 If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 39 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 40 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 41 Can storied urn or animated bust 42 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 43 Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 44 Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? 45 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 46 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 47 Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 48 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 49 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 50 Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 51 Chill Penury repressed their NOBLE RAGE, 52 And froze the genial current of the soul. 53 Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 54 The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: 55 FULL MANY A FLOWER IS BORN TO BLUSH UNSEEN, 56 AND WASTE ITS SWEETNESS ON THE DESERT AIR. 57 Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 58 The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 59 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 60 Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 61 The applause of listening senates to command, 62 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 63 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 64 And read their history in a nation's eyes, 65 Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 66 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 67 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 68 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 69 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 70 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 71 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 72 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 73 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 74 Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 75 Along the cool sequestered vale of life 76 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 1) RICH ADN POOR ***(SOME PEOPLE THINK POEM DIVIDES INTO TWO PARTS AT THIS POINT)*** 2) (MEANING OF EPITAPHS ADN DESIRE TO BE REMEMBERED) 77 YET EVEN THESE BONES FROM INSULT TO PROTECT 78 SOME FRAIL MEMORIAL STILL ERECTED NIGH, 79 WITH UNCOUTH RHYMES AND SHAPELESS SCULPTURE DECKED, 80 IMPLORES THE PASSING TRIBUTE OF A SIGH. 81 Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, 82 The place of fame and elegy supply: 83 And many a holy text around she strews, 84 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 85 FOR WHO TO DUMB FORGETFULNESS A PREY, 86 THIS PLEASING ANXIOUS BEING E'ER RESIGNED, 87 LEFT THE WARM PRECINCTS OF THE CHEERFUL DAY, 88 NOR CAST ONE LONGING LINGERING LOOK BEHIND? 89 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 90 Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 91 Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 92 Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 93 FOR THEE, WHO MINDFUL OF THE UNHONOURED DEAD 94 DOST IN THESE LINES THEIR ARTLESS TALE RELATE; 95 IF CHANCE, BY LONELY CONTEMPLATION LED, 96 SOME KINDRED SPIRIT SHALL INQUIRE THY FATE, 97 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 98 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 99 'Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 100 'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 101 'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 102 'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 103 'His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 104 'And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 105 'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 106 'Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, 107 'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 108 'Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 109 'One morn I missed him on the customed hill, 110 'Along the heath and near his favourite tree; 111 'Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 112 'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 113 'The next with dirges due in sad array 114 'Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. 115 'Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, 116 'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' The Epitaph 117 Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 118 A youth to fortune and to fame unknown. 119 Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 120 And Melancholy marked him for her own. 121 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 122 Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 123 He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, 124 He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 125 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 126 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 127 (There they alike in trembling hope repose) 128 The bosom of his Father and his God.

Thomas Gray,"Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" -elegy: a poem lamenting the dead this section of course: the way rural life is portrayed in literature; the way poverty is portrayed; class poem: graveyard school of poetry. MORTALITY, OBSCURITY, CLASS setting: church at stoke pages -->second home for gray opening: time of day? dusk-->evening poem-->reminds us of other things that we have read -first person me jumps out -redundancy adds -predomonate sounds (long 0, l's, w's); effect is that it almost sounds melancholy or sad; MOANING SOUNDS -DOMINANT THEME IS THE PEOPLE BURIED HERE IN THIS CHURCHYARD; BEGINS TO IMAGINE WHAT THEIR LIVES WERE LIKE -what do you notice as he's imagining what their lives were like? -->noble peasantry -how is their work described? as hard work but CHEERFUL work at the same time line 29: shifts in another direction: "Let not ambition ( a strong desire to do or achieve) mock their useful toil (work extremely hard or excessively)" -who is heh talking about at this point? THE LONDON ELITE -reminds of Levett's poem - levit had merit (the quality of being particularly good or worried) unrefined -he goes on to describe their lives more; he CELEBRATES THE WAY THEY LIVE, THE PEASANTS -he reminds us that DEATH IS THE GREAT EQUALIZER "noble rage" - these were not nobles but had this spirit in them -innatability as opposed to accidents of birth natural metaphor: "full many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air." -if a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, did it happen? -is he justifying (show or prove to be right or reasonable) their obscurity (the state of being unknown, inconspicuous, or unimportant) there? -in a way this gives transition to the next few stanzas originally a different ending -in the footnotes -this was the way the poem was originally going to end -->how is it going in a different direction? doom: judgement or fate? -this is your destiny, this is what your supposed to be why was he unsatisfied with ending? -not true to his idea of poets role and what it is/means to be a poet YET -stanza 80 77 Yet even these bones from insult to protect 78 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 79 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 80 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 81 Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, 82 The place of fame and elegy supply: 83 And many a holy text around she strews, 84 That teach the rustic moralist to die. -whats the point of the frail memorials? -whats he talking about here? -there's power to these monuments -THE EQUALIZER BECOMES THE DESIRE TO BE REMEMBERED; THAT WE HAVE SOME DESIRE FOR A PART OF US TO LIVE ON (to carry out the applause of a play in the tempest, thats how prospero wants to live on through his art, to tell his story, hamlet wants to be remembered) -if someone is reading this, they are taught HOW TO DIE, NOT TO DIE -in a way the names and dates alone become poetry IMPORTANT STANZA: 85 FOR WHO TO DUMB FORGETFULNESS A PREY, 86 THIS PLEASING ANXIOUS BEING E'ER RESIGNED, 87 LEFT THE WARM PRECINCTS OF THE CHEERFUL DAY, 88 NOR CAST ONE LONGING LINGERING LOOK BEHIND? -important stanza -syntax -what is DUMB FORGETFULNESS? -->dumb can mean mute, silent -how can you pray to forgetfullness if your dead, FEAR OF BEING FORGOTTEN AGAIN HERE. -death is NOT THE END OF PERSONALITY (essence can live on - grandpa still remembered as a doctor and a good man even though he is a vegetable now; can live on in the memories of the living and through art) -ITS MORE ABOUT JUST WANTING TO BE REMEMBERED -*CLIOUS: greek word for fame, odyssey, illiad, lives on in far now he finally does address himself: -talking about this poem were reading now -93 FOR THEE, WHO MINDFUL OF THE UNHONOURED DEAD 94 DOST IN THESE LINES THEIR ARTLESS TALE RELATE; 95 IF CHANCE, BY LONELY CONTEMPLATION LED, 96 SOME KINDRED SPIRIT SHALL INQUIRE THY FATE, -what happens here? -bard - foretelling history, similar thing happening with time here -swain: very shakespearean word; countryman, peasant, farmer or shepard -what kind of character is her? -->someone that people feel some affection for but they don't really know him. BUT they notice when he's not there (one morn I missed him) -->109 'One morn I missed him on the customed hill, 110 'Along the heath and near his favourite tree; 111 'Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 112 'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; -one morn i missed -literacy comes in as a divide -he was learned even though he was unknown Is the poem more about mortality, obscurity, ro class? 1) rich and poor 2) meaning of epitaphs and desire to be remembered some ppl think this this poem divided into two parts Williams, prophetic strain -argues this poem is divided into three parts COMPARING BARD AND ELEGY Gray's elegy and his bard: -death is great equalizer - prophesizes that -king in the bard figures of english war elegy - solemn bard -both die -images -powerful openings THE EPITAPH: -sounds like a very lonely figure who perhaps found his only friendship in God -its only God who can know him, who can willingly assess his character -its normal to want to be a fly on the wall at own funeral -to what extent can we be? -WHAT SURVIVES IS LITERATURE -woven into tissue of British royal family -both are GLORIFYING THE MYTHIC PAST -attitude toward power is consistent across - STICKS UP FOR THE UNDERDOG -CONCERN ABOUT THE FUNCTION OF POETRY IN SOCIETY -->this is more clear cut in the bard -->more nuanced in Bard

Anne Y

Yearsley, TOWARD ROMANTICISM AND "GENIUS UNIMPROVED" ANN YEARSLEY Classical → romantic ascetic in literature & landscape Her trustees cheated her somewhat - gave her an allowance instead of just trusting her with money all at once Celebrated her for her wild/rustic views, but they are saying "don't expect to make a career of it" Classism & sexism Her poetry is very personal - not afraid to use first person tradition of landscape poetry "ON MRS. MONTAGU" Making some gendered claims Women's competition with men intellectually English liberty These two women helped her develop the spark; a little unwilling at first "CLIFTON HILL" More personal than other carpe noctem poems she's pleased with the gloom. converses with the dead very personally landscape poem Yearsley identifies with Louisa? Moves uneasily from inhospitable landscape to lamentation; impoverished "To Mr ****, An Unlettered Poet, on Genius Unimproved" Ineffability topos: can't be spoken rejects the Muses as merely a name for a process which occurs within our soul knowing the Muses, being able to invoke the Muses: social capital, associated with classical poetry, for the elite prepares us for Burns and Blake, rejecting the strictures of reason and instead aligning herself with imagination inserts herself as part of the conversation about nature? I don't know, it's in my notes like that