Victorian Literature Midterm

"The Railway Station" -look for key words Age of Iron Axes/hammers Baron/Minstrel Knight/pilgrims Legends Greeting/farewell Meetings Partings Life's cup of Parting Life's sternest, last Farewell

Dora Greenwell -She met people on trains, trains are a place of farewell -Romantic conception of human experience reacting against the classical period--we are born as monsters and then society civilizes us, romantics say opposite--we are born good then society corrupts us -Greenwell wants to argue that industry is good and we don't need nature to refresh our spirits -How does she elevate the space of the railway station? -Time stops when "memory comforts hope"--snapshot of happy moment -Place of joy because you see people that you love and trains make travel easier so you can meet in the same time and space -Partings are good because they bring people closer together--intensifies emotions that you feel for that person -We still have grand gestures from the old days of legend and honor, but now they're done on trains -Elevation through parallel with Romanticized past, elevated human interactions -We get the same experience with death as we do with trains--goodbye, universal experience

"The Picture and the Scroll"

Dora Greenwell -Stylistic device: repetition -Spousal wreath: wreath worn to transition into marriage -Bride: getting ready to leave childhood home to get married, singer: giving up her career to get married -Duality of women: same scene with different women, ending of a former identity -Expected to give up job when you get married, give up freedom of expression, marriage is a loss of your identity and your passion

Aurora Leigh

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek; perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat." Such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace—all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech—which I have not—to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark"—and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse— E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

-"My Last Duchess" -Robert Browning -Homeboy is crazy -If I told her how to behave, that would be beneath me -You better let the next wife know what will happen if she doesn't behave up to standards -Poem for comparison: Porphyria's Lover by Browning

I Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas, Can ye listen in your silence? Can your mystic voices tell us Where ye hide? In floating islands, With a wind that evermore Keeps you out of sight of shore? Pan, Pan is dead. II In what revels are ye sunken In old Ethiopia? Have the Pygmies made you drunken, Bathing in mandragora Your divine pale lips that shiver Like the lotus in the river? Pan, Pan is dead. III Do ye sit there still in slumber, In gigantic Alpine rows? The black poppies out of number Nodding, dripping from your brows To the red lees of your wine, And so kept alive and fine? Pan, Pan is dead. IV Or lie crushed your stagnant corses Where the silver spheres roll on, Stung to life by centric forces Thrown like rays out from the sun? -- While the smoke of your old altars Is the shroud that round you welters? Great Pan is dead. V 'Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas' Said the old Hellenic tongue, -- Said the hero-oaths, as well as Poets' songs the sweetest sung: Have ye grown deaf in a day? Can ye speak not yea or nay, Since Pan is dead? VI Do ye leave your rivers flowing All alone, O Naiades, While your drenched locks dry slow in This cold feeble sun and breeze? Not a word the Naiads say, Though the rivers run for aye; For Pan is dead. VII From the gloaming of the oak-wood, O ye Dryads, could ye flee? At the rushing thunderstroke, would No sob tremble through the tree? Not a word the Dryads say, Though the forests wave for aye; For Pan is dead. VIII Have ye left the mountain places, Oreads wild, for other tryst? Shall we see no sudden faces Strike a glory through the mist? Not a sound the silence thrills Of the everlasting hills: Pan, Pan is dead. IX O twelve gods of Plato's vision, Crowned to starry wanderings, With your chariots in procession And your silver clash of wings! Very pale ye seem to rise, Ghosts of Grecian deities, Now Pan is dead! X Jove, that right hand is unloaded Whence the thunder did prevail, While in idiocy of godhead Thou art staring the stars pale! And thine eagle, blind and old, Roughs his feathers in the cold. Pan, Pan is dead. XI Where, O Juno, is the glory Of thy regal look and tread? Will they lay, for evermore, thee On thy dim, straight golden bed? Will thy queendom all lie hid Meekly under either lid? Pan, Pan is dead. XII Ha, Apollo! floats his golden Hair all mist-like where he stands, While the Muses hang enfolding Knee and foot with faint wild hands? 'Neath the clanging of thy bow, Niobe looked lost as thou! Pan, Pan is dead. XIII Shall the casque with its brown iron Pallas' broad blue eyes eclipse, And no hero take inspiring From the god-Greek of her lips? 'Neath her olive dost thou sit, Mars the mighty, cursing it? Pan, Pan is dead. XIV Bacchus, Bacchus! on the panther He swoons, bound with his own vines; And his Maenads slowly saunter, Head aside, among the pines, While they murmur dreamingly 'Evohe! -- ah -- evohe! -- Ah, Pan is dead!' XV Neptune lies beside the trident, Dull and senseless as a stone; And old Pluto deaf and silent Is cast out into the sun: Ceres smileth stern thereat, 'We all now are desolate -- Now Pan is dead.' XVI Aphrodite! dead and driven As thy native foam thou art; With the cestus long done heaving On the white calm of thine heart! Ai Adonis! at that shriek Not a tear runs down her cheek -- Pan, Pan is dead. XVII And the Loves, we used to know from One another, huddled lie, Frore as taken in a snow-storm, Close beside her tenderly; As if each had weakly tried Once to kiss her as he died. Pan, Pan is dead. XVIII What, and Hermes? Time enthralleth All thy cunning, Hermes, thus, And the ivy blindly crawleth Round thy brave caduceus? Hast thou no new message for us, Full of thunder and Jove-glories? Nay, Pan is dead. XIX Crowned Cybele's great turret Rocks and crumbles on her head; Roar the lions of her chariot Toward the wilderness, unfed: Scornful children are not mute, -- 'Mother, mother, walk afoot, Since Pan is dead!' XX In the fiery-hearted centre Of the solemn universe, Ancient Vesta, -- who could enter To consume thee with this curse? Drop thy gray chin on thy knee, O thou palsied Mystery! For Pan is dead. XXI Gods! we vainly do adjure you, -- Ye return nor voice nor sign! Not a votary could secure you Even a grave for your Divine: Not a grave, to show thereby Here these gray old gods do lie. Pan, Pan is dead. XXII Even that Greece who took your wages Calls the obolus outworn; And the hoarse, deep-throated ages Laugh your godships unto scorn: And the poets do disclaim you, Or grow colder if they name you -- And Pan is dead. XXIII Gods bereaved, gods belated, With your purples rent asunder! Gods discrowned and desecrated, Disinherited of thunder! Now, the goats may climb and crop The soft grass on Ida's top -- Now Pan is dead. XXIV Calm, of old, the bark went onward, When a cry more loud than wind Rose up, deepened, and swept sunward From the piled Dark behind; And the sun shrank and grew pale, Breathed against by the great wail -- 'Pan, Pan is dead.' XXV And the rowers from the benches Fell, each shuddering on his face, While departing Influences Struck a cold back through the place; And the shadow of the ship Reeled along the passive deep -- 'Pan, Pan is dead.' XXVI And that dismal cry rose slowly And sank slowly through the air, Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair! And they heard the words it said -- PAN IS DEAD -- GREAT PAN IS DEAD -- PAN, PAN IS DEAD. XXVII 'Twas the hour when One in Sion Hung for love's sake on a cross; When His brow was chill with dying And His soul was faint with loss; When his priestly blood dropped downward And His kingly eyes looked throneward -- Then, Pan was dead. XXVIII By the love, He stood alone in, His sole Godhead rose complete, And the false gods fell down moaning Each from off his golden seat; All the false gods with a cry Rendered up their deity -- Pan, Pan was dead. XXIX Wailing wide across the islands, They rent, vest-like, their Divine; And a darkness and a silence Quenched the light of every shrine; And Dodona's oak swang lonely Henceforth, to the tempest only: Pan, Pan was dead. XXX Pythia staggered, feeling o'er her Her lost god's forsaking look; Straight her eyeballs filmed with horror And her crispy fillets shook And her lips gasped, through their foam, For a word that did not come. Pan, Pan was dead. XXXI O ye vain false gods of Hellas, Ye are silent evermore! And I dash down this old chalice Whence libations ran of yore. See, the wine crawls in the dust Wormlike -- as your glories must, Since Pan is dead. XXXII Get to dust, as common mortals, By a common doom and track! Let no Schiller from the portals Of that Hades call you back, Or instruct us to weep all At your antique funeral. Pan, Pan is dead. XXXIII By your beauty, which confesses Some chief Beauty conquering you, -- By our grand heroic guesses Through your falsehood at the True, -- We will weep not! earth shall roll Heir to each god's aureole -- And Pan is dead. XXXIV Earth outgrows the mythic fancies Sung beside her in her youth, And those debonair romances Sound but dull beside the truth. Phoebus' chariot-course is run: Look up, poets, to the sun! Pan, Pan is dead. XXXV Christ hath sent us down the angels; And the whole earth and the skies Are illumed by altar-candles Lit for blessed mysteries; And a Priest's hand through creation Waveth calm and consecration: And Pan is dead. XXXVI Truth is fair: should we forgo it? Can we sigh right for a wrong? God Himself is the best Poet, And the Real is His song. Sing his truth out fair and full, And secure his beautiful! Let Pan be dead! XXXVII Truth is large: our aspiration Scarce embraces half we be. Shame, to stand in His creation And doubt truth's sufficiency! -- To think God's song unexcelling The poor tales of our own telling -- When Pan is dead! XXXVIII What is true and just and honest, What is lovely, what is pure, All of praise that hath admonisht, All of virtue, -- shall endure; These are themes for poets' uses, Stirring nobler than the Muses, Ere Pan was dead. XXXIX O brave poets, keep back nothing, Nor mix falsehood with the whole! Look up Godward; speak the truth in Worthy song from earnest soul: Hold, in high poetic duty, Truest Truth the fairest Beauty! Pan, Pan is dead.

-"The Dead Pan" -Elizabeth Barrett Browning -Pan= god of rustic-ness/living things, has been used as symbol of anti-Christ, Pan is symbolic for everything Christianity is not and everything that is Hellenistic -We shouldn't like the gods because they're lazy and not useful, they drink, they're not listening to you, they have no meaning, they're drug addicts -Stanza 28: Jesus is able to stand alone, he is true -The point of poetry should be to reveal a truth to the reader, if you don't write the truth then you're wrong -Could compare to "A Vision of Sin" by Tennyson--both comment on the moral decline of society and its effects on people

There rests a shade above yon town, A dark funereal shroud: 'Tis not the tempest hurrying down, 'Tis not a summer cloud. The smoke that rises on the air Is as a type and sign; A shadow flung by the despair Within those streets of thine. That smoke shuts out the cheerful day, The sunset's purple hues, The moonlight's pure and tranquil ray The morning's pearly dews. Such is the moral atmosphere Around thy daily life; Heavy with care, and pale with fear, With future tumult rife. There rises on the morning wind A low appalling cry, A thousand children are resigned To sicken and to die! We read of Moloch's sacrifice, We sicken at the name, And seem to hear the infant cries -- And yet we do the same; -- And worse -- 'twas but a moment's pain The heathen altar gave, But we give years, -- our idol, Gain, Demands a living grave! How precious is the little one, Before his mother's sight, With bright hair dancing in the sun, And eyes of azure light! He sleeps as rosy as the south For summer days are long; A prayer upon the little mouth, Lulled by his nurse's song. Love is around him, and his hours Are innocent and free; His mind essays its early powers Beside his mother's knee. When after-years of trouble come, Such as await man's prime, How will he think of that dear home, And childhood's lovely time! And such should childhood ever be, The fairy well, to bring To life's worn, weary memory The freshness of its spring. But here the order is reversed, And infancy, like age, Knows of existence but its worst, One dull and darkened page; -- Written with tears and stamped with toil, Crushed from the earliest hour: Weeds darkening on the bitter soil, That never knew a flower. Look on yon child, it droops the head, Its knees are bowed with pain; It mutters from its wretched bed, O, let me sleep again! Alas! 'tis time, the mother's eyes Turn mournfully away; Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise, And yet it is not day. The lantern's lit -- she hurries forth, The spare cloak's scanty fold Scarce screens her from the snowy north; The child is pale and cold. And wearily the little hands Their task accustomed ply; While daily, some 'mid those pale bands, Droop, sicken, pine, and die. Good God! to think upon a child That has no childish days, No careless play, no frolics wild, No words of prayer and praise! Man from the cradle -- 'tis too soon To earn their daily bread, And heap the heat and toil of noon Upon an infant's head. To labor ere their strength be come, Or starve, -- is such the doom That makes of many an English home One long and living tomb? Is there no pity from above, -- No mercy in those skies; Hath then the heart of man no love, To spare such sacrifice? O, England! though thy tribute waves Proclaim thee great and free, While those small children pine like slaves, There is a curse on thee!

-"The Factory" -4 lines per stanza -Letitia E. Landon -Child labor poem with thesis: child labor is bad -How does she convince her readers to be against child labor? -Contrast between stanzas 2/3: smoke shuts out what's natural-- day/moonlight -Contrast in stanzas 6/7: Moloch (monster from Bible) wants sacrifice-- we also have children in a living grave -What do we gain through these juxtapositions? -Puts us in position of pagan view/alternate viewpoint -Natural gets associated with what nature should be--potential to live happily/natural light is blocked out -Stanzas 8-10: idyllic childhood -Stanzas 13-end: working child is sick, reversal of order -Uses juxtaposition throughout to present the importance of choice, a good way to establish feelings then manipulate them, makes the reader have an epiphany on their own, shows us how this is unnatural and backwards -Last stanza: allusion to rural Britannia (song) that boasts they've never enslaved anyone else--Mother England is hypocritical -Poem for comparison: Infanticide in Madagascar by Landon

Part I On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; The yellow-leaved waterlily The green-sheathed daffodilly Tremble in the water chilly Round about Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens shiver. The sunbeam showers break and quiver In the stream that runneth ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. Underneath the bearded barley, The reaper, reaping late and early, Hears her ever chanting cheerly, Like an angel, singing clearly, O'er the stream of Camelot. Piling the sheaves in furrows airy, Beneath the moon, the reaper weary Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy, Lady of Shalott.' The little isle is all inrail'd With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd With roses: by the marge unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken sail'd, Skimming down to Camelot. A pearl garland winds her head: She leaneth on a velvet bed, Full royally apparelled, The Lady of Shalott. Part II No time hath she to sport and play: A charmed web she weaves alway. A curse is on her, if she stay Her weaving, either night or day, To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be; Therefore she weaveth steadily, Therefore no other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. She lives with little joy or fear. Over the water, running near, The sheepbell tinkles in her ear. Before her hangs a mirror clear, Reflecting tower'd Camelot. And as the mazy web she whirls, She sees the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market girls Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot: And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, came from Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead Came two young lovers lately wed; 'I am half sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott. Part III A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flam'd upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down from Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down from Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over green Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down from Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:' Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom She made three paces thro' the room She saw the water-flower bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; 'The curse is come upon me,' cried The Lady of Shalott. Part IV In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Outside the isle a shallow boat Beneath a willow lay afloat, Below the carven stern she wrote, The Lady of Shalott. A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight, All raimented in snowy white That loosely flew (her zone in sight Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright) Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot, Though the squally east-wind keenly Blew, with folded arms serenely By the water stood the queenly Lady of Shalott. With a steady stony glance— Like some bold seer in a trance, Beholding all his own mischance, Mute, with a glassy countenance— She look'd down to Camelot. It was the closing of the day: She loos'd the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. As when to sailors while they roam, By creeks and outfalls far from home, Rising and dropping with the foam, From dying swans wild warblings come, Blown shoreward; so to Camelot Still as the boathead wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her chanting her deathsong, The Lady of Shalott. A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy, She chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her eyes were darken'd wholly, And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot: For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden wall and gallery, A pale, pale corpse she floated by, Deadcold, between the houses high, Dead into tower'd Camelot. Knight and burgher, lord and dame, To the planked wharfage came: Below the stern they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest, Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest. There lay a parchment on her breast, That puzzled more than all the rest, The wellfed wits at Camelot. 'The web was woven curiously, The charm is broken utterly, Draw near and fear not,—this is I, The Lady of Shalott.'

-"The Lady of Shalott" -Lord Alfred Tennyson

Thou shalt have one God only; who Would tax himself to worship two? God's image nowhere shalt thou see, Save haply in the currency: Swear not at all; since for thy curse Thine enemy is not the worse: At church on Sunday to attend Will help to keep the world thy friend: Honor thy parents; that is, all From whom promotion may befall: Thou shalt not kill; but needst not strive Officiously to keep alive: Adultery it is not fit Or safe, for women, to commit: Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, When 'tis so lucrative to cheat: False witness not to bear be strict; And cautious, ere you contradict. Thou shalt not covet; but tradition Sanctions the keenest competition.

-"The Latest Decalogue" -Arthur Hugh Clough -Updated Ten Commandments: -graven image (idol)--currency is now worshiped instead of a false idol -don't kill--DNR so don't go out of your way to keep them alive -don't covet--compete and take them down -don't steal--cheat -Like a loophole: not technically breaking the law, but also not following its true message -The spirits of things live on in the things we value

Vex not thou the poet's mind With thy shallow wit Vex not thou the poet's mind For thou cannot fathom it Clear and bright it should be ever Flowing like a crystal river Bright as light, and clear as wind Dark-browed sophist, come not anear All the place is holy ground Hollow Smile and frozen snear Come not here Holy water will I pour Into every spicy flower Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer In your eye there is death There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird's din In the heard of the garden the merry bird chants It would fall to the ground if you came in In the middle leaps a fountain Like sheet lightning Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder All day and all night it is ever drawn From the brain of the purple mountain Which stands in the distance yonder It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from Heaven above And it sings a song of undying love, And yet, though its voice be so clear and full, You never would hear it; your ears are so dull; So keep where you are: you are foul with sin It would shrink to the earth if you came in

"The Poet's Mind" -Lord Alfred Tennyson -How does "The Poet's Mind" characterize the poet's mind? -Confrontational, special, better, fragile, easily distracted, pure, isolated, has its own thing, sacred/holy Stylistic devices: -extended metaphor in line 12

I. WHEN fallen man from Paradise was driven, Forth to a world of labour, death, and care; Still, of his native Eden, bounteous Heaven Resolved one brief memorial to spare, And gave his offspring an imperfect share Of that lost happiness, amid decay; Making their first approach to life seem fair, And giving, for the Eden past away, CHILDHOOD, the weary life's long happy holyday. [Page 12] II. Sacred to heavenly peace, those years remain! And when with clouds their dawn is overcast, Unnatural seem the sorrow and the pain (Which rosy joy flies forth to banish fast, Because that season's sadness may not last). Light is their grief! a word of fondness cheers The unhaunted heart; the shadow glideth past; Unknown to them the weight of boding fears, And soft as dew on flowers their bright, ungrieving tears. III. See the Stage-Wonder (taught to earn its bread By the exertion of an infant skill), Forsake the wholesome slumbers of its bed, And mime, obedient to the public will. Where is the heart so cold that does not thrill With a vexatious sympathy, to see That child prepare to play its part, and still With simulated airs of gaiety Rise to the dangerous rope, and bend the supple knee? [Page 13] IV. Painted and spangled, trembling there it stands, Glances below for friend or father's face, Then lifts its small round arms and feeble hands With the taught movements of an artist's grace: Leaves its uncertain gilded resting-place- Springs lightly as the elastic cord gives way- And runs along with scarce perceptible pace- Like a bright bird upon a waving spray, Fluttering and sinking still, whene'er the branches play. V. Now watch! a joyless and distorted smile Its innocent lips assume; (the dancer's leer!) Conquering its terror for a little while: Then lets the TRUTH OF INFANCY appear, And with a stare of numbed and childish fear Looks sadly towards the audience come to gaze On the unwonted skill which costs so dear, While still the applauding crowd, with pleased amaze, Ring through its dizzy ears unwelcome shouts of praise. [Page 14] VI. What is it makes us feel relieved to see That hapless little dancer reach the ground; With its whole spirit's elasticity Thrown into one glad, safe, triumphant bound? Why are we sad, when, as it gazes round At that wide sea of paint, and gauze, and plumes, (Once more awake to sense, and sight, and sound,) The nature of its age it re-assumes, And one spontaneous smile at length its face illumes? VII. Because we feel, for Childhood's years and strength, Unnatural and hard the task hath been;- Because our sickened souls revolt at length, And ask what infant-innocence may mean, Thus toiling through the artificial scene;- Because at that word, CHILDHOOD, start to birth All dreams of hope and happiness serene- All thoughts of innocent joy that visit earth- Prayer-slumber-fondness-smiles-and hours of rosy mirth. [Page 15] VIII. And therefore when we hear the shrill faint cries Which mark the wanderings of the little sweep; Or when, with glittering teeth and sunny eyes, The boy-Italian's voice, so soft and deep, Asks alms for his poor marmoset asleep; They fill our hearts with pitying regret, Those little vagrants doomed so soon to weep- As though a term of joy for all was set, And that their share of Life's long suffering was not yet. IX. Ever a toiling child doth make us sad: 'T is an unnatural and mournful sight, Because we feel their smiles should be so glad, Because we know their eyes should be so bright. What is it, then, when, tasked beyond their might, They labour all day long for others' gain,- Nay, trespass on the still and pleasant night, While uncompleted hours of toil remain? Poor little FACTORY SLAVES-for You these lines complain! [Page 16] X. Beyond all sorrow which the wanderer knows, Is that these little pent-up wretches feel; Where the air thick and close and stagnant grows, And the low whirring of the incessant wheel Dizzies the head, and makes the senses reel: There, shut for ever from the gladdening sky, Vice premature and Care's corroding seal Stamp on each sallow cheek their hateful die, Line the smooth open brow, and sink the saddened eye. XI. For them the fervid summer only brings A double curse of stifling withering heat; For them no flowers spring up, no wild bird sings, No moss-grown walks refresh their weary feet;- No river's murmuring sound;-no wood-walk, sweet With many a flower the learned slight and pass;- Nor meadow, with pale cowslips thickly set Amid the soft leaves of its tufted grass,- Lure them a childish stock of treasures to amass. [Page 17] XII. Have we forgotten our own infancy, That joys so simple are to them denied?- Our boyhood's hopes-our wanderings far and free, Where yellow gorse-bush left the common wide And open to the breeze?-The active pride Which made each obstacle a pleasure seem; When, rashly glad, all danger we defied, Dashed through the brook by twilight's fading gleam, Or scorned the tottering plank, and leapt the narrow stream? XIII. In lieu of this,-from short and bitter night, Sullen and sad the infant labourer creeps; He joys not in the glow of morning's light, But with an idle yearning stands and weeps, Envying the babe that in its cradle sleeps: And ever as he slowly journeys on, His listless tongue unbidden silence keeps; His fellow-labourers (playmates hath he none) Walk by, as sad as he, nor hail the morning sun. [Page 18] XIV. Mark the result. Unnaturally debarred All nature's fresh and innocent delights, While yet each germing energy strives hard, And pristine good with pristine evil fights; When every passing dream the heart excites, And makes even guarded virtue insecure; Untaught, unchecked, they yield as vice invites: With all around them cramped, confined, impure, Fast spreads the moral plague which nothing new shall cure. XV. Yes, this reproach is added; (infamous In realms which own a Christian monarch's sway!) Not suffering only is their portion, thus Compelled to toil their youthful lives away: Excessive labour works the SOUL's decay- Quenches the intellectual light within- Crushes with iron weight the mind's free play- Steals from us LEISURE purer thoughts to win- And leaves us sunk and lost in dull and native sin. [Page 19] XVI. Yet in the British Senate men rise up, (The freeborn and the fathers of our land!) And while these drink the dregs of Sorrow's cup, Deny the sufferings of the pining band. With nice-drawn calculations at command, They prove-rebut-explain-and reason long; Proud of each shallow argument they stand, And prostitute their utmost powers of tongue Feebly to justify this great and glaring wrong. XVII. So rose, with such a plausible defence Of the unalienable RIGHT OF GAIN, Those who against Truth's brightest eloquence Upheld the cause of torture and of pain: And fear of Property's Decrease made vain, For years, the hope of Christian Charity To lift the curse from SLAVERY's dark domain, And send across the wide Atlantic sea The watchword of brave men-the thrilling shout, "BE FREE!" [Page 20] XVIII. What is to be a slave? Is't not to spend A life bowed down beneath a grinding ill?- To labour on to serve another's end,- To give up leisure, health, and strength, and skill- And give up each of these against your will? Hark to the angry answer:-"Theirs is not A life of slavery; if they labour,-still We pay their toil. Free service is their lot; And what their labour yields, by us is fairly got." XIX. Oh, Men! blaspheme not Freedom! Are they free Who toil until the body's strength gives way? Who may not set a term for Liberty, Who have no time for food, or rest, or play, But struggle through the long unwelcome day Without the leisure to be good or glad? Such is their service-call it what you may. Poor little creatures, overtasked and sad, Your Slavery hath no name,-yet is its Curse as bad! [Page 21] XX. Again an answer. "'T is their parents' choice. By some employ the poor man's child must earn Its daily bread; and infants have no voice In what the allotted task shall be: they learn What answers best, or suits the parents' turn." Mournful reply! Do not your hearts inquire Who tempts the parents' penury? They yearn Toward their offspring with a strong desire, But those who starve will sell, even what they most require. XXI. We grant their class must labour-young and old; We grant the child the needy parents' tool: But still our hearts a better plan behold; No bright Utopia of some dreaming fool, But rationally just, and good by rule. Not against TOIL, but TOIL'S EXCESS we pray, (Else were we nursed in Folly's simplest school); That so our country's hardy children may Learn not to loathe, but bless, the well apportioned day. [Page 22] XXII. One more reply! The last reply-the great Answer to all that sense or feeling shows, To which all others are subordinate:- "The Masters of the Factories must lose By the abridgement of these infant woes. Show us the remedy which shall combine Our equal gain with their increased repose- Which shall not make our trading class repine, But to the proffered boon its strong effects confine." XXIII. Oh! shall it then be said that TYRANT acts Are those which cause our country's looms to thrive? That Merchant England's prosperous trade exacts This bitter sacrifice, e'er she derive That profit due, for which the feeble strive? Is her commercial avarice so keen, That in her busy multitudinous hive Hundreds must die like insects, scarcely seen, While the thick-thronged survivors work where they have been? [Page 23] XXIV. Forbid it, Spirit of the glorious Past Which gained our Isle the surname of 'The Free,' And made our shores a refuge at the last To all who would not bend the servile knee, The vainly-vanquished sons of Liberty! Here ever came the injured, the opprest, Compelled from the Oppressor's face to flee- And found a home of shelter and of rest In the warm generous heart that beat in England's breast. XXV. Here came the Slave, who straightway burst his chain, And knew that none could ever bind him more; Here came the melancholy sons of Spain; And here, more buoyant Gaul's illustrious poor Waited the same bright day that shone before. Here rests the Enthusiast Pole! and views afar With dreaming hope, from this protecting shore, The trembling rays of Liberty's pale star Shine forth in vain to light the too-unequal war! [Page 24] XXVI. And shall REPROACH cling darkly to the name Which every memory so much endears? Shall we, too, tyrannise,-and tardy Fame Revoke the glory of our former years, And stain Britannia's flag with children's tears? So shall the mercy of the English throne Become a by-word in the Nation's ears, As one who pitying heard the stranger's groan, But to these nearer woes was cold and deaf as stone. XXVII. Are there not changes made which grind the Poor? Are there not losses every day sustained,- Deep grievances, which make the spirit sore? And what the answer, when these have complained? "For crying evils there hath been ordained The REMEDY OF CHANGE; to obey its call Some individual loss must be disdained, And pass as unavoidable and small, Weighed with the broad result of general good to all. " [Page 25] XXVIII. Oh! such an evil now doth cry aloud! And CHANGE should be by generous hearts begun, Though slower gain attend the prosperous crowd; Lessening the fortunes for their children won. Why should it grieve a father, that his son Plain competence must moderately bless? That he must trade, even as his sire has done, Not born to independent idleness, Though honestly above all probable distress? XXIX. Rejoice! Thou hast not left enough of gold From the lined heavy ledger, to entice His drunken hand, irresolutely bold, To squander it in haggard haunts of vice:- The hollow rattling of the uncertain dice Eats not the portion which thy love bestowed;- Unable to afford that PLEASURE's price, Far off he slumbers in his calm abode, And leaves the Idle Rich to follow Ruin's road. [Page 26] XXX. Happy his lot! For him there shall not be The cold temptation given by vacant time; Leaving his young and uncurbed spirit free To wander thro' the feverish paths of crime! For him the Sabbath bell's returning chime Not vainly ushers in God's day of rest; No night of riot clouds the morning's prime: Alert and glad, not languid and opprest, He wakes, and with calm soul is the Creator blest. XXXI. Ye save for children! Fathers, is there not A plaintive magic in the name of child, Which makes you feel compassion for their lot On whom Prosperity hath never smiled? When with your OWN an hour hath been beguiled (For whom you hoard the still increasing store), Surely, against the face of Pity mild, Heart-hardening Custom vainly bars the door, For that less favoured race-THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR. [Page 27] XXXII. "The happy homes of England!"-they have been A source of triumph, and a theme for song; And surely if there be a hope serene And beautiful, which may to Earth belong, 'T is when (shut out the world's associate throng, And closed the busy day's fatiguing hum), Still waited for with expectation strong, Welcomed with joy, and overjoyed to come, The good man goes to seek the twilight rest of home. XXXIII. There sits his gentle Wife, who with him knelt Long years ago at God's pure altar-place; Still beautiful,-though all that she hath felt Hath calmed the glory of her radiant face, And given her brow a holier, softer grace. Mother of SOULS IMMORTAL, she doth feel A glow from Heaven her earthly love replace; Prayer to her lip more often now doth steal, And meditative hope her serious eyes reveal. [Page 28] XXXIV. Fondly familiar is the look she gives As he returns, who forth so lately went,- For they together pass their happy lives; And many a tranquil evening have they spent Since, blushing, ignorantly innocent, She vowed, with downcast eyes and changeful hue, To love Him only. Love fulfilled, hath lent Its deep repose; and when he meets her view, Her soft look only says,-"I trust-and I am true." XXXV. Scattered like flowers, the rosy children play- Or round her chair a busy crowd they press; But, at the FATHER's coming, start away, With playful struggle for his loved caress, And jealous of the one he first may bless. To each, a welcoming word is fondly said; He bends and kisses some; lifts up the less; Admires the little cheek, so round and red, Or smooths with tender hand the curled and shining head. [Page 29] XXXVI. Oh! let us pause, and gaze upon them now. Is there not one-beloved and lovely boy! With Mirth's bright seal upon his open brow, And sweet fond eyes, brimful of love and joy? He, whom no measure of delight can cloy, The daring and the darling of the set; He who, though pleased with every passing toy, Thoughtless and buoyant to excess, could yet Never a gentle word or kindly deed forget? XXXVII. And one, more fragile than the rest, for whom- As for the weak bird in a crowded nest- Are needed all the fostering care of home And the soft comfort of the brooding breast: One, who hath oft the couch of sickness prest! On whom the Mother looks, as it goes by, With tenderness intense, and fear supprest, While the soft patience of her anxious eye Blends with "God's will be done,"-"God grant thou may'st not die!" [Page 30] XXXVIII. And is there not the elder of the band? She with the gentle smile and smooth bright hair, Waiting, some paces back,-content to stand Till these of Love's caresses have their share; Knowing how soon his fond paternal care Shall seek his violet in her shady nook,- Patient she stands-demure, and brightly fair- Copying the meekness of her Mother's look, And clasping in her hand the favourite story-book. XXXIX. Wake, dreamer!-Choose;-to labour Life away, Which of these little precious ones shall go (Debarred of summer-light and cheerful play) To that receptacle for dreary woe, The Factory Mill?-Shall He, in whom the glow Of Life shines bright, whose free limbs' vigorous tread Warns us how much of beauty that we know Would fade, when he became dispirited, And pined with sickened heart, and bowed his fainting head? [Page 31] XL. Or shall the little quiet one, whose voice So rarely mingles in their sounds of glee, Whose life can bid no living thing rejoice, But rather is a long anxiety;- Shall he go forth to toil? and keep the free Frank boy, whose merry shouts and restless grace Would leave all eyes that used his face to see, Wistfully gazing towards that vacant space Which makes their fireside seem a lone and dreary place? XLI. Or, sparing these, send Her whose simplest words Have power to charm,-whose warbled, childish song, Fluent and clear and bird-like, strikes the chords Of sympathy among the listening throng,- Whose spirits light, and steps that dance along, Instinctive modesty and grace restrain: The fair young innocent who knows no wrong,- Whose slender wrists scarce hold the silken skein Which the glad Mother winds;-shall She endure this pain? [Page 32] XLII. Away! The thought-the thought alone brings tears! THEY labour-they, the darlings of our lives! The flowers and the sunbeams of our fleeting years; From whom alone our happiness derives A lasting strength, which every shock survives; The green young trees beneath whose arching boughs (When failing Energy no longer strives,) Our wearied age shall find a cool repose;- THEY toil in torture!-No-the painful picture close. XLIII. Ye shudder,-nor behold the vision more! Oh, Fathers! is there then one law for these, And one for the pale children of the Poor,- That to their agony your hearts can freeze; Deny their pain, their toil, their slow disease; And deem with false complaining they encroach Upon your time and thought? Is yours the Ease Which misery vainly struggles to approach, Whirling unthinking by, in Luxury's gilded coach? [Page 33] XLIV. Examine and decide. Watch through his day One of these little ones. The sun hath shone An hour, and by the ruddy morning's ray, The last and least, he saunters on alone. See where, still pausing on the threshold stone, He stands, as loth to lose the bracing wind; With wistful wandering glances backward thrown On all the light and glory left behind, And sighs to think that HE must darkly be confined! XLV. Enter with him. The stranger who surveys The little natives of that dreary place (Where squalid suffering meets his shrinking gaze), Used to the glory of a young child's face, Its changeful light, its coloured sparkling grace, (Gleams of Heaven's sunshine on our shadowed earth!) Starts at each visage wan, and bold, and base, Whose smiles have neither innocence nor mirth,- And comprehends the Sin original from birth. [Page 34] XLVI. There the pale Orphan, whose unequal strength Loathes the incessant toil it must pursue, Pines for the cool sweet evening's twilight length, The sunny play-hour, and the morning's dew: Worn with its cheerless life's monotonous hue, Bowed down, and faint, and stupefied it stands; Each half-seen object reeling in its view- While its hot, trembling, languid little hands Mechanically heed the Task-master's commands. XLVII. There, sounds of wailing grief and painful blows Offend the ear, and startle it from rest; (While the lungs gasp what air the place bestows;) Or misery's joyless vice, the ribald jest, Breaks the sick silence: staring at the guest Who comes to view their labour, they beguile The unwatched moment; whispers half supprest And mutterings low, their faded lips defile,- While gleams from face to face a strange and sullen smile. [Page 35] XLVIII. These then are his Companions: he, too young To share their base and saddening merriment, Sits by: his little head in silence hung; His limbs cramped up; his body weakly bent; Toiling obedient, till long hours so spent Produce Exhaustion's slumber, dull and deep. The Watcher's stroke,-bold-sudden-violent,- Urges him from that lethargy of sleep, And bids him wake to Life,-to labour and to weep! XLIX. But the day hath its End. Forth then he hies With jaded, faltering step, and brow of pain; Creeps to that shed,-his HOME,-where happy lies The sleeping babe that cannot toil for Gain; Where his remorseful Mother tempts in vain With the best portion of their frugal fare: Too sick to eat-too weary to complain- He turns him idly from the untasted share, Slumbering sinks down unfed, and mocks her useless care. [Page 36] L. Weeping she lifts, and lays his heavy head (With a woman's grieving tenderness) On the hard surface of his narrow bed; Bends down to give a sad unfelt caress, And turns away;-willing her God to bless, That, weary as he is, he need not fight Against that long-enduring bitterness, The VOLUNTARY LABOUR of the Night, But sweetly slumber on till day's returning light. LI. Vain hope! Alas! unable to forget The anxious task's long, heavy agonies, In broken sleep the victim labours yet! Waiting the boding stroke that bids him rise, He marks in restless fear each hour that flies- Anticipates the unwelcome morning prime- And murmuring feebly, with unwakened eyes, "Mother! Oh Mother! is it yet THE TIME?"- Starts at the moon's pale ray-or clock's far distant chime. [Page 37] LII. Such is his day and night! Now then return Where your OWN slumber in protected ease; They whom no blast may pierce, no sun may burn; The lovely, on whose cheeks the wandering breeze Hath left the rose's hue. Ah! not like these Does the pale infant-labourer ask to be: He craves no tempting food-no toys to please- Not Idleness,-but less of agony; Not Wealth,-but comfort, rest, CONTENTED POVERTY. LIII. There is, among all men, in every clime, A difference instinctive and unschooled: God made the MIND unequal. From all time By fierceness conquered, or by cunning fooled, The World hath had its Rulers and its Ruled:- Yea-uncompelled-men abdicate free choice, Fear their own rashness, and, by thinking cooled, Follow the counsel of some trusted voice;- A self-elected sway, wherein their souls rejoice. [Page 38] LIV. Thus, for the most part, willing to obey, Men rarely set Authority at naught: Albeit a weaker or a worse than they May hold the rule with such importance fraught: And thus the peasant, from his cradle taught That some must own, while some must till the land, Rebels not-murmurs not-even in his thought. Born to his lot, he bows to high command, And guides the furrowing plough with a contented hand. LV. But, if the weight which habit renders light Is made to gall the Serf who bends below- The dog that watched and fawned, prepares to bite! Too rashly strained, the cord snaps from the bow- Too tightly curbed, the steeds their riders throw- And so, (at first contented his fair state Of customary servitude to know,) Too harshly ruled, the poor man learns to hate And curse the oppressive law that bids him serve the Great. [Page 39] LVI. THEN first he asks his gloomy soul the CAUSE Of his discomfort; suddenly compares- Reflects-and with an angry Spirit draws The envious line between his lot and theirs, Questioning the JUSTICE of the unequal shares. And from the gathering of this discontent, Where there is strength, REVOLT his standard rears; Where there is weakness, evermore finds vent The sharp annoying cry of sorrowful complaint. LVII. Therefore should Mercy, gentle and serene, Sit by the Ruler's side, and share his Throne:- Watch with unerring eye the passing scene, And bend her ear to mark the feeblest groan; Lest due Authority be overthrown. And they that ruled perceive (too late confest!) Permitted Power might still have been their own, Had they but watched that none should be opprest- No just complaint despised-no WRONG left unredrest. [Page 40] LVIII. Nor should we, Christians in a Christian land, Forget who smiled on helpless infancy, And blest them with divinely gentle hand.- "Suffer that little children come to me:" Such were His words to whom we bow the knee! These to our care the Saviour did commend; And shall we His bequest treat carelessly, Who yet our full protection would extend To the lone Orphan child left by an Earthly Friend? LIX. No! rather what the Inspired Law imparts To guide our ways, and make our path more sure; Blending with Pity (native to our hearts), Let us to these, who patiently endure Neglect, and penury, and toil, secure The innocent hopes that to their age belong: So, honouring Him, the Merciful and Pure, Who watches when the Oppressor's arm grows strong,- And helpeth them to right-the Weak-who suffer wrong!

-"A Voice From the Factories" -9 line stanzas -Focus on religion -Caroline Norton -How does she convince us that child labor is bad? -Objection then counter-objection or argument --Verses 18-19 --Verses 20-21 --Verses 22-23 -Day in the life of the child laborer, illustrating the problem --Stanzas 44-48 --Stanzas 49-51 --Stanzas 52-? -Threatening with revolution --Stanzas 53-end -How are these methods effective? What do they do to the reader? -Strong strategy, makes reader feel guilty, appeals to rhetorical devices (pathos and logos), works temporally to show present/past/future, names names and points fingers -Poems for comparison: The Factory by Landon, The Cry of The Children by Barrett Browning, Infanticide in Madagascar by Landon

The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though childlike form. The flames rolled on - he would not go, Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud - 'Say, father, say If yet my task is done?' He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. 'Speak, father!' once again he cried, 'If I may yet be gone!' - And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath And in his waving hair; And look'd from that lone post of death, In still yet brave despair. And shouted but once more aloud, 'My father! must I stay?' While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapped the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder sound - The boy - oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea! With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part, But the noblest thing which perished there, Was that young faithful heart.

-"Casabianca" -Felicia Hemans -Tone: proud, brave, heroic, faithful -Portrays the child as angelic, more than human, worthy of respect like a solider or warrior -What is the poem elevating? -The notion of obeying orders (British notion) and accepting authority in spite of reason--surprise it's got a hidden religious meaning -Why is it important to use a child as the subject? -Defamiliarizes the situation, makes it seem like the situation is determined by God, makes it worse that it's a child

The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.

-"Dover Beach" -Matthew Arnold -Written on cusp of evolution, people questioning Christianity and undercutting the existence of God, crisis of faith -Emphasis on duality of words' meaning: -"Lies fair": the moon is shining but could also be interpreted as something that's not the truth -"Straits": water and difficulties -Etc.

Duty—that's to say, complying, With whate'er's expected here; On your unknown cousin's dying, Straight be ready with the tear; Upon etiquette relying, Unto usage nought denying, Lend your waist to be embraced, Blush not even, never fear; Claims of kith and kin connection, Claims of manners honour still, Ready money of affection Pay, whoever drew the bill. With the form conforming duly, Senseless what it meaneth truly, Go to church—the world require you, To balls—the world require you too, And marry—papa and mamma desire you, And your sisters and schoolfellows do. Duty—'tis to take on trust What things are good, and right, and just; And whether indeed they be or be not, Try not, test not, feel not, see not: 'Tis walk and dance, sit down and rise By leading, opening ne'er your eyes; Stunt sturdy limbs that Nature gave, And be drawn in a Bath chair along to the grave. 'Tis the stern and prompt suppressing, As an obvious deadly sin, All the questing and the guessing Of the souls own soul within: 'Tis the coward acquiescence In a destiny's behest, To a shade by terror made, Sacrificing, aye, the essence Of all that's truest, noblest, best: 'Tis the blind non-recognition Or of goodness, truth, or beauty, Save by precept and submission; Moral blank, and moral void, Life at very birth destroyed. Atrophy, exinanition! Duty! Yea, by duty's prime condition Pure nonentity of duty!

-"Duty" -Arthur Hugh Clough -Critique of duty -Ways in which Clough criticizes duty: -give up true and best virtue -unknown cousin's funeral--you better cry even though you don't know him -try not/test not/feel not--do what everybody tells you to do -opening never your eyes--you're figuratively blinding yourself through ignorance -moral blank/moral void--duty makes you a robot -to a shade by terror made--duty is a ghost made by terror because we're scared not to follow the laws of duty, it's like an implied threat -Could compare to "The Latest Decalogue," both comment on the hypocrisy of society--duty has become an obligation rather than an honor, while people try to cheat their way around religion

I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love's frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems; Even the dearest that I loved the best Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest. I long for scenes where man hath never trod A place where woman never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Untroubling and untroubled where I lie The grass below—above the vaulted sky.

-"I am" -John Clare -We feel sympathy for the speaker--his life is unsubstantial -Stylistic device: simile in line 2 -"I am" is asserting his identity, yet nothing he says is tangible and everything negates his existence

Thou thing of years departed! What ages have gone by, Since here the mournful seal was set By love and agony! Temple and tower have moulder'd, Empires from earth have pass'd, And woman's heart hath left a trace Those glories to outlast! And childhood's fragile image Thus fearfully enshrin'd, Survives the proud memorials rear'd By conquerors of mankind. Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering Upon thy mother's breast, When suddenly the fiery tomb Shut round each gentle guest? A strange, dark fate o'ertook you, Fair babe and loving heart! One moment of a thousand pangs Yet better than to part! Haply of that fond bosom On ashes here impress'd, Thou wert the only treasure, child! Whereon a hope might rest. Perchance all vainly lavish'd Its other love had been, And where it trusted, nought remain'd But thorns on which to lean. Far better then to perish, Thy form within its clasp, Than live and lose thee, precious one! From that impassion'd grasp. Oh! I could pass all relics Left by the pomps of old, To gaze on this rude monument, Cast in affection's mould. Love, human love! what art thou? Thy print upon the dust Outlives the cities of renown Wherein the mighty trust! Immortal, oh! immortal Thou art, whose earthly glow Hath given these ashes holiness It must, it must be so!

-"Image in Lava" -Felicia Hemans -Why do you think Hemans chose to focus on this subject? -Timeless subject that is part of universal experience, enduring, contrast between birth and death, elevates women/motherhood--tribute

One face looks out from all his canvases, One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans: We found her hidden just behind those screens, That mirror gave back all her loveliness. A queen in opal or in ruby dress, A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens, A saint, an angel — every canvas means The same one meaning, neither more or less. He feeds upon her face by day and night, And she with true kind eyes looks back on him, Fair as the moon and joyful as the light: Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim; Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright; Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

-"In an Artist's Studio" -Christina Rossetti -The way in which the model is represented in the paintings is not representative of her true appearance -She's waiting for something to happen but growing pale/sick -Narrator is taking tour of studio with pictures of a model who was waiting on a guy to love her--her depictions don't match up with real life because she is so depressed -Paintings are archetypes of women--elevated but flat categories, suggests he sees her as an ideal object of manipulation, she fulfills his dreams

A luxury of summer green Is on the southern plain, And water-flags, with dewy screen, Protect the ripening grain. Upon the sky is not a cloud To mar the golden glow, Only the palm-tree is allowed To fling its shade below. And silvery, 'mid its fertile brakes, The winding river glides, And every ray in heaven makes Its mirror of its tides. And yet it is a place of death -- A place of sacrifice; Heavy with childhood's parting breath, Weary with childhood's cries. The mother takes her little child -- Its face is like her own; The cradle of her choice is wild -- Why is it left alone? The trampling of the buffalo Is heard among the reeds, And sweeps around the carrion crow That amid carnage feeds. O! outrage upon mother Earth To yonder azure sky; A destined victim from its birth, The child is left to die. We shudder that such crimes disgrace E'en yonder savage strand; Alas! and hath such crime no trace Within our English land? Pause, ere we blame the savage code That such strange horror keeps; Perhaps within her sad abode The mother sits and weeps, And thinks how oft those eyelids smiled Whose close she may not see, And says, O, would to God, my child, I might have died for thee! Such law of bloodshed to annul Should be the Christian's toil; May not such law be merciful, To that upon our soil? Better the infant eyes should close Upon the first sweet breath, Than weary for their last repose, A living life in death! Look on the children of our poor, On many an English child: Better that it had died secure By yonder river wild. Flung careless on the waves of life, From childhood's earliest time, They struggle, one perpetual strife, With hunger and with crime. Look on the crowded prison-gate -- Instructive love and care In early life had saved the fate That waits on many there. Cold, selfish, shunning care and costs The poor are left unknown; I say, for every soul thus lost, We answer with our own.

-"Infanticide in Madagascar" -Letitia E. Landon -Madagascar setting: summer green, cloudless, golden glow, fertile, winding river -Act of infanticide: wild, carnage, outrage upon the earth--violent -England (Line 33): child labor is worse than the infant in Madagascar's death--infant does not suffer, England is supposed to be more civilized, land untouched by industrialization is beautiful, natural vs. unnatural -Line 49: direct address to middle class -We're creating criminals because of child labor -Makes distinction between poor/middle class: Landon blames the people who have a vote--if you support this, your child should be the one working or should go to jail instead

With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said "I am aweary, aweary I would that I were dead!" And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creak'd; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, Oh God, that I were dead!"

-"Mariana" -Lord Alfred Tennyson -Stylistic features: -repetition with word changes -dark imagery -rhyme scheme abab cddc efef (internal couplet) -anaphora -Literal meaning: -Mariana is upset because her man won't come to meet her (break up poem) -Figurative meaning: -Mariana's state of mind -How do Tennyson's stylistic choices affect the meaning of the poem? Disrepair of the outdoor represents her own situation--lack of care, takes us through 3 day cycle--cyclical like her mindset, feeling of hope then disappointment represented through the rhyme scheme

No coward soul is mine No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere I see Heaven's glories shine And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear O God within my breast Almighty ever-present Deity Life, that in me hast rest, As I Undying Life, have power in Thee Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts, unutterably vain, Worthless as withered weeds Or idlest froth amid the boundless main To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by thy infinity, So surely anchored on The steadfast rock of Immortality. With wide-embracing love Thy spirit animates eternal years Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears Though earth and moon were gone And suns and universes ceased to be And Thou wert left alone Every Existence would exist in thee There is not room for Death Nor atom that his might could render void Since thou art Being and Breath And what thou art may never be destroyed.

-"No Coward Soul is Mine" -Emily Bronte -Affirmation of faith in face of death, assertion of agency -Re-evaluating that which isn't seen as a concrete thing -Justification in confidence of her own eternity -How does she reify God's power and existence? -Men's creeds are not important and are dead like weeds -God is within her breast -Every existence would exist in thee --subjunctive formulation: even if things disappear, He is there -"Changes, Sustains" God does so much--dialectics

I never said I loved you, John: Why will you tease me, day by day, And wax a weariness to think upon With always "do" and "pray"? You know I never loved you, John; No fault of mine made me your toast: Why will you haunt me with a face as wan As shows an hour-old ghost? I dare say Meg or Moll would take Pity upon you, if you'd ask: And pray don't remain single for my sake Who can't perform that task. I have no heart?—Perhaps I have not; But then you're mad to take offence That I don't give you what I have not got: Use your common sense. Let bygones be bygones: Don't call me false, who owed not to be true: I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns Than answer "Yes" to you. Let's mar our pleasant days no more, Song-birds of passage, days of youth: Catch at to-day, forget the days before: I'll wink at your untruth. Let us strike hands as hearty friends; No more, no less: and friendship's good: Only don't keep in view ulterior ends, And points not understood In open treaty. Rise above Quibbles and shuffling off and on: Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,— No, thank you, John.

-"No, Thank You, John" -Christina Rossetti -Stylistic device: dramatic monologue -Characteristics of the speaker: headstrong/strong willed, resolute, annoyed, logical, fed up -John: trying to make her feel bad, is hella desperate -John is emotional while the female speaker is reasonable--gender role reversal -Speaker places herself in position of equality, she establishes conditions of "treaty" with John then shakes on it like a contract

The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me — she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!

-"Porphyria's Lover" -Robert Browning -Stylistic device: dramatic monologue -Personification in first 4 lines shows us that the speaker is very dramatic and attributes agency to inanimate objects (violence), gives us a taste of his habits -Lines 23-25: Porphyria is of a higher class and the speaker lives in a cottage, she's left her place to be with him but she can't fully because she'd sever her position within her social class -Motivation: capture the moment forever, she's his possession, he'll be the strong one for both of them, God didn't technically stop him from doing it -Lines 6-20: she has to put his arm around her waist, makes her shoulder bare, she goes against convention and makes her own decisions -Conceptual chiasmus: she has the shoulder and he leans on her--he puts her head on his shoulder, he's like a corpse in the beginning then she turns into his corpse -He wants to destroy the ways in which she has power over him (sexual, social, economic) -Poem for comparison: My Last Duchess by Browning

Unloved I love, unwept I weep, Grief I restrain, hope I repress; Vain is this anguish, fixed and deep, Vainer desires or means of bliss. My life is cold, love's fire being dead; That fire self-kindled, self-consumed; What living warmth erewhile it shed, Now to how drear extinction doomed! Devoid of charm how could I dream My unasked love would e'er return? What fate, what influence lit the flame I still feel inly, deeply burn? Alas! there are those who should not love; I to this dreary band belong; This knowing let me henceforth prove Too wise to list delusion's song. No, Syren! Beauty is not mine; Affection's joy I ne'er shall know; Lonely will be my life's decline, Even as my youth is lonely now. Come Reason—Science—Learning—Thought— To you my heart I dedicate; I have a faithful subject brought: Faithful because most desolate. Fear not a wandering, feeble mind: Stern Sovereign, it is all your own To crush, to cheer, to loose, to bind; Unclaimed, unshared, it seeks your throne. Soft may the breeze of summer blow, Sweetly its sun in valleys shine; All earth around with love may glow,— No warmth shall reach this heart of mine. Vain boast and false! Even now the fire Though smothered, slacked, repelled, is burning At my life's source; and stronger, higher, Waxes the spirit's trampled yearning. It wakes but to be crushed again: Faint I will not, nor yield to sorrow; Conflict and force will quell the brain; Doubt not I shall be strong to-morrow. Have I not fled that I may conquer? Crost the dark sea in firmest faith That I at last might plant my anchor Where love cannot prevail to death?

-"Reason" -Charlotte Bronte -Emo poem, says she doesn't want to love anyone but then contradicts herself by the end of the poem

'The mist is resting on the hill; The smoke is hanging in the air; The very clouds are standing still: A breathless calm broods everywhere. Thou pilgrim through this vale of tears, Thou, too, a little moment cease Thy anxious toil and fluttering fears, And rest thee, for a while, in peace.' 'I would, but Time keeps working still And moving on for good or ill: He will not rest or stay. In pain or ease, in smiles or tears, He still keeps adding to my years And stealing life away. His footsteps in the ceaseless sound Of yonder clock I seem to hear, That through this stillness so profound Distinctly strikes the vacant ear. For ever striding on and on, He pauses not by night or day; And all my life will soon be gone As these past years have slipped away. He took my childhood long ago, And then my early youth; and lo, He steals away my prime! I cannot see how fast it goes, But well my inward spirit knows The wasting power of time.' 'Time steals thy moments, drinks thy breath, Changes and wastes thy mortal frame; But though he gives the clay to death, He cannot touch the inward flame. Nay, though he steals thy years away, Their memory is left thee still, And every month and every day Leaves some effect of good or ill. The wise will find in Memory's store A help for that which lies before To guide their course aright; Then, hush thy plaints and calm thy fears; Look back on these departed years, And, say, what meets thy sight?' 'I see, far back, a helpless child, Feeble and full of causeless fears, Simple and easily beguiled To credit all it hears. More timid than the wild wood-dove, Yet trusting to another's care, And finding in protecting love Its only refuge from despair, - Its only balm for every woe, The only bliss its soul can know; - Still hiding in its breast. A tender heart too prone to weep, A love so earnest, strong, and deep It could not be expressed. Poor helpless thing! what can it do Life's stormy cares and toils among; - How tread this weary desert through That awes the brave and tires the strong? Where shall it centre so much trust Where truth maintains so little sway, Where seeming fruit is bitter dust, And kisses oft to death betray? How oft must sin and falsehood grieve A heart so ready to believe, And willing to admire! With strength so feeble, fears so strong, Amid this selfish bustling throng, How will it faint and tire! That tender love so warm and deep, How can it flourish here below? What bitter floods of tears must steep The stony soil where it would grow! O earth! a rocky breast is thine A hard soil and a cruel clime, Where tender plants must droop and pine, Or alter with transforming time. That soul, that clings to sympathy, As ivy clasps the forest tree, How can it stand alone? That heart so prone to overflow E'en at the thought of others' woe, How will it bear its own? How, if a sparrow's death can wring Such bitter tear-floods from the eye, Will it behold the suffering Of struggling, lost humanity? The torturing pain, the pining grief, The sin-degraded misery, The anguish that defies relief?' 'Look back again - What dost thou see?' 'I see one kneeling on the sod, With infant hands upraised to Heaven, A young heart feeling after God, Oft baffled, never backward driven. Mistaken oft, and oft astray, It strives to find the narrow way, But gropes and toils alone: That inner life of strife and tears, Of kindling hopes and lowering fears To none but God is known. 'Tis better thus; for man would scorn Those childish prayers, those artless cries, That darkling spirit tossed and torn, But God will not despise! We may regret such waste of tears Such darkly toiling misery, Such 'wildering doubts and harrowing fears, Where joy and thankfulness should be; But wait, and Heaven will send relief. Let patience have her perfect work: Lo, strength and wisdom spring from grief, And joys behind afflictions lurk! It asked for light, and it is heard; God grants that struggling soul repose And, guided by His holy word, It wiser than its teachers grows. It gains the upward path at length, And passes on from strength to strength, Leaning on Heaven the while: Night's shades departing one by one, It sees at last the rising sun, And feels his cheering smile. In all its darkness and distress For light it sought, to God it cried; And through the pathless wilderness, He was its comfort and its guide.' 'So was it, and so will it be: Thy God will guide and strengthen thee; His goodness cannot fail. The sun that on thy morning rose Will light thee to the evening's close, Whatever storms assail.' 'God alters not; but Time on me A wide and wondrous change has wrought: And in these parted years I see Cause for grave care and saddening thought. I see that time, and toil, and truth, An inward hardness can impart, - Can freeze the generous blood of youth, And steel full fast the tender heart.' 'Bless God for that divine decree! - That hardness comes with misery, And suffering deadens pain; That at the frequent sight of woe E'en Pity's tears forget to flow, If reason still remain! Reason, with conscience by her side, But gathers strength from toil and truth; And she will prove a surer guide Than those sweet instincts of our youth. Thou that hast known such anguish sore In weeping where thou couldst not bless, Canst thou that softness so deplore - That suffering, shrinking tenderness? Thou that hast felt what cankering care A loving heart is doomed to bear, Say, how canst thou regret That fires unfed must fall away, Long droughts can dry the softest clay, And cold will cold beget?' 'Nay, but 'tis hard to feel that chill Come creeping o'er the shuddering heart. Love may be full of pain, but still, 'Tis sad to see it so depart, - To watch that fire whose genial glow Was formed to comfort and to cheer, For want of fuel, fading so, Sinking to embers dull and drear, - To see the soft soil turned to stone For lack of kindly showers, - To see those yearnings of the breast, Pining to bless and to be blessed, Drop withered, frozen one by one, Till, centred in itself alone, It wastes its blighted powers. Oh, I have known a wondrous joy In early friendship's pure delight, - A genial bliss that could not cloy - My sun by day, my moon by night. Absence, indeed, was sore distress, And thought of death was anguish keen, And there was cruel bitterness When jarring discords rose between; And sometimes it was grief to know My fondness was but half returned. But this was nothing to the woe With which another truth was learned: - That I must check, or nurse apart, Full many an impulse of the heart And many a darling thought: What my soul worshipped, sought, and prized, Were slighted, questioned, or despised; - This pained me more than aught. And as my love the warmer glowed The deeper would that anguish sink, That this dark stream between us flowed, Though both stood bending o'er its brink; Until, as last, I learned to bear A colder heart within my breast; To share such thoughts as I could share, And calmly keep the rest. I saw that they were sundered now, The trees that at the root were one: They yet might mingle leaf and bough, But still the stems must stand alone. O love is sweet of every kind! 'Tis sweet the helpless to befriend, To watch the young unfolding mind, To guide, to shelter, and defend: To lavish tender toil and care, And ask for nothing back again, But that our smiles a blessing bear And all our toil be not in vain. And sweeter far than words can tell Their love whose ardent bosoms swell With thoughts they need not hide; Where fortune frowns not on their joy, And Prudence seeks not to destroy, Nor Reason to deride. Whose love may freely gush and flow, Unchecked, unchilled by doubt or fear, For in their inmost hearts they know It is not vainly nourished there. They know that in a kindred breast Their long desires have found a home, Where heart and soul may kindly rest, Weary and lorn no more to roam. Their dreams of bliss were not in vain, As they love they are loved again, And they can bless as they are blessed. O vainly might I seek to show The joys from happy love that flow! The warmest words are all too cold The secret transports to unfold Of simplest word or softest sigh, Or from the glancing of an eye To say what rapture beams; One look that bids our fears depart, And well assures the trusting heart. It beats not in the world alone - Such speechless rapture I have known, But only in my dreams. My life has been a morning sky Where Hope her rainbow glories cast O'er kindling vapours far and nigh: And, if the colours faded fast, Ere one bright hue had died away Another o'er its ashes gleamed; And if the lower clouds were grey, The mists above more brightly beamed. But not for long; - at length behold, Those tints less warm, less radiant grew; Till but one streak of paly gold Glimmered through clouds of saddening hue. And I am calmly waiting, now, To see that also pass away, And leave, above the dark hill's brow, A rayless arch of sombre grey.' 'So must it fare with all thy race Who seek in earthly things their joy: So fading hopes lost hopes shall chase Till Disappointment all destroy. But they that fix their hopes on high Shall, in the blue-refulgent sky, The sun's transcendent light, Behold a purer, deeper glow Than these uncertain gleams can show, However fair or bright. O weak of heart! why thus deplore That Truth will Fancy's dreams destroy? Did I not tell thee, years before, Life was for labour, not for joy? Cease, selfish spirit, to repine; O'er thine own ills no longer grieve; Lo, there are sufferings worse than thine, Which thou mayst labour to relieve. If Time indeed too swiftly flies, Gird on thine armour, haste, arise, For thou hast much to do; - To lighten woe, to trample sin, And foes without and foes within To combat and subdue. Earth hath too much of sin and pain: The bitter cup - the binding chain Dost thou indeed lament? Let not thy weary spirit sink; But strive - not by one drop or link The evil to augment. Strive rather thou, by peace and joy, The bitter poison to destroy, The cruel chain to break. O strive! and if thy strength be small, Strive yet the more, and spend it all For Love and Wisdom's sake!' 'O I have striven both hard and long But many are my foes and strong. My gains are light - my progress slow; For hard's the way I have to go, And my worst enemies, I know, Are these within my breast; And it is hard to toil for aye, - Through sultry noon and twilight grey To toil and never rest.' 'There is a rest beyond the grave, A lasting rest from pain and sin, Where dwell the faithful and the brave; But they must strive who seek to win.' "Show me that rest - I ask no more. Oh, drive these misty doubts away; And let me see that sunny shore, However far away! However wide this rolling sea, However wild my passage be, Howe'er my bark be tempest tossed, May it but reach that haven fair, May I but land and wander there, With those that I have loved and lost: With such a glorious hope in view, I'll gladly toil and suffer too. Rest without toil I would not ask; I would not shun the hardest task: Toil is my glory - Grief my gain, If God's approval they obtain. Could I but hear my Saviour say, - "I know thy patience and thy love; How thou hast held the narrow way, For my sake laboured night and day, And watched, and striven with them that strove; And still hast borne, and didst not faint," - Oh, this would be reward indeed!' 'Press forward, then, without complaint; Labour and love - and such shall be thy meed.'

-"Self Communion" -Anne Bronte -Her two selves split and have a conversation: how one half feels about its place on earth vs. how the other half feels about God and her duty -Pretty much tells herself to work harder because happiness is self indulgent, suffering will make you a better person because it builds character -Poem of comparison: Duty by Clough

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years ? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, — And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows ; The young birds are chirping in the nest ; The young fawns are playing with the shadows ; The young flowers are blowing toward the west— But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly ! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in the sorrow, Why their tears are falling so ? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago — The old tree is leafless in the forest — The old year is ending in the frost — The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest — The old hope is hardest to be lost : But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland ? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man's grief abhorrent, draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy — "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary;" "Our young feet," they say, "are very weak !" Few paces have we taken, yet are weary— Our grave-rest is very far to seek ! Ask the old why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold — And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old !" "True," say the children, "it may happen That we die before our time ! Little Alice died last year her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her — Was no room for any work in the close clay : From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, 'Get up, little Alice ! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries ; Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes ,— And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud, by the kirk-chime ! It is good when it happens," say the children, "That we die before our time !" Alas, the wretched children ! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have ! They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city — Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do — Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through ! But they answer, " Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine ? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine! "For oh," say the children, "we are weary, And we cannot run or leap — If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping — We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark, underground — Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round. "For all day, the wheels are droning, turning, — Their wind comes in our faces, — Till our hearts turn, — our heads, with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling — Turns the long light that droppeth down the wall, — Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling — All are turning, all the day, and we with all ! — And all day, the iron wheels are droning ; And sometimes we could pray, 'O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning) 'Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ' " Ay ! be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth — Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth ! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals — Let them prove their inward souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels ! — Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, As if Fate in each were stark ; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, To look up to Him and pray — So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, " Who is God that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred ? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word ! And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door : Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more ? " Two words, indeed, of praying we remember ; And at midnight's hour of harm, — 'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know no other words, except 'Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within His right hand which is strong. 'Our Father !' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 'Come and rest with me, my child.' "But, no !" say the children, weeping faster, " He is speechless as a stone ; And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to ! " say the children,—"up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find ! Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbelieving — We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do ye hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach ? For God's possible is taught by His world's loving — And the children doubt of each. And well may the children weep before you ; They are weary ere they run ; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun : They know the grief of man, without its wisdom ; They sink in the despair, without its calm — Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, — Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm, — Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly No dear remembrance keep,— Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly : Let them weep ! let them weep ! They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For they think you see their angels in their places, With eyes meant for Deity ;— "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ? Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants, And your purple shews your path ; But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence Than the strong man in his wrath !"

-"The Cry of the Children" -12 line stanzas -Elizabeth Barrett Browning -Rhetorical technique: -Lines 37-56: little Alice is lucky because she doesn't have to work, all the children are ready to die, death is so great that you wouldn't even recognize children who've died, grave=snowball=fun -Lines 57-76: too tired to care about childhood pursuits, color from their lives is gone because their bodies are ruined, they'd rather sleep in a field than play in it, brains are warped -Lines 121-132: God doesn't hear them or is speechless, provides no comfort, even Heaven seems dark and filled with machinery, sadness intervenes their hope, boss of the factory tells children that God wants them to work like this, evokes God to discipline children into working harder--makes God look sadistic -What is gained in the end by switching perspectives at the end to an extended metaphor? -Call to action, return to what you're supposed to be doing, demonizes England and makes them look savage, path draws attention to what you've done -How are Landon and Browning's approaches similar? -Both use savagery as a threat, similar subject matter -Poem of Comparison: Infanticide in Madagascar by Landon, The Factory by Landon

The poet in a golden clime was born With golden stars above; Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love He saw through life and death, through good and ill He saw through his own soul, The marvel of the everlasting will An open scroll, Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame: The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And winged with flame, Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, And of so fierce a flight, From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung Filling with light And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Them earthward till they lit; The, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, The fruitful wit Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew Where'er they fell, behold Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew A flower all gold, And bravely furnished all abroad to fling The winged shafts of truth, To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring Of Hope and Youth So many minds did gird their orbs with beams Though one did fling the fire Heaven flowed upon the soul in many dreams Of high desire Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world Like one great garden showed And through the wreaths of floating dark upcurled, Rare sunrise flowed And Freedom reared in that august sunrise Her beautiful bold brow, When rites and forms before his burning eyes Melted like snow There was no blood upon her maiden robes Sunned by those orient skies; But round about the circles of the globes Of her keen eyes And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame WISDOM, a name to shake All evil dreams of power-- a sacred name And when she spake Her words did gather thunder as they ran, And as the lightning to the thunder Which follows it, riving the spirit of man Making earth wonder So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirled But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word She shook the world.

-"The Poet" -Lord Alfred Tennyson -Tennyson's argument for why poets are useful and necessary to society-- poems/poets are influential, which creates revolution. Freedom appears with wisdom to change the world with the poets' words--poets lead to non-violent revolution that will bring peace to the world -How does the revolution occur? -Poet is gifted by God (some golden stuff) -The Poet thinks thoughts which turn into silver arrows -The arrows land and grow into golden flowers -The flowers also share wisdom which people gather -People make these flowers into crowns, which spread to other people -When everyone wears a flower hat, you're blinded by the sunlight/wisdom -How does Tennyson seem to be characterizing poets? -Truth tellers, humanitarians, influencers, cocky, wise, harmless weapons, word warriors

I HAD a vision when the night was late: A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown, But that his heavy rider kept him down. And from the palace came a child of sin, And took him by the curls, and led him in, Where sat a company with heated eyes, Expecting when a fountain should arise: A sleepy light upon their brows and lips— As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes— Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes, By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes .....

-"The Vision of Sin" -Alfred Tennyson -(much longer, about the orgy) -Five parts: -part one: inauguration of youth, deity types waiting for a fountain and getting into palace -part two: party -part three: God looks down with awful rose of dawn -part four: old man says to keep partying -part five: they all are dying but they want God to save them -Message: sin is hidden and turns you rotten, you don't pay the price of sin upfront -Poem for comparison: A Real Vision of Sin by Thompson, maybe one of the Brontes

Was sorrow ever like to our sorrow? Oh, God above! Will our night never change into a morrow Of joy and love? A deadly gloom goom is on us waking, sleeping, Like the darkness at noontide, That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping By the Crucified. Before us die our brothers of starvation: Around are cries of famine and despair Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation— Where—oh! where? If the angels ever hearken, downward bending, They are weeping, we are sure, At the litanies of human groans ascending From the crushed hearts of the poor. When the human rests in love upon the human, All grief is light; But who bends one kind glance to illumine Our life‐long night? The air around is ringing with their laughter— God has only made the rich to smile; But we—in our rags, and want, and woe—we follow after, Weeping the while. And the laughter seems but uttered to deride us. When—oh! when Will fall the frozen barriers that divide us From other men? Will ignorance for ever thus enslave us? Will misery for ever lay us low? All are eager with their insults, but to save us, None, none, we know. We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness, Nor the proud heart of youth, free and brave; Oh! a deathlike dream of wretchedness and sadness, Is life's weary journey to the grave. Day by day we lower sink and lower, Till the Godlike soul within, Falls crushed, beneath the fearful demon power Of poverty and sin. So we toil on, on with fever burning In heart and brain; So we toil on, on through bitter scorning, Want, woe, and pain: We dare not raise our eyes to the blue heaven, Or the toil must cease— We dare not breathe the fresh air God has given One hour in peace. VII. We must toil, though the light of life is burning, Oh, how dim! We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turning Our eyes to Him, Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly saying, With scarce moved breath While the paler hands, uplifted, aid the praying— "Lord, grant us Death!"

-"The Voice of the Poor" -8 line stanzas -Speranza (Lady Wilde) -Litanies: prayer of deprecation and intercession -Poem of comparison: The Factory by Landon, Infanticide in Madagascar by Landon, The Cry of the Children by Barrett Browning

Who taught this pleading to unpractised eyes? Who hid such import in an infant's gloom? Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise? Who mass'd, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom? Lo! sails that gleam a moment and are gone; The swinging waters, and the cluster'd pier. Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on, Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near. But thou, whom superfluity of joy Wafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain, Nor weariness, the full-fed soul's annoy-- Remaining in thy hunger and thy pain; Thou, drugging pain by patience; half averse From thine own mother's breast, that knows not thee; With eyes which sought thine eyes thou didst converse, And that soul-searching vision fell on me. Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known: Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth. Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own: Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth. What mood wears like complexion to thy woe? His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day, Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below? --Ah! thine was not the shelter, but the fray Some exile's, mindful how the past was glad? Some angel's, in an alien planet born? --No exile's dream was ever half so sad, Nor any angel's sorrow so forlorn. Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weigh Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore; But in disdainful silence turn away, Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more? Or do I wait, to hear some gray-hair'd king Unravel all his many-colour'd lore; Whose mind hath known all arts of governing, Mused much, loved life a little, loathed it more? Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope, Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give. --Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope, Foreseen thy harvest -- yet proceed'st to live. O meek anticipant of that sure pain Whose sureness gray-hair'd scholars hardly learn! What wonder shall time breed, to swell thy strain? What heavens, what earth, what sun shalt thou discern? Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star, Match that funereal aspect with her pall, I think, thou wilt have fathom'd life too far, Have known too much -- or else forgotten all. The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps; Hath sown with cloudless passages the tale Of grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps. Ah! not the nectarous poppy lovers use, Not daily labour's dull, Lethaean spring, Oblivion in lost angels can infuse Of the soil'd glory, and the trailing wing. And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may, In the throng'd fields where winning comes by strife; And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray, Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life; Though that blank sunshine blind thee; though the cloud That sever'd the world's march and thine, be gone; Though ease dulls grace, and Wisdom be too proud To halve a lodging that was all her own-- Once, ere the day decline, thou shalt discern, Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain! Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return, And wear this majesty of grief again.

-"To a Gipsy Child by the Sea-Shore" -Matthew Arnold -Arnold says that looking into the eyes of a child does not remind him of God like Wordsworth said -Anti-immortality ode to Wordsworth -The Gipsy child is like: -a hermit -an exile -an angel -stoics -the king -set apart from society, introspective, outcasts, privileged knowledge, sad, knows something special that we don't, knowledge that's not helpful -What is the point that Arnold is trying to make about Wordsworth's theory of immortality? -Looking at an outsider, if this gipsy child does not have God dust, then Wordsworth's thesis is false -God vs. truth--children haven't lived long enough to be depressed but they still know about things, everlasting grief, confirms that there is no meaning to life except sorrow

"Goblin Market"

-Christina Rossetti -Cultural/Biblical/Feminist allegories throughout

"A Real Vision of Sin" Like a soaking blanket overhead Spongy and lax the sky was spread Opaque as the eye of a fish long dead Like trees in a drawing gummed together Some trees stood dim in the drizzling weather Sweating mere blood-flowers gloomed the heather Like a festering gash left gaping wide That foul canal, long swooned from tide That marshy moorland did divide *****Look for groups of three!!!!

-James Thompson -Starts out bad right away like a nightmare or horror -Tone: hatred, animosity, discord between each other, grotesque -First person dialogue between gross couple -Infanticide, ate a dog and frog, they all die and drown together in a swamp--scare tactic/threat, defamiliarizing the world to shock us out of complacency, visual image -Poem for comparison: Vision of Sin by Tennyson, Infanticide in Madagascar by Landon

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

-Sonnet 43 -Elizabeth Barrett Browning -Structure of Italian sonnet: 14 lines, propose problem in first 8 lines then solution in final 6 lines -Speaker is trying to solve how much she loves him--she can't use her regular words, she has to use metaphors and similes -How does she explain love? -Quantitative assessments of love, physical assessment increased to qualitative by using her soul, associates her love with ethically moral values/childhood faith -Stylistic device: anaphora