ENGL341 Romanticism and Revolution

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king;2 Princes,3 the dregs of their dull race, who flow Through public scorn - mud from a muddy spring; Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know, But leech-like to their fainting country cling, 5 Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow. A people starved and stabbed in th' untilled field;4 An army, which liberticide5 and prey Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield;6 Golden and sanguine7 laws which tempt and slay; 10 Religion Christless, Godless - a book sealed; A senate, time's worst statute, unrepealed8 Are graves from which a glorious phantom may Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.

"England in 1819" - PB Shelley

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. 2 Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 5 So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. 3 I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew, 10 And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. 4 I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful - a fairy's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light, 15 And her eyes were wild. 5 I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;2 She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

"La Belle Dame Sans Merci"

It is the first mild day of March, Each minute sweeter than before, The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door. There is a blessing in the air 5 Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees and mountains bare,4 And grass in the green field. My sister, 'tis a wish of mine Now that our morning meal is done - 10 Make haste, your morning task resign, Come forth and feel the sun! Edward5 will come with you - and pray Put on with speed your woodland dress, And bring no book, for this one day 15 We'll give to idleness. No joyless forms6 shall regulate Our living calendar; We from today, my friend, will date The opening of the year.

"Lines Written at a Small Distance..." - William Wordsworth

stanza 1: The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark, now glittering, now reflecting gloom, Now lending splendour, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute2 brings 5 Of waters, with a sound but half its own,3 Such as a feeble brook will oft assume In the wild woods, among the mountains lone, Where waterfalls around it leap forever, Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river 10 Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.

"Mont Blanc" - PB Shelley

Thou still unravished bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,2 Sylvan historian,3 who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5 Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?4 What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels?5 What wild ecstasy? 10 2 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual6 ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

"Ode on a Grecian Urn"

I met a traveller from an antique land Who said, 'Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand Half-sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, 5 Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings, 10 Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away.'

"Ozymandias" - PB Shelley

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun, Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, 5 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd,2 and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, 10 For summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells. 2 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless3 on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 15 Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies,4 while thy hook5 Spares the next swath6 and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner7 thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20 Or by a cider-press,

"To Autumn"

Woman cannot have traditionally feminine traits in order to have sense

A Vindication of the Rights of Woman - Mary Wollstonecraft

one could say, simply, everything,everywhere, is white. but thatwould strain the point.one might just as well declareaffirmative action. instead,one observes only, that, there aresnow banks still that, despitethe negligible precipitation, ofrecent weeks, continue to grow,mounting their stark precipices,in the mind. mountains, and wherewe are allowed to move at all(one avoids saying "cliffs"), wallsof snow. deep white alleyways,archeological in their alternate,street plough shared layers ofdark and light dark and light,of virginal snow and interim grime.of solidifying all, the cold,all movement whitely predeterminedand spring's inevitable adventof minimal consolation.

Alvin Aubert, "If Winter Comes Can Spring Be Far Behind?"

Bob Southey! You're a poet—Poet-laureate, And representative of all the race; Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory at Last—yours has lately been a common case; And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at? With all the Lakers, in and out of place? A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye Like "four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye; II "Which pye being open'd they began to sing" (This old song and new simile holds good), "A dainty dish to set before the King," Or Regent, who admires such kind of food; And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, Explaining Metaphysics to the nation— I wish he would explain his Explanation. I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new one,Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, The age discovers he is not the true one;Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, I'll therefore take our ancient fr

Byron, Don Juan: Dedication and Canto I

The lamp must be replenished, but even then It will not burn so long as I must watch; My slumbers (if I slumber) are not sleep But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not. In my heart 5 There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within - and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men. But grief should be the instructor of the wise Sorrow is knowledge;3 they who know the most

Byron, Manfred

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awakened the crowing cock; Tu-whit!——Tu-whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew. 5 Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff bitch; From her kennel beneath the rock She makes answer to the clock, Four for the quarters and twelve for the hour, 10 Ever and aye, moonshine or shower, Sixteen short howls, not overloud; Some say she sees my lady's shroud. Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly but not dark. 15 The thin grey cloud is spread on high, It covers but not hides the sky. The moon is behind, and at the full, And yet she looks both small and dull. The night is chill, the cloud is grey: 20 'Tis a month before the month of May, And the spring comes slowly up this way. The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late 25 A furlong3 from the castle gate? She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothed knight Dreams that made her moan and leap As on her bed she lay in sleep; 30 And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal4 of her lover that's far away. She stole along, she nothing spoke, The breezes they were still also; And nou

Christabel - Samuel Coleridge

Hast thou a charm to stay2 the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, oh Chamouny! The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, dread mountain form, 5 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines How silently! Around thee and above, Deep is the sky, and black - transpicuous,3 deep, An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it As with a wedge! But when I look again, 10 It seems thy own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity. Oh dread and silent form! I gazed upon thee Till thou, still present to my bodily eye, Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in pray'r, 15 I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet thou, meantime, wast working on my soul, E'en like some deep enchanting melody, So sweet, we know not we are list'ning to it. But I awake, and with a busier mind 20 And active will self-conscious, offer now, Not, as before, involuntary pra

Coleridge, "Chamouny; The Hour before Sunrise: A Hymn"

Cease, Wilberforce, to urge thy generous aim!Thy Country knows the sin, and stands the shame!The Preacher, Poet, Senator in vainHas rattled in her sight the Negro's chain;With his deep groans assail'd her startled ear,And rent the veil that hid his constant tear;Forc'd her averted eyes his stripes to scan,Beneath the bloody scourge laid bare the man,Claimed Pity's tear, urged Conscience' strong controul,And flash'd conviction on her shrinking soul.The Muse, too soon awaked, with ready tongueAt Mercy's shrine applausive peans rung;And Freedom's eager sons, in vain foretoldA new Astrean reign, an age of gold:She knows and she persists-Still Afric bleeds,Uncheck'd, the human traffic still proceeds;She stamps her infamy to future time,And on her harden'd forehead seals the crime. In vain, to thy white standard gathering round,Wit, Worth, and Parts and Eloquence are found:In vain, to push to birth thy great design,Contending chiefs, and hostile virtues join;All, from conflicting ranks, of power possestTo rouse, to melt, or to inform the breast.Where seasoned tools of Avarice prevail,A Nation's eloquence, combined, must fail:Each flimsy sophistry by turns they try;The plausive argument, the da

Epistle to William Wilberforce - Anna Letitia Barbauld

reanimation, nature/nurture, connection to paradise lost

Frankenstein

The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a

Frost at Midnight - Samuel Coleridge

Oh what's the matter? What's the matter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill, That evermore his teeth they chatter,Chatter, chatter, chatter still? Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 5 Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; He has a blanket on his back, And coats enough to smother nine. In March, December, and in July,2 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 10 The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 15 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Young Harry was a lusty drover,3 And who so stout of limb as he? His cheeks were red as ruddy clover, His voice was like the voice of three. 20 Auld Goody4 Blake was old and poor, Ill fed she was, and thinly clad; And any man who passed her door Might see how poor a hut she had. All day she spun in her poor dwelling, 25 And then her three hours' work at night Alas, 'twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candlelight. This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,5 Her hut was on a cold hillside, 30 And in that country6 coals are dear,7 For they come far by wind and tide. By the same fire to boil their pottage,8 Two p

Good Blake and Harry Gill - William Wordsworth

In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone, Stands a gigantic leg, which far off throws The only shadow that the desert knows. 'I am great Ozymandias', saith the stone, 'The King of Kings; this mighty city shows The wonders of my hand.' The city's gone; Nought but the leg remaining to disclose The site of this forgotten Babylon. We wonder, and some hunter may express Wonder like ours, when through the wilderness Where London stood, holding the wolf in chase, He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess What powerful but unrecorded race Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

Horace Smith, "Ozymandias"

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, Sat grey-haired Saturn,2 quiet as a stone, Still as the silence round about his lair; 5 Forest on forest hung about his head Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. 10 A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more By reason of his fallen divinity

Hyperion: a fragment

'I have no name;I am but two days old.'What shall I call thee?'I happy am,Joy is my name.'Sweet joy befall thee! Pretty joy!Sweet joy, but two days old.Sweet joy I call thee:Thou dost smile,I sing the while;Sweet joy befall thee!

Infant Joy - William Blake, Songs of Innocence

My mother groaned, my father wept:Into the dangerous world I leapt,Helpless, naked, piping loud,Like a fiend hid in a cloud. Struggling in my father's hands,Striving against my swaddling bands,Bound and weary, I thought bestTo sulk upon my mother's breast.

Infant Sorrow - William Blake, Songs of Experience

Hear the voice of the Bard,Who present, past, and future, sees;Whose ears have heardThe Holy WordThat walked among the ancient trees; Calling the lapséd soul,And weeping in the evening dew;That might controlThe starry pole,And fallen, fallen light renew! 'O Earth, O Earth, return!Arise from out the dewy grass!Night is worn,And the mornRises from the slumbrous mass. 'Turn away no more;Why wilt thou turn away?The starry floor,The watery shore,Is given thee till the break of day.'

Introduction - William Blake, Songs of Experience

Piping down the valleys wild,Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he laughing said to me: 'Pipe a song about a Lamb!'So I piped with merry cheer.'Piper, pipe that song again.'So I piped: he wept to hear. 'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;Sing thy songs of happy cheer!'So I sung the same again,While he wept with joy to hear. 'Piper, sit thee down and writeIn a book, that all may read.'So he vanished from my sight;And I plucked a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen,And I stained the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.

Introduction - William Blake, Songs of Innocence

Of all the manias of this mad age, the most incurable, as well as the most common, seems to be no other than the metromanie.2 The just celebrity of Robert Burns and Miss Baillie3 has had the melancholy effect of turning the heads of we know not how many farm-servants and unmarried ladies; our very footmen compose tragedies, and there is scarcely a superannuated governess in the island that does not leave a roll of lyrics behind her in her bandbox.4 To witness the disease of any human understanding, however feeble, is distressing - but the spectacle of an able mind reduced to a state of insanity is of course ten times more afflicting. It is with such sorrow as this that we have contemplated the case of Mr John Keats. This young man appears to have received from nature talents of an excellent, perhaps even of a superior order - talents which, devoted to the purposes of any

J. G. Lockhart, "On the Cockney School of Poetry"

Autumn, I love thy parting look to view In cold November's day, so bleak and bare, When, thy life's dwindled thread worn nearly thro', With ling'ring, pott'ring pace, and head bleach'd bare, Thou, like an old man, bidd'st the world adieu. I love thee well: and often, when a child, Have roam'd the bare brown heath a flower to find; And in the moss-clad vale, and wood-bank wild Have cropt the little bell-flowers, pearly blue, That trembling peep the shelt'ring bush behind. When winnowing north-winds cold and bleaky blew, How have I joy'd, with dithering hands, to find, Each fading flower; and still how sweet the blast, Would bleak November's hour restore the joy that's past.

John Clare, "Written in November"

I wish you knew all that I think about genius and the heart - and yet I think you are thoroughly acquainted with my innermost breast in that respect, or you could not have known me even thus long and still hold me worthy to be your dear friend. In passing, however, I must say of one thing that has pressed upon me lately and increased my humility and capability of submission, and that is this truth: men of genius are great as certain ethereal chemicals operating on the mass of neutral intellect - but they have not any individuality, any determined character. I would call the top and head of those who have a proper self, men of power. But I am running my head into a subject which I am certain I could not do justice to under five years' study and 3 vols. octavo - and moreover long to be talking about the imagination. So, my dear Bailey, do not think of this unpleasant affair if possible - do not - I defy any

Keats's letters: to Benjamin Bailey

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo2 hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 5 That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne,3 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene4 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; 10 Or like stout Cortez5 when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific - and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise Silent, upon a peak in Darien

Keats, "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer"

I wander through each chartered street,Near where the chartered Thames does flow,A mark in every face I meet,Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every man,In every infant's cry of fear,In every voice, in every ban,The mind-forged manacles I hear: How the chimney-sweeper's cryEvery blackening church appals,And the hapless soldier's sighRuns in blood down palace-walls. But most, through midnight streets I hearHow the youthful harlot's curseBlasts the new-born infant's tear,And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

London - William Blake, Songs of Experience

It is the honourable characteristic of poetry that its materials are to be found in every subject which can interest the human mind. The evidence of this fact is to be sought not in the writings of critics, but in those of poets themselves. The majority of the following poems are to be considered as experiments. They were written chiefly with a view to ascertain how far the language of conversation in the middle and lower classes of society is adapted to the purposes of poetic pleasure. Readers accustomed to the gaudiness and inane phraseology of many modern writers,3 if they persist in reading this book to its conclusion, will perhaps frequently have to struggle with feelings of strangeness and awkwardness: they will look round for poetry, and will be induced to enquire by what species of courtesy these attempts can be permitted to assume that title. It is desirable that such readers, for their own sakes, should not suffer the solitary word 'poetry' (a word of very disputed meaning) to stand in the way of their gratification, but that while they are perusing this book, they should ask themselves if it contains a natural delineation of human passions,

Lyrical Ballads, Introduction - William Wordsworth

When the voices of children are heard on the green,And whisperings are in the dale,The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,My face turns green and pale. Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,And the dews of night arise;Your spring and your day are wasted in play,And your winter and night in disguise.

Nurse's Song - William Blake, Songs of Experience

When voices of children are heard on the green,And laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breast,And everything else is still. 'Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,And the dews of night arise;Come, come, leave off play, and let us away,Till the morning appears in the skies.' 'No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,And we cannot go to sleep;Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,And the hills are all covered with sheep.' 'Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,And then go home to bed.'The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed,And all the hills echoèd.

Nurse's Song - William Blake, Songs of Innocence

On Monday 4 October 1802, my brother William was married to Mary Hutchinson.1 I slept a good deal of the night and rose fresh and well in the morning. At a little after 8 o'clock I saw them go down the avenue towards the church.2 William had parted from me upstairs. I gave him the wedding ring - with how deep a blessing! I took it from my forefinger where I had worn it the whole of the night before; he slipped it again onto my finger and blessed me fervently.3 When they were absent, my dear little Sara4 prepared the breakfast. I kept myself as quiet as I could, but when I saw the two men5 running up the walk, coming to tell us it was over, I could stand it no longer and threw myself on the bed where I lay in stillness, neither hearing or seeing anything till Sara came upstairs to me and said, 'They are coming'. This forced me from the bed where I lay, and I moved I knew not how straightforward, faster than my strength could carry me, till I met my beloved William and fell upon his bosom. He and John Hutchinson led me to the house and there I stayed to welcome my dear Mary. As soon as we had breakfasted we departed.6 It rained when we set off. Poor Mary was much agitated when she parted f

Oct 4th 1802 extract from Journals - Dorothy Wordsworth

Class & Marriage Patterns

Persuasion - Jane Austen

It is an ancient mariner, And he stoppeth one of three: 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? The bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 5 And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set Mayst hear the merry din.' He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship', quoth he; 10 'Hold off! Unhand me, grey-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropped he. He holds him with his glittering eye The wedding-guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: 15 The mariner hath his will. The wedding-guest sat on a stone, He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed mariner: 20 'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top.

Rime of the Ancient Mariner - Samuel Coleridge

Oh wild west wind, thou breath of autumn's being; Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Shelley, "Ode to the West Wind"

Poet of nature, thou hast wept to know That things depart which never may return; Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow Have fled like sweet dreams,2 leaving thee to mourn. These common woes I feel. One loss is mine 5 Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore.3 Thou wert as a lone star,4 whose light did shine On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar; Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood Above the blind and battling multitude; 10 In honoured poverty5 thy voice did weave Songs consecrate to truth and liberty Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve, Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.

Shelley, "To Wordsworth"

My song, I fear that thou wilt find but few Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning, Of such hard matter dost thou entertain; Whence, if by misadventure, chance should bring Thee to base company (as chance may do),

Shelley, Epipsychidion

In the sweet shire of Cardigan1 Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall, An old man dwells, a little man, I've heard he once was tall. Of years he has upon his back, 5 No doubt, a burden weighty; He says he is three score and ten, But others say he's eighty. A long blue livery-coat2 has he That's fair behind and fair before; 10 Yet meet him where you will, you see At once that he is poor. Full five and twenty years he lived A running huntsman3 merry, And though he has but one eye left, 15 His cheek is like a cherry. No man like him the horn could sound, And no man was so full of glee; To say the least, four counties round Had heard of Simon Lee. 20 His master's dead, and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor, Men, dogs, and horses - all are dead; He is the sole survivor. His hunting feats have him bereft 25 Of his right eye, as you may see; And then, what limbs those feats have left To poor old Simon Lee! He has no son, he has no child; His wife, an aged woman, 30 Lives with him near the waterfall, Upon the village4 common. And he is lean and he is sick, His little body's half awry,5 His ankles they are swoln and thick, 35 His legs are thin and dry. When he was young he little knew Of husbandry

Simon Lee - William Wordsworth

Too green the springing April grass, Too blue the silver-speckled sky, For me to linger here, alas, While happy winds go laughing by, Wasting the golden hours indoors, Washing windows and scrubbing floors. Too wonderful the April night, Too faintly sweet the first May flowers, The stars too gloriously bright, For me to spend the evening hours, When fields are fresh and streams are leaping, Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.

Spring in New Hampshire - Claude McKay

A little black thing among the snow,Crying! 'weep! weep!' in notes of woe!'Where are thy father and mother? Say!'—'They are both gone up to the church to pray. 'Because I was happy upon the heath,And smiled among the winter's snow,They clothed me in the clothes of death,And taught me to sing the notes of woe. 'And because I am happy and dance and sing,They think they have done me no injury,And are gone to praise God and His priest and king,Who made up a heaven of our misery.'

The Chimney Sweeper - William Blake, Songs of Experience

When my mother died I was very young,And my father sold me while yet my tongueCould scarcely cry 'Weep! weep! weep! weep!'So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep. There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare,You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.' And so he was quiet, and that very night,As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!—That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,Were all of them locked up in coffins of black. And by came an angel, who had a bright key,And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they runAnd wash in a river, and shine in the sun. Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind:And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,He'd have God for his father, and never want joy. And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,And got with our bags and our brushes to work.Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

The Chimney Sweeper - William Blake, Songs of Innocence

'Love seeketh not itself to please,Nor for itself hath any care,But for another gives its ease,And builds a heaven in hell's despair.' So sung a little clod of clay,Trodden with the cattle's feet,But a pebble of the brookWarbled out these metres meet: 'Love seeketh only Self to please,To bind another to its delight,Joys in another's loss of ease,And builds a hell in heaven's despite.'

The Clod & The Pebble - William Blake, Songs of Experience

My mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black, but O my soul is white!White as an angel is the English child,But I am black, as if bereaved of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree,And, sitting down before the heat of day,She took me on her lap and kissèd me,And, pointing to the East, began to say: 'Look on the rising sun: there God does live,And gives His light, and gives His heat away,And flowers and trees and beasts and men receiveComfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 'And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of love;And these black bodies and this sunburnt faceAre but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 'For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear,The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care,And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."' Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,And thus I say to little English boy.When I from black, and he from white cloud free,And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, I'll shade him from the heat till he can bearTo lean in joy upon our Father's knee;And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,And be like him, and he will then love me.

The Little Black Boy - William Blake, Songs of Innocence

Oh, hear a pensive captive's prayer,For liberty that sighs,And never let thine heart be shutAgainst the prisoner's cries!For here forlorn and sad I sit,Within the wiry grate,And tremble at the approaching mornWhich brings impending fate.If e'er thy breast with freedom glowed,And spurned a tyrant's chain,Let not thy strong oppressive forceA free-born mouse detain!Oh, do not stain with guiltless bloodThy hospitable hearth,Nor triumph that thy wiles betrayedA prize so little worth.The scattered gleanings of a feastMy scanty meals supply -But if thine unrelenting heartThat slender boon deny,The cheerful light, the vital air,Are blessings widely given;Let Nature's commoners enjoyThe common gifts of Heaven.The well-taught philosophic mindTo all compassion gives;Casts round the world an equal eye,And feels for all that lives.If mind, as ancient sages taught,A never-dying flame,Still shifts through matter's varying forms,In every form the same,Beware, lest in the worm you crush,A brother's soul you find;And tremble lest thy luckless handDislodge a kindred mind.Or, if this transient gleam of dayBe all of life we share,Let pity plead within thy breastThat little all to spare.So may thy hospitable

The Mouse's Petition - Anna Letitia Barbauld

Yes, injured Woman! rise, assert thy right! Woman! too long degraded, scorned, opprest; O born to rule in partial Law's despite, Resume thy native empire o'er the breast! Go forth arrayed in panoply divine; That angel pureness which admits no stain; Go, bid proud Man his boasted rule resign, And kiss the golden sceptre of thy reign. Go, gird thyself with grace; collect thy store Of bright artillery glancing from afar; Soft melting tones thy thundering cannon's roar, Blushes and fears thy magazine of war. Thy rights are empire: urge no meaner claim,— Felt, not defined, and if debated, lost; Like sacred mysteries, which withheld from fame, Shunning discussion, are revered the most. Try all that wit and art suggest to bend Of thy imperial foe the stubborn knee; Make treacherous Man thy subject, not thy friend; Thou mayst command, but never canst be free. Awe the licentious, and restrain the rude; Soften the sullen, clear the cloudy brow: Be, more than princes' gifts, thy favours sued;— She hazards all, who will the least allow. But hope not, courted idol of mankind, On this proud eminence secure to stay; Subduing and subdued, thou soon shalt find Thy coldness soften, and thy pride give way.

The Rights of Woman - Anna Letitia Barbauld

O rose, thou art sick!The invisible worm,That flies in the night,In the howling storm, Has found out thy bedOf crimson joy,And his dark secret loveDoes thy life destroy.

The Sick Rose - William Blake, Songs of Experience

Was it for this That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song, And from his alder shades and rocky falls, And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice That flowed along my dreams?2 For this didst thou, Oh Derwent, travelling over the green plains Near my 'sweet birthplace',3 didst thou, beauteous stream, Make ceaseless music through the night and day, Which with its steady cadence tempering 10 Our human waywardness, composed my thoughts To more than infant softness, giving me, Among the fretful dwellings of mankind, A knowledge, a dim earnest4 of the calm Which nature breathes among the fields and groves? 15 Beloved Derwent, fairest of all streams, Was it for this that I, a four years' child, A naked boy, among thy silent pools, Made one long bathing of a summer's day, Basked in the sun, or plunged into thy streams 20 Alternate all a summer's day, or coursed5 Over the sandy fields, and dashed the flowers Of yellow grunsel;6 or, when crag and hill, The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height

The Two Part Prelude - Part 1: William Wordsworth

Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And, when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did He smile His work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The Tyger - William Blake, Songs of Experience

And has the remnant of my life Been pilfered of this sunny spring? And have its own prelusive sounds2 Touched in my heart no echoing string? Ah, say not so! The hidden life, 5 Couchant3 within this feeble frame, Hath been enriched by kindred gifts That undesired, unsought-for, came With joyful heart in youthful days, When fresh each season in its round 10 I welcomed the earliest celandine Glittering upon the mossy ground. With busy eyes I pierced the lane In quest of known and unknown things; The primrose a lamp on its fortress rock, 15 The silent butterfly spreading its wings, The violet betrayed by its noiseless breath, The daffodil dancing in the breeze, The carolling thrush on his naked perch, Towering above the budding trees. 20 Our cottage-hearth no longer our home, Companions of nature were we; The stirring, the still, the loquacious, the mute To all we gave our sympathy. Yet never in those careless days 25 When springtime in rock, field, or bower Was but a fountain of earthly hope A promise of fruits and the splendid flower No! - then I never felt a bliss That might with that compare, 30 Which, piercing to my couch of rest, Came on the vernal air. When loving friends an offering

Thoughts on my Sickbed - Dorothy Wordsworth

Five years have passed; five summers, with the length Of five long winters!2 And again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain springs With a sweet inland murmur.3 Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5 Which on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky.4 The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, Among the woods and copses lose themselves, Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see 15 These hedgerows - hardly hedgerows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms5 Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up in silence from among the trees, With some uncertain notice,6 as might seem, 20 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone.7 Though absent long, These forms of beauty8 have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye; 25 But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed t

Tintern Abbey - William Wordsworth

A simple child, dear brother Jim,1 That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl,2 5 She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic woodland air And she was wildly clad; 10 Her eyes were fair, and very fair Her beauty made me glad. 'Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?' 'How many? Seven in all', she said, 15 And wondering looked at me. 'And where are they, I pray you tell?' She answered, 'Seven are we, And two of us at Conway3 dwell, And two are gone to sea. Two of us in the churchyard lie (My sister and my brother), And in the churchyard cottage I Dwell near them with my mother.' 'You say that two at Conway dwell 25 And two are gone to sea, Yet you are seven - I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be?' Then did the little maid reply, 'Seven boys and girls are we; 30 Two of us in the churchyard lie Beneath the churchyard tree.' 'You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, 35 Then ye are only five.' 'Their graves are green, they may be seen',4 The little maid replied, 'Twe

We are seven - William Wordsworth

I believe him to be right with regard to his own poetical character, and I perceive clearly the distinction he draws between himself and those of the Wordsworth school. There are gradations in poetry and in poets. One is purely descriptive, confining himself to external nature and visible objects; another describes, in addition, the effects of the thoughts of which he is conscious, and which others are affected by. Another will soar so far into the regions of imagination as to conceive of beings and substances in situations different from what he has ever seen them, but still such as either have actually occurred or may possibly occur. Another will reason in poetry; another be witty; another will imagine things that never did nor probably ever will occur, or such as cannot in nature occur, and yet he will describe them so that you recognize nothing very unnatural in the descriptions when certain principles or powers

letter from Richard Woodhouse to John Taylor

22 July 1816. From Servox, three leagues remain to Chamounix. Mont Blanc was before us. The Alps with their innumerable glaciers on high, all around, closing in the complicated windings of the single vale; forests inexpressibly beautiful, but majestic in their beauty; interwoven beech and pine and oak overshadowed our road or receded whilst lawns of such verdure as I had never seen before occupied these openings, and, extending gradually, becoming darker into their recesses. Mont Blanc was before us but was covered with cloud, and its base furrowed with dreadful gaps was seen alone. Pinnacles of snow, intolerably bright, part of the chain connected with Mont Blanc, shone though the clouds at intervals on high. I never knew I never imagined what mountains were before. The immensity of these aerial2 summits excited, when they suddenly burst upon the sight, a sentiment of ecstatic wonder not unallied to madness. And rem

letter from Shelley to Thomas Love Peacock

I spent Friday evening with Wells1 and went the next morning to see 'Death on the Pale Horse'.2 It is a wonderful picture when West's age is considered, but there is nothing to be intense upon - no women one feels mad to kiss, no face swelling into reality.3 The excellence of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeables evaporate, from their being in close relationship with beauty and truth. Examine King Lear and you will find this exemplified throughout, but in this picture we have unpleasantness without any momentous depth of speculation excited, in which to bury its repulsiveness. The picture is larger than 'Christ Rejected'.4 I dined with Haydon the Sunday after you left, and had a very pleasant day. I dined too (for I have been out too much lately) with Horace Smith, and met his two brothers5 with Hill and Kingston and one Dubois. They only served to convince me how superior humour

to George and Tom Keats

It may be said that we ought to read our contemporaries, that Wordsworth etc. should have their due from us. But, for the sake of a few fine imaginative or domestic passages, are we to be bullied into a certain philosophy engendered in the whims of an egotist?1 Every man has his speculations, but every man does not brood and peacock2 over them till he makes a false coinage and deceives himself. Many a man can travel to the very bourne of heaven,3 and yet want confidence to put down his half-seeing. Sancho4 will invent a journey heavenward as well as anybody. We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us - and if we do not agree, seems to put its hand in its breeches' pocket.5 Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself but with its subject. How beautiful are the retired flowers! How would they lose their beauty were they to th

to J. H. Reynolds

My dear Woodhouse, Your letter gave me a great satisfaction, more on account of its friendliness than any relish of that matter in it which is accounted so acceptable in the 'genus irritabile'.2 The best answer I can give you is, in a clerk-like manner, to make some observations on two principal points, which seem to point like indices into the midst of the whole pro and con, about genius, and views, and achievements, and ambition, etc. First: as to the poetical character itself (I mean that sort of which, if I am anything, I am a member - that sort distinguished from the Wordsworthian or egotistical sublime, which is a thing per se and stands alone),3 it is not itself - it has no self - it is everything and nothing - it has no character - it enjoys light and shade - it lives in gusto,4 be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor, mean or elevated. It has as much delight in conceiving an Iago as an

to Richard Woodhouse