And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf
In cluster; then a mouldered church; and higher
A long street climbs to one tall-towered mill;
And high in heaven behind it a gray down
With Danish barrows; and a hazel-wood,
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.—Tennyson.
The Normans gave way. The English pressed forward. A cry went forth among the Norman troops that Duke William was killed. Duke William took off his helmet, in order that his face might be distinctly seen, and rode along the line before his men. This gave them courage. As they turned again to face the English, some of the Norman horse divided the pursuing body of the English from the rest, and thus all that foremost portion of the English army fell, fighting bravely.—Dickens.
Poetry of late has been termed a force, or mode of force, very much as if it were the heat, or light, or motion known to physics. And, in truth, ages before our era of scientific reductions, the energia—the vital energy—of the minstrel's song was undisputed. It seems to me, in spite of all we hear about materialism, that the sentiment imparting this energy—the poetic impulse, at least—has seldom been more forceful than at this moment.
One object, she seemed erewhile born to reach
With her whole energies and die content,—
So like a wall at the world's edge it stood,
With nought beyond to live for,—is that reached?—
Already are new undreamed energies
Outgrowing under, and extending farther
To a new object; there's another world!—Browning.
I have heard that nothing gives an author so great pleasure as to find his works respectfully quoted by other learned authors. This pleasure I have seldom enjoyed; for though I have been, if I may say it without vanity, an eminent author (of almanacs) annually, now a full quarter of a century, my brother authors in the same way (for what reason I know not) have ever been very sparing in their applauses; and no other author has taken the least notice of me: so that, did not my writings produce me some solid pudding, the great deficiency of praise would have quite discouraged me.—Franklin.
Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring; for ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of business; for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots and marshalling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies, is sloth; to use them too much for ornament, is affectation; to make judgment wholly by their rules, is the humor of a scholar: they perfect nature, and are perfected by experience; for natural abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning by study; and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large except they be bounded in by experience.—Bacon.
We want the same glorious privileges which we enjoy to go down to our children. We cannot sleep well the last sleep, nor will the pillow of dust be easy to our heads until we are assured that the God of our American institutions in the past, will be the God of our American institutions in the days that are to come. Oh, when all the rivers which empty into the Atlantic and Pacific seas shall pull on factory bands, when all the great mines of gold, and silver, and iron, and coal shall be laid bare for the nation, when the last swamp shall be reclaimed, and the last jungle cleared, and the last American desert Edenized, and from sea to sea the continent shall be occupied by more than twelve hundred million souls, may it be found that moral and religious influences were multiplied in more rapid ratio than the population. And then there shall be four doxologies coming from north, and south, and east, and west—four doxologies rolling toward each other and meeting mid-continent with such dash of holy joy that they shall mount to the throne.
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.
He, too, is no mean preacher;
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.—Wordsworth.
She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning her look pierced to my very soul. I found her alone, and she was silent; she steadfastly surveyed me. I no longer saw in her face the charm of beauty or the fire of genius; these had disappeared. But I was affected by an expression much more touching, a look of the deepest sympathy and of the softest pity. Why was I afraid to throw myself at her feet? Why did I not dare to take her in my arms, and answer her by a thousand kisses? She had recourse to her piano for relief, and in a low and sweet voice accompanied the music with delicious sounds. Her lips never appeared so lovely; they seemed but just to open, that they might imbibe the sweet tones which issued from the instrument, and return the heavenly vibration from her lovely mouth. Oh! who can express my sensations? I was quite overcome, and, bending down, pronounced this vow: "Beautiful lips, which the angels guard, never will I seek to profane your purity with a kiss."
The only happiness a brave man ever troubled himself with asking much about was happiness enough to get his work done. Not "I can't eat!" but "I can't work!" that was the burden of all wise complaining among men. It is, after all, the one unhappiness of a man. That he cannot work; that he cannot get his destiny as a man fulfilled. Behold, the day is passing swiftly over, our life is passing swiftly over; and the night cometh, wherein no man can work. The night once come, our happiness, our unhappiness,—it is all abolished; vanished, clean gone; a thing that has been: not of the slightest consequence whether we were as happy as eupeptic Curtis, as the fattest pig of Epicurus, or unhappy as Job with potsherds, as musical Byron with Giaours and sensibilities of the heart. But our work,—behold, that is not abolished, that has not vanished: our work, behold, it remains, or the want of it remains; for endless Times and Eternities, remains; and that is now the sole question with us forevermore.—Carlyle.
Among the powers in man which suffer by this too intense life of the social instincts, none suffers more than the power of dreaming. Let no man think this a trifle. The machinery for dreaming planted in the human brain was not planted for nothing. That faculty, in alliance with the mystery of darkness, is the one great tube through which man communicates with the shadowy. And the dreaming organ, in connection with the heart, the eye, and the ear, composes the magnificent apparatus which forces the infinite into the chambers of a human brain, and throws dark reflections from eternities below all life upon the mirrors of the sleeping mind.—De Quincey.
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud instead and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair,
Presented with a universal blank
Of Nature's works, to me expunged and rased,
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
It happened one day, about noon, going towards my boat, I was exceedingly surprised with the print of a man's naked foot on the shore, which was very plain to be seen in the sand. I stood like one thunder-struck, or as if I had seen an apparition. I listened, I looked around me, I could hear nothing, nor see anything. I went up to a rising ground to look farther. I went up the shore, and down the shore, but it was all one, I could see no other impressions but that one. I went to it again to see if there were any more, and to observe if it might not be my fancy; but there was no room for that, for there was exactly the very print of a foot, toes, heel, and every part of a foot. How it came thither I knew not, nor could in the least imagine.—Defoe.
Note
It would be well to apply the critical principles of this chapter, and indeed of the entire Part Second, to some brief but complete work. For this purpose the teacher might assign Macaulay's "Essay on Milton," De Quincey's "Joan of Arc," Tennyson's "Enoch Arden," Webster's "First Bunker Hill Oration," or some other similar work. After determining the diction, prevailing type of sentences, and figures of speech, let the student divide the work, as far as possible, into its descriptive, narrative, expository, argumentative, and persuasive portions. In many cases the various kinds of discourse will be so interwoven that the classification will be doubtful and difficult. At the same time the student might point out the passages in which thought, imagination, feeling, or energy of will predominates in a marked degree. The effort should be made accurately to characterize the author's style as a whole.
Part Third
KINDS OF LITERATURE
CHAPTER VII
NATURE AND STRUCTURE OF POETRY
44. Definition. We may approximately define poetry as the metrical expression of lofty or beautiful thought, feeling, or action, in imaginative and artistic form. Its metrical character distinguishes it from prose; for there is no such thing as prose poetry, though we sometimes find, as in the best passages of Ruskin, poetical prose. Its æsthetic idea or content, its exquisite diction, and its artistic form distinguish genuine poetry from mere verse, which is the mechanical or unartistic expression of commonplace thought, feeling, or incident. Poetry is, in large measure, a product of the creative imagination; and in its highest forms there must be energy of passion, intensity yet delicacy of feeling, loftiness of thought, depth and clearness of intuitive vision. It is the metrical expression of an exaltation of soul, which sometimes suffuses the objects of nature and the scenes of human life with a beauty and glory of its own,—
The consecration and the poet's dream."
45. Poetry and Prose. Poetry occupies a region above prose. While prose in its highest flights approaches the plane of poetry, and poetry in its lowest descent touches the level of prose, they are yet essentially different. The one is commonplace, the other elevated or ideal. This truth is brought out clearly when we compare the same fact or incident of history as related in poetry and prose. The "Æneid" is very unlike a prose account of the founding of Rome. We sometimes say in plain prose, "The evening passed pleasantly and quickly"; but when the poet describes it, there is an elevation of thought and glow of feeling that make it ideal:
As lightly and as free;
Ten thousand stars were in the sky,
Ten thousand in the sea.
For every wave with dimpled face
That leaped upon the air,
Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling there."
46. Sources of Poetry. Nature is filled with poetry. The great poet is God, and he has filled the universe with rhythm, harmony, beauty. Human poems are but faulty shells gathered on the shore of the divine ocean of poetry. The stars are the poetry of the skies. The planets and stellar systems that circle in their glorious orbits preserve a sublime harmony of movement. The light that reaches us from distant worlds comes to us in rhythmical wavelets. Every human life is a poem,—often an amusing comedy, but still oftener a moving tragedy. The tender friendships, the innocent joys, the noble aspirations, the high achievements of men, form the lyric poetry of human existence. The rippling of the forest stream within its shady banks of fern, the rhythmical roll and heavy roar of the ocean surges, are the poetry of the sparkling waters. The audible silence and mysterious whisperings of the dark and majestic forest, the modest hiding of the little violet that gives charm to some neglected spot,—this is the poetry of the woods and fields. Whether we look upon earth, or air, or sky, we may be sure that the unwritten poetry of God is there. In our best moments we feel its presence,—its mute yet eloquent appeal to our higher natures. It lifts us up into fellowship with Him who thus speaks to us.
47. The Poet. When material interests dominate the life of a people, the poet is generally undervalued. He is apt to be regarded as an unpractical, or even an eccentric and valueless member of society. Too often the eccentricities of genius afford some basis for this prejudice; but it is wholly groundless in the case of the largest and most gifted of the poetic race. High poetic gifts are favorable to the noblest types of manhood. The great poet, beyond all other men, possesses an intuitive insight into truth, depth of feeling, and appreciation of beauty. These gifts lift the poet out of the rank of common men, and make him, in his moments of highest inspiration, a prophet to his people. In the language of Bailey in his "Festus,"—
He made His prophets poets, and the more
We feel of poesy, do we become
Like God in love and power—under makers."
Among the greatest of every nation, whether ancient or modern, poets stand almost preëminent. In the Old Testament history there is no one greater than "the sweet Psalmist of Israel." Homer stands in almost solitary grandeur in the early annals of Greece. In the history of Italy, what name is to be placed above that of Dante? In England there are, perhaps, no names to be ranked above those of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Tennyson, whose imperishable works abide with us, and in no small degree mould the thought and feeling of each succeeding generation. And among the illustrious citizens of our own country there are few or none who have reached a higher nobility of character than its great singers,—Longfellow, Bryant, Whittier, Hayne, and Lowell. Their lives were no less sane than beautiful.
48. The Poet as Seer. The poet is preëminently a seer. He discerns the divine beauty and truth of life which escape the common sight; and because he reveals them to us in his melodious art he becomes an exalted teacher. In the midst of the tumults of greed and gain he lifts up his voice to witness of higher things. In the presence of what seemed to her a sordid generation, Mrs. Browning calls poets
The only speakers of essential truth,
Opposed to relative, comparative,
And temporal truths; the only holders by
His sun-skirts, through conventional gray glooms;
The only teachers who instruct mankind,
From just a shadow on a charnel-wall,
To find man's veritable stature out,
Erect, sublime—the measure of a man."
The poet, with his intenser nature, gives expression to our deepest thoughts and feelings. What we have often felt but vaguely, he utters for us in imperishable forms. In how many things Shakespeare has voiced the human soul! While poetry has rippling measures suited to our smiles, it belongs, in its richest form, to the deeper side of our nature. Its loftiest numbers are given to truth and righteousness, to the tragic strivings and sorrows of life, and to the mysteries of deathless love.
49. Versification. Versification is the science of making verse. The unit or starting point in versification is the syllable, which may be long or short, according to the time it requires in pronouncing, and accented or unaccented, according to the stress of tone with which it is pronounced. Quantity, by which is meant the length of syllables, formed the basis of versification in Latin and Greek poetry; but in English poetry it is used to give variety, music, or some other element of effectiveness to the verse. This may be illustrated in a well-known passage from Pope:
The line, too, labors, and the words move slow;
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main."
The first two lines occupy more time in reading than the last two, the sound in each case corresponding in some measure to the sense. An examination of the lines will show that the first two have more long vowel sounds than the last two, and that these and other vowel sounds are lengthened in pronunciation by the presence of difficult consonant combinations. "Ajax strives" and "rock's vast weight" are not phrases that slip quickly from the tongue. Furthermore, the second line is lengthened by no fewer than three pauses.
The principle of English verse is accent, and not quantity. In the line,
it will be observed that every other syllable receives a stress of voice or is accented. The scheme of the verse may be represented as follows:
the line being broken up into three equal and similar parts, each of which is called a foot. The foot consisting of an unaccented followed by an accented syllable is called an iambus.
In the line,
we observe that beginning with the first syllable every other one is accented, giving us the following as the scheme of the verse:
The last foot is obviously incomplete or catalectic. The foot that consists of two syllables, the first of which is accented, is called a trochee. It is the opposite of the iambus.
Again, in the line,
it will be noticed that, beginning with the first, each accented syllable is followed by two unaccented syllables, except in the last foot, which is a trochee. The scheme of the verse is as follows:
This foot, consisting of one accented syllable, followed by two unaccented syllables, is called a dactyl.
Once more, in the line,
the third syllable is accented, and the scheme of the verse may be thus indicated:
This foot, which is the opposite of the dactyl, is known as the anapest.
A spondee is a foot of two equally accented syllables; as, mainspring, sea-maid. There is still another foot, known as the amphibrach, which consists of three syllables, the second of which is accented, as in the word de-ni'-al. The scheme of the following line,
may be indicated thus:
But nearly all English poetry is based upon the four feet,—iambus, trochee, dactyl, and anapest,—first given.
50. Meters. A verse is named from the number of prevailing feet. A verse containing one iambic foot is called iambic monometer; two feet, iambic dimeter; three feet, iambic trimeter; four feet, iambic tetrameter; five feet, iambic pentameter; six feet, iambic hexameter. The line,
is made up of four iambic feet, and is therefore an iambic tetrameter. Iambic pentameter, in which Milton's "Paradise Lost," much of Pope's poetry, Shakespeare's dramas, and, indeed, a large proportion of English verse, are written, is called heroic measure.
In like manner we have trochaic monometer, dimeter, trimeter, tetrameter, pentameter, and hexameter. The following line,
is trochaic tetrameter, which is the meter of "Hiawatha."
The foregoing are called dissyllabic meters; but the trisyllabic measures have the same names according to the number of feet. A verse consisting of a single dactyl is thus dactylic monometer; of two dactyls, dactylic dimeter; and so on up to dactylic hexameter, which is the meter of Homer's "Iliad," Vergil's "Æneid," and Longfellow's "Evangeline" and "Courtship of Miles Standish." The line,
is dactylic tetrameter, though the last foot is a trochee.
In like manner we have anapestic lines of all lengths from monometer to hexameter. The line,
contains three anapests, and is therefore anapestic trimeter.
But the time element of a poetic foot is important, as it explains the seeming irregularities often met with in verse. An additional syllable may be added to a foot or subtracted from it when the time of the foot or verse is not changed. By rapid utterance two syllables are often equal to one, and in this way an anapest is frequently used with the time value of an iambus. In like manner a pause may sometimes take the place of an unaccented syllable. Both cases are fully illustrated in Tennyson's well-known lyric,—
On thy cold gray stones, O sea!"
In spite of the seeming irregularity of this poem, the presence of the proper time element, together with the regular accents, preserves its metrical harmony.
There are few poems without slight metrical irregularities. The meter is varied to prevent monotony, to give emphasis to a word, or to respond better to some turn of the thought or feeling. Take, for example, the following couplet from Wordsworth:
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
The meter is iambic pentameter; but the first foot of the second line is a trochee, and emphasizes thoughts with fine effect. The time of the line remains unchanged.
In Milton we read,—
Created hugest that swim the ocean stream."
This is likewise iambic pentameter; but in the second line a clumsy anapestic foot is inserted to correspond to the nature of the monster described. No doubt irregularities sometimes occur by oversight or from lack of skill; but with our greater poets, whose thought and emotion instinctively assume the proper metrical form, the irregularities are motived.
51. Rhyme. Rhyme, or as it is more correctly spelled rime, is a similarity of sound between words or syllables. Identity of sound, as heir, air, site, sight, is not rhyme. It usually occurs between words at the end of a verse, and serves to lend both beauty and emphasis to poetry. The order in which rhymes occur is various. They may be found in succeeding lines; as,—
Is like the dewdrop on the rose;
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And shakes the bush, the flower is dry."
They may occur in alternate lines; as,—
The stars are out by twos and threes;
The little birds are piping yet
Among the bushes and the trees."
Or the rhymes may occur at longer intervals; as,—
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods."
In double rhyme the correspondence of sound extends to two syllables, and in triple rhyme to three. A double rhyme, as pleasure, measure, is also called feminine, while single rhymes are called masculine. The following illustrates both double, or feminine, and masculine rhymes:
Smile around the taper's light;
Who will fill our vacant places?
Who will sing our songs to-night?"
The following from Hood illustrates triple rhyme:
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young and so fair."
Triple rhyme is usually employed only in a light, satirical, or mocking vein. Byron uses it frequently in his frivolous or reckless moods; for example,—
Some people have accused me of misanthropy,
And yet I know no more than the mahogany
That forms this desk of what they mean; lycanthropy
I comprehend; for, without transformation
Men become wolves on any slight occasion."
Middle rhyme is that which exists between the middle and final words or syllables of a verse. It is frequently used in the "The Ancient Mariner:"
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea."
Sectional rhyme is that occurring in the first half or section of a verse; as,—
The morning from her mantle gray."
Alliteration is the use of the same letter at the beginning of two or more words or syllables in the same verse or successive verses. It was the determining principle in Anglo-Saxon poetry, and has remained ever since a source of harmony in English verse. Its effects are sometimes most pleasing when the alliteration turns on one or more internal syllables. The following from Mrs. Browning's "Romance of the Swan's Nest" will serve for illustration:
And the smile she softly uses
Fills the silence like a speech,
While she thinks what shall be done,
And the sweetest pleasure chooses
For her future within reach."
The light rippling melody of this stanza is due, in considerable measure, to its fine alliterative structure.
Tennyson likewise makes effective use of alliteration, as may be noted especially in the matchless lyrics interspersed throughout "The Princess." A single stanza will make this clear:
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying."
52. Stanzas. A stanza is a separate division of a poem, and contains two or more lines or verses. A stanza of two lines is called a couplet; of three lines, a triplet; of four lines, a quatrain. Tennyson's "Locksley Hall" is in two-line stanza:
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do."
His "Two Voices" is in the triplet stanza:
'Thou art so full of misery,
Were it not better not to be?'
'Let me not cast in endless shade
What is so wonderfully made.'"
Numerous examples of the four-line stanza have already been given.
Rhyme royal is a seven-line stanza invented by Chaucer. As will be seen from the following example, it is made up of iambic pentameter lines, the first four forming a quatrain of alternate rhymes, the fifth line repeating the rhyme of the fourth, and the last two lines forming a rhyming couplet. Its scheme is a b a b b c c, in which the same letters indicate rhymes.
And like a girdle clips her solid waist,
Music and measure both doth understand,
For his great crystal eye is always cast
Up to the moon, and on her fixeth fast;
And as she circles in her pallid sphere,
So danceth he about the centre here."
Ottava rima is composed of eight iambic pentameter verses with alternate rhymes, except the last two lines, which form a rhymed couplet. Byron's "Don Juan" is written in this stanza. The scheme of rhyme is a b a b a b a c.
Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come;
'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark
Or lulled by falling waters; sweet the hum
Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
The lisp of children, and their earliest words."
The Spenserian stanza, invented by Edmund Spenser and employed by him in the "Faerie Queene," is a difficult but effective form of poetry. It consists of nine verses, the first eight being iambic pentameter, and the ninth line iambic hexameter, or Alexandrine. Its rhyme scheme is a b a b b c b c c. The following from Byron's "Childe Harold" will serve for illustration:
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled."
The principal hymn stanzas are known as long meter, common meter, and short meter. The long-meter stanza is composed of four iambic tetrameter lines, rhyming either alternately or in couplets; as,
Vast as eternity Thy love;
Firm as a rock Thy truth must stand,
When rolling years shall cease to move."
The common-meter stanza contains four iambic lines, the first and third being tetrameter, and the second and fourth trimeter. The rhymes are alternate; as,
Stands present to Thy view;
To Thee there's nothing old appears,
To Thee there's nothing new."
The short-meter stanza consists of four iambic lines, the first, second, and fourth being trimeter, and the third tetrameter. The rhymes are alternate; as,
It must be good for me;
Secure of having Thee in all,
Of having all in Thee."
53. Blank Verse. Unrhymed poetry, usually in iambic pentameter measure, is known as blank verse. It is our ordinary epic and dramatic verse, as exemplified in Shakespeare and Milton. Blank verse has greater freedom than rhymed verse, but the attainment of a high degree of excellence in it is scarcely less difficult. It approaches the ease and freedom of prose, and perhaps for that reason it is apt to sink below a high level of poetry.
Apart from its diction and meter, the harmony of blank verse depends upon two things,—namely, its pauses and its periods. The rhythmical pause occurring in a line is called a cæsura. Though usually falling near the middle of the line, the cæsural pause may occur at any point, and sometimes there may be two cæsuras. There is generally a rhythmical pause at the end of a verse, and when this pause is stressed by a completion of the sense the line is said to be "end-stopt"; but if the sense awaits completion in the following verse, the line is said to be "run-on." The French name enjambement is sometimes used to designate a "run-on" line. The following extract from Thomson will serve to illustrate the cæsural pauses, as well as "end-stopt" and "run-on" lines:
Are but the varied God. | The rolling year
Is full of thee. | Forth in the pleasant Spring
Thy beauty walks, | thy tenderness and love.
Wide flush the fields; | the softening air is balm;
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;
And every sense, | and every heart, is joy.
Then comes thy glory | in the summer months
With light and heat refulgent. | Then thy sun
Shoots full perfection | through the swelling year."
By period is meant the conclusion of the sentence. The period or end of a sentence may fall at the end of a line or at any point in it. The period serves to break up the poem into longer or shorter parts. In Milton the sentences are generally long, and the periods thus break up the poem into a sort of stanza of varying length. "Run-on" lines are the prevailing type; and this fact, in connection with the length of the sentences and the constant shifting of the pauses, imparts to his "Paradise Lost" its peculiar organ roll. The following passage will serve to make this clear: