PART THREE
LITERARY INTERPRETATION
CHAPTER XVI
LITERARY INTERPRETATION
In the concluding part of this work it is purposed to lay before the teacher some examples of literary interpretation. The object of these is to assist him to a deeper insight into literature, and hence to become a better reader and teacher of reading.
It is not too much to say that we accept as good reading what is often the reverse simply because the subject matter does not appeal to us or is only partly appreciated. A pupil may read such a passage as the following in a commonplace way, and be complimented by one teacher for his distinct articulation and forceful utterance, whereas a teacher who appreciated the true spirit of the lines would severely condemn the reading.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day;
The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea;
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
The explanation of the difference in the attitudes of the teachers is that the former has no appreciation of the spirit of the lines, while the latter keenly feels their tenderness, their beauty, and their pensive solemnity.
The best way to learn to love good literature is to study only good literature, and to study it again, again and again. What is truly great art cannot be apprehended at a glance, but requires time for its fullest appreciation. We believe, however, that it is good pedagogy, in a work of this kind, to lay before the teacher certain examples of what careful analysis may reveal. The effect of such analysis upon the reading must be evident to all.
We have already discerned that all analysis preparatory to reading aloud is virtually literary analysis. This is well illustrated in the chapters on Climax and on Contrast. It remains, therefore, to deal only with certain broader aspects of literary appreciation, in connection with which we shall endeavor to show the application of the principles discussed in Parts I and II to vocal interpretation.
STUDY IN RHYTHM
It is a truism to state that every poem should be a unity, but we often forget a most important corollary, that every line should be scanned with a view to determine that unity. It is only in so far as we understand the parts that we understand the whole. Let us illustrate this principle in the following well-known poem:
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX
ROBERT BROWNING
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three:
“Good speed!” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
“Speed!” echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear,
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Duffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime,
So Joris broke silence with, “Yet there is time!”
At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.
And his long head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye’s black intelligence,—ever that glance
O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, “Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her;
We’ll remember at Aix,”—for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
’Neath our feet broke the bright brittle stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And “Gallop,” gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight!”
“How they’ll greet us!”—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.
Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is, friends flocking round
As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
The central idea in this poem is Roland; not the rider, not the historical element. As a matter of fact, the poem has no historical basis. Browning tells us somewhere that after a tiresome and tedious sea voyage he longed for a gallop over the English downs, and that this poem is a result of that longing. The rhythm of the poem is peculiarly adapted to express the bounding joy of the poet, and is in striking contrast to the long, monotonous roll of ocean waves.
On studying the poem, we note the absence of any but cursory reference to the rider, and, on the contrary, the constant reference to the real hero, Roland. One might imagine a setting for the lines something as follows: Around a camp-fire are gathered many veterans of the wars. They are telling of the gallant deeds of their war steeds, when one of their number starts up and says:
“You talk of your horses; have you ever heard of mine? Have you heard how my Roland helped to save Aix? No? Let me tell you. You remember so-and-so’s famous campaign, and how the enemy were preparing to take Aix. You know, too, that the officer in command had no hope of saving the city and was preparing to capitulate the moment the enemy began the attack. Well, one night, just after we had turned in, a messenger came in hot haste to tell us that the king himself had that day started to relieve the city and that we must carry the good news to Aix and thus encourage them to hold out until his arrival. Our commander called for three volunteers to undertake the dangerous task of hearing the news. We—Joris, Dirck, and I—offered our services. They were accepted, and a moment after we had received our instructions,
‘I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;’”
From now on observe how the poet fixes our attention on Roland.
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine.
The whole of the fifth stanza is devoted to praise of Roland; while the failure of the horses of Joris and Dirck serves but to enhance the glory of Roland’s feat.
As soon as we perceive the meaning of the poem—its central thought—the entire reading becomes permeated with the joy and exultation of the rider in his steed. The poem is well adapted to develop vocal flexibility, and freedom of expression.
Tennyson’s Charge of the Light Brigade affords another opportunity for analysis.
The atmosphere of this poem is that of a dirge. This does not mean that we snivel and whine while rendering it, but that the whole poem is enveloped in the atmosphere of dignified solemnity. It is true that this is not the popular view, which seems to be that Tennyson wrote the poem to afford the reader an opportunity of making descriptive gestures. Tennyson’s heart ached for those brave fellows in their useless sacrifice; and he wrote the poem, not primarily to show how they fought, but that they fought in vain. True, there is a vein of stirring patriotism in the lines, but all that is inferior in importance to the dignified solemnity and controlled pathos of the speaker.
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
TENNYSON
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not—
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble Six Hundred!
It is impossible to overlook the constant recurrence of the phrases “valley of Death;” “jaws of Death;” “mouth of Hell,” and their significance. The keynote of the poem is found in the line,
Some one had blunder’d:
Here is the central thought. The men made a gallant charge, went boldly and willingly to their doom; but it was all a mistake, a fearful, horrible mistake. We care not for the fact that cannons were to the right, to the left, and to the front of them. The mere position is nothing. But who can repress the shudder of despair as he contemplates that heroic band surrounded by fires from death-dealing cannon?
On pages 200 and 201 will be found three poems from Tennyson, each of which presents a different aspect. The first is marked by an exquisite simplicity. It contains but one simple idea, which is set forth in the simplest language. Consequently, the reading should be equally unassuming. The least appearance of affectation or effort will dissipate the atmosphere.
The second is a lullaby. The rocking cradle is felt in every line, while in the last line of each stanza we have the rhythmic picture of the gradual cessation of the rocking, and it seems impossible to omit the long pause before the last word in each of these lines, a pause exactly equal to the time of one of the preceding feet.
The third poem is of an entirely different nature. Here we have the strength of spirit that animated King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table. When we bear in mind that this song is sung after King Arthur’s claim to the throne, which has long been in doubt, has been firmly established, and he has taken Guinevere to wife, we can better understand its passionate joy.
One of the most interesting features in connection with the study of literature is rhythm. The meaning of rhythm is not always clearly apprehended, many regarding it simply as poets’ playfulness, interesting in the nursery rhyme, tickling the childish ear, but beyond that a useless and even senseless filigree. Nothing could be farther from truth. Rhythm is not a conventional appendage of poetry, but its very heart, life, spirit. It springs spontaneously from the poet’s heart, and is the manifestation of his deepest feeling. Who can fail to catch the bounding spirit of life and joy in the following:
I come, I come! ye have called me long;
I come o’er the mountains with light and song;
Ye may trace my step o’er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.
—Spring. Hemans.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and joyful Jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come and trip it as you go
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty:
And, if I give thee honor due,
Mirth, admit me to thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovèd pleasures free:
—L’Allegro. Milton.
What a dignity is imparted to the scene by the rhythm in the following extracts:
Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarlèd pines,
That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground
Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up
Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet
To linger here, among the flitting birds
And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds
That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass,
A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set
With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades—
Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old—
My thoughts go up the long dim path of years,
Back to the earliest days of liberty.
—Freedom. Bryant.
A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And some through wavering lights and shadows broke
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flushed: and, dewed with showery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
—The Lotos-Eaters. Tennyson.
Often in the same poem the emotional changes are manifested in changes of rhythm. Observe this in the following lines:
Look! look! that livid flash!
And instantly follows the rattling thunder
As if some cloud-crag, split asunder,
Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash,
On the earth, which crouches in silence under;
And now a solid gray wall of rain
Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile;
For a breath’s space I see the blue wood again,
And, ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled pile,
That seemed but now a league aloof,
Bursts rattling over the sun-parched roof;
Against the windows the storm comes dashing,
Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing,
The blue lightning flashes,
The rapid hail clashes,
The white waves are tumbling,
And in one baffled roar,
Like the toothless sea mumbling
A rock-bristling shore,
The thunder is rumbling
And crashing and crumbling,—
Will silence return never more?
—A Summer Shower. Lowell.
Or in the concluding stanzas of Wordsworth’s ode on Intimations of Immortality:
Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance that was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which having been, must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O ye fountains, meadows, hills and groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight,
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they:
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live;
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
In blank verse we get the best and clearest illustration of the meaning of rhythm. Here the poet has the utmost freedom, untrammeled by rhyme or any limitations as to the length of his stanza. The rhythm in the description of the overthrow of Satan is most suggestive of strength and determination:
Him the Almighty power
Hurl’d headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky,
With hideous ruin and combustion, down
To bottomless perdition; there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy th’ Omnipotent to arms!
—Paradise Lost, Book I. Milton.
How clearly the frantic passion of Lear is shown in the irregular, erratic, almost chaotic, rhythm of the following speech:
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drowned the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Smite flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!
Crack Nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!
—King Lear, Act iii., Sc. 2.
Note how the varying rhythm in the following passage corresponds with the ever varying moods of the King and the poet:
To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
“Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow’d of the power in his eye
That bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands.”
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch’d the sword,
And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the northern sea.
So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.
—Morte d’Arthur. Tennyson.
In order to give a clear conception of the meaning and purpose of rhythm, the analysis of an entire poem is given.
THE REVENGE
A BALLAD OF THE FLEET
TENNYSON
I
At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a flutter’d bird, came flying from far away:
“Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!”
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: “’Fore God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, 5
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?”
II
Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: “I know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
But I’ve ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. 10
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.”
III
So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day,
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land 15
Very carefully and slow,
Men of Bideford in Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast down below;
For we brought them all aboard.
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, 20
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.
IV
He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,
And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow.
“Shall we fight or shall we fly? 25
Good Sir Richard, tell us now,
For to fight is but to die!
There’ll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.”
And Sir Richard said again: “We be all good English men.
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, 30
For I never turn’d my back upon Don or devil yet.”
V
Sir Richard spoke and he laugh’d, and we roar’d a hurrah, and so
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, 35
And the little Revenge ran on thro’ the long sea-lane between.
VI
Thousands of their soldiers look’d down from their decks and laugh’d,
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft
Running on and on, till delay’d
By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons, 40
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,
Took the breath from our sails, and we stay’d.
VII
And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud
Whence the thunderbolt will fall
Long and loud, 45
Four galleons drew away
From the Spanish fleet that day,
And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,
And the battle-thunder broke from them all.
VIII
But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went 50
Having that within her womb that had left her ill content;
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand,
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers,
And a dozen times we shook ’em off as a dog that shakes his ears
When he leaps from the water to the land. 55
IX
And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer
sea, 55
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame;
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and
her shame.
For some were sunk and many were shatter’d, and so could fight us
no more— 60
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?
X
For he said “Fight on! fight on!”
Tho’ his vessel was all but a wreck;
And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, 65
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,
And he said “Fight on! fight on!”
XI
And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea,
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; 70
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear’d that we still could sting,
So they watch’d what the end would be.
And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight were we,
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 75
And half of the rest of us maim’d for life
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,
And the pikes were all broken or bent and the powder was all of it spent;
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; 80
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride,
“We have fought such a fight for a day and a night
As may never be fought again!
We have won great glory, my men!
And a day less or more 85
At sea or ashore,
We die—does it matter when?
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain!
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!”
XII
And the gunner said “Ay, ay,” but the seamen made reply: 90
“We have children, we have wives,
And the Lord hath spared our lives.
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield to let us go;
We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.”
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. 95
XIII
And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,
And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:
“I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; 100
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do:
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!”
And he fell upon their decks, and he died.
XIV
And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap 105
That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,
But they sank his body with honor down into the deep,
And they mann’d the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew,
And away she sail’d with her loss and long’d for her own; 110
When a wind from the lands they had ruin’d awoke from sleep,
And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and
their flags, 115
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter’d navy of Spain,
And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags
To be lost evermore in the main.
NOTES ON RHYTHM
Stanza I
l. 1-2.—Normal rhythm.
l. 3.—Note the emphasis imparted to the call by the trochees.
l. 4-6.—The effect of the internal rhymes Howard—coward, here—gear, sick—quick, is very marked. Similar effects are frequently introduced in the poem.
Stanza II
l. 10.—The two emphatic syllables, I’ve and nine-, coming in succession, add force to Sir Richard’s statement.
Stanza III
l. 13.—Note how the author retards his movement and hence impresses us with the slow moving picture, by drawing his emphatic syllables together, as So Lord How-; five ships; and that day. This effect is one of the commonest in literature, and one of the most natural. This line will scan as a normal line; but let us bear in mind that sense accent determines the rhythm in English, not quantity.
l. 16.—A strange device, the effect of which is to cause Sir Richard’s gallantry to stand out most strikingly. In spite of the fact that fifty-three Spanish galleons were coming down upon him, the brave captain was as considerate in the handling of his sick sailors as a mother of her babe. And this is emphasized by making this statement in a line by itself.
Stanza IV
l. 24.—Again note the strength imparted by the successive accents in huge sea-castles heaving.
l. 25-27.—The abruptness aptly fits in with the sentiment. Observe that the effect of the short line is brought out by the rhyme, fly—die. The further apart the rhyme, the less striking it becomes. See lines 43-45, and 57-59.
Stanza V
l. 32.—Full of strength and admirably expressive in rhythm.
l. 36.—Again we observe the retardation and its effect. Observe further, that this is the first time the concluding line of a stanza has deviated from the normal, and note how appropriate is the deviation; not merely for the sake of variety, but the spontaneous expression of feeling.
Stanza VI
l. 37-38.—How forceful is the effect of beginning each line with the accented syllable!
l. 42.—The contrast of this line with the preceding is most marked. Line 41 is long drawn out, while in 42 one can feel the shock of the abrupt stop.
Stanza VIII
l. 53-54.—The first four lines of this stanza are quite regular, but when we reach the last two, observe the correspondence between the rhythm and the sense.
Stanza IX
l. 56-60.—How admirably the rhythm lends itself to the expression of the feelings of the narrator as he recalls the terrible strain of that never-ending night! One must read the passage aloud to appreciate this effect.
Stanza X
l. 63.—Observe the strength of Fight on! Fight on! and also the contrast between the rhythm of this stanza and that of Stanza IX.
The stanza as a whole moves quite rapidly, owing to the preponderance of unaccented syllables. The appropriateness of this rapid movement is recognized when we bear in mind that the stanza is intended to cite but one incident of that awful night, and serves only as a link between Stanzas IX and XI.
Stanza XI
l. 70.—Compare this rhythm with that of line 56, and observe how the emotion of Stanza IX is recalled by the similarity of rhythm.
l. 83-90.—Compare with lines 25-28 and 91-95.
Stanza XIII
l. 100.—Compare with lines 42 and 103, and note similarity of mood.
Stanza XIV
l. 112-119.—It is almost impossible to analyze the effect of these lines, so admirably do sound, sense, and rhythm correspond. We can, however, clearly observe the forceful effect of great gale blew; the accumulation of power and size in line 115; the exultant joy of the speaker as he describes the effect of the storm in lines 116 and 117; and the gradual diminution of the passion as the poem comes back to normal movement in the concluding line.
INTERPRETATIVE NOTES
The poem as a whole is a magnificent specimen of vigorous Anglo-Saxon. There are few inversions, the style is simple and direct, and the imagery peculiarly appropriate. The speaker is a survivor, and brings us face to face with one of the proudest moments in the history of English naval warfare.
The poem deals with an event at the close of the expedition of the Spanish Armada against Great Britain, and it is interesting to know that it is almost literally true to fact and history.
Stanza I
l. 4-7.—The opening words seem a little like brag. But Sir Richard’s reply, which is borne out by history, proves the contrary. The oath is not the vain oath of a braggart, but the solemn words of one who believes in God and calls upon Him to bear witness to the truth of his statement.
Stanza II
l. 8.—The delivery of the first five words will certainly manifest the pride of the narrator in such a leader.
l. 12.—Note the contempt expressed in dogs and devildoms.
Stanza III
l. 15-18.—Be sure to bring out the speaker’s emotion. How the common sailor worships him who stayed to certain death to save the lives of his sick men!
l. 21.—Note the irony, contempt, and even hate.
Stanza IV
l. 25-28.—The rhythm clearly indicates the abrupt manner in which these lines should be read.
l. 29.—We be all good English men: this is Sir Richard’s answer to their appeal.
Stanza V
l. 33.—Heart: right into the midst of the fleet. The Spaniards came down in double line of battle. It was evidently Sir Richard’s intention to attempt to escape with his fleet craft by running the gauntlet of heavy, large, unwieldy Spanish galleons. A picture of these galleons, with their triple and quadruple decks, will greatly assist us to comprehend the disastrous outcome of one of the most elaborate naval demonstrations in the history of the world. The vessels were so unwieldy that only a few at a time could attack the Revenge, and, by constant maneuvering, Sir Richard could almost always avoid the effect of their cannonading.
Stanza VI
l. 37-38.—There is bitter sarcasm in these lines as the speaker recalls the outcome of the fight.
Stanza VIII
l. 50.—Bethought herself: note the sarcasm.
Stanza IX
l. 56-60.—The emotion of these five lines is very striking. Oh! the anguish, horror, and suspense of that awful night. The sun went down, but the battle went on. The stars came out, but still no rest. And so on, on, on, through that dreadful night.
l. 62-61.—Observe the sudden transition and the exultant shout at the end.
Stanza X
See note on rhythm.
Stanza XI
l. 72.—Observe the note of pride and grim determination.
l. 74.—The speaker apologizes for even an appearance of boastfulness.
l. 75-81.—Pathos.
l. 83-90.—Note the contrast between the emotion of Sir Richard in these lines and that of the speaker in uttering lines 75-81.
Stanza XII
l. 92-95.—The sailors would naturally speak rapidly. The rhythm helps us to understand their feelings.
l. 93.—And therefore we have no right to kill ourselves. A most significant line.
Stanza XIII
l. 99.—Observe the tribute the Englishman pays to his foe. See also line 108. The voice should manifest the speaker’s attitude and will when we grasp the situation.
l. 101-103.—Note and bring out the blunt defiance of Sir Richard.
Stanza XIV
l. 111.—How natural seems the use of her! It is expressive of the sailor’s love for his vessel. And further, we remark that the Revenge becomes human as she yearns for those who so long have seemed her very children.
l. 112.—Here we have one of the most significant lines in the whole poem. History tells us that a storm arose and shattered the remnant of the Armada, and sunk the battered hulk of the little Revenge. Poetry conjures up this storm as an avenging Nemesis. Out of the lands they had ruined comes the storm that avenges the Revenge.
l. 118.—What tenderness is there in that word little!
l. 118-119.—There is no regret in these lines. On the contrary, they are full of exultation. Remember, the poet was limited by history. He could not save the Revenge, but he could sink her on the spot where the glorious victory had been won. The picture of shattered greatness is not an inspiring one. If the Revenge had not sunk, she would have been dragged ignominiously at the hawser’s end into some Spanish port, to become the object of every Spaniard’s petty spite, and finally to fall into decay and ruin. Now she lives evermore as she was in that fight, a glorious inspiration to every son of England.
HINTS ON READINGS
YOUNG LOCHINVAR
SIR WALTER SCOTT