'Lochinvar' by Sir Walter Scott

TEXT

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"—

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;—
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, " 'Twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

SUMMARY

Lochinvar is the young promising knight of the highlands. He came riding all through the wide border in the west on his fighting horse that had served him to his best. Though he is well-versed in engaging in an armed combat, using his mighty broad sword, yet at this point of time, he came riding carrying no weapons with him. Throughout his meaningful journey, as he considers it to be, he rode unarmed and all by himself. He is so faithful to the girl that he loves and still more dauntless: intrepid and persevering: in every war he fought for his country. There has never been a knight so valiant like Lochinvar. He never stayed back for anything that hindered him unnecessarily nor did he stop for any hardship that prevented him to reach his desired goal. He swam across the Eske river: where there was no ford: a shallow place where a river or stream may be crossed by wading.

However, before he alighted himself on his horse at the Netherby Gate, the bride had consented him as the gallant who had arrived late, for surely he was a laggard: a slow dawdler: who was deeply in love and fighting so dastardly: cowardly despicable: in war, in her personal opinion. He was to take the fair Ellen’s hand in marriage. He entered the Netherby Hall so boldly even at the presence of the bride’s men and kinsmen, her brothers and all her relatives. The poor craven bridegroom never said a word. The bride’s father stood up, with his hand gripping his sword, spoke up and asked Lochinvar whether he came here in peace or with an intention of war, or to dance at their bridal. Lochinvar boldly replied that he long wooed the Lord’s daughter, his rightful suit was denied. The love that swells like the Solway, but ebbs: like its tide: declining like the movement of the tide out to the sea: and now he has come with his love lost only to lead forbut one measure and that is to drink one cup of wine, at the marriage feast. For in truth there are still many beautiful maidens in Scotland who are more beautiful than the fair Ellen, who would open-heartedly become a bride for him.

The bride kissed the goblet: a drinking vessel with a foot and a stem: while the Knight (Lochinvar) took it up. He quaffed off: drink deeply or drain in long draughts: then he threw down the cup. Ellen blushed as she looked down and sighed when she looked up. Though tears came to her eyes, yet she smiled with loving lips. But before her mother could bar her any further, he took her soft hand and told her that both of them should tread a measure: the factor of love by which both are reckoned with. Lochinvar’s form and appearance is so stately and kingly while her face appears so lovely. It is like a hall of fame that has never grace a gilliard: a lively dance usually in triple time for two persons. While the bride’s mother stood there fretting and sad, and her father fuming and complaining, the young bridegroom stood there dangling: hold or carry loosely suspended: his bonnet: a hat tied under the chin with a brim framing the face: and plume: a large feather used for ornament: all the bride maidens whispered to9 each other and said that it was better by far to have match their fair cousin sister with Lochinvar.

Lochinvar touched her hand softly and spoke a word in her ear, they walked steadily till they reached the door of the hall and encountered the charger who stood there. The fair lady swung swiftly to croup: the rump or hind quarters of a horse: and he too swung swiftly to the saddle of the horse before her. Then Lochinvar loudly announced that he has already won her, now they would be gone over the bank of the river, bush and scour: a steep craggy outcrop of a mountain or cliff: though they would have a fleet of steeds to follow them. The Grames from among the Netherby clans including the Forsters, Fenwicks and Musgraves mounted their horses and rode and ran as fast as they could. They raced and chased the newly weds on the lee-ward slope of the Canobie Hills, but they never caught up with them. A man so daring in love and so dauntless in war. There is truly no one as gallant as the young Lochinvar.

Piping Down the Valleys Wild BY William Blake

TEXT

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 write
In 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 songs
Every child may joy to hear. 

SUMMARY

Blake imagines that a child on a cloud ordered him to write these poems for children. While Blake descended down the wild forest stretching to the valley down below, he was playing the sweet melodious tunes of the pan-pipe with a pleasant glee; a feeling of great happiness; and in the midst of preludes of the music that he played, he claimed to have seen an angelic child standing on the cloud and laughing with joy, instructed him to play the tune and pipe the song about the Lamb. This order was later fulfilled in Blake’s third “Songs of Innocence”; “Little Lamb, who made thee?” The lamb symbolizes youth and meekness.
       Blake complied with the little child’s order, piped the song and played the tune with a merry spirit. After he had finished playing for the first time, the child ordered Blake to pipe the song again. So Blake piped the song again and the child wept as he heard it. The next thing that the child ordered was for Blake to stop playing the pipe and put it down aside. Blake was to sing his songs verbally in the merriest note and he did as he was told. The child wept even louder and with greater joy when he heard Blake sang his songs without the pipe. Then lastly, the child ordered the piper (Blake) to sit down and write in a book, that all may read for generations to come. “In a Book” here refers to the “Songs of Innocence”.
       Blake then created a traditional pen of the (rural) country, which was made out of reed and wrote all his happy songs. He made the ink out of water and all the songs he wrote were meant for every child to hear and enjoy.

"My Last Duchess" by Robert Browning (poetry reading)

“My Last Duchess” by Robert Browning

TEXT 

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

                      First published in the collection Dramatic Lyrics in 1842, "My Last Duchess" is an excellent example of Browning's use of dramatic monologue. Browning's psychological portrait of a powerful Renaissance aristocrat is presented to the reader as if he or she were simply "eavesdropping" on a slice of casual conversation. As the poem unfolds, the reader learns the speaker of the poem, Duke Ferrara, is talking to a representative of his fiancee's family. Standing in front of a portrait of the Duke's last wife, now dead, the Duke talks about the woman's failings and imperfections. The irony of the poem surfaces as the reader discovers that the young woman's "faults" were qualities like compassion, modesty, humility, delight in simple pleasures, and courtesy to those who served her.

Using abundant detail, Browning leads the reader to conclude that the Duke found fault with his former wife because she did not reserve her attentions for him, his rank, and his power. More importantly, the Duke's long list of complaints presents a thinly veiled threat about the behavior he will and will not tolerate in his new wife. The lines "I gave commands; / smiles stopped together" suggest that the Duke somehow, directly or indirectly, brought about the death of the last Duchess. In this dramatic monologue, Browning has not only depicted the inner workings of his speaker, but has in fact allowed the speaker to reveal his own failings and imperfections to the reader.

Summary

This poem is loosely based on historical events involving Alfonso, the Duke of Ferrara, who lived in the 16th century. The Duke is the speaker of the poem, and tells us he is entertaining an emissary who has come to negotiate the Duke’s marriage (he has recently been widowed) to the daughter of another powerful family. As he shows the visitor through his palace, he stops before a portrait of the late Duchess, apparently a young and lovely girl. The Duke begins reminiscing about the portrait sessions, then about the Duchess herself. His musings give way to a diatribe on her disgraceful behavior: he claims she flirted with everyone and did not appreciate his “gift of a nine-hundred-years- old name.” As his monologue continues, the reader realizes with ever-more chilling certainty that the Duke in fact caused the Duchess’s early demise: when her behavior escalated, “[he] gave commands; / Then all smiles stopped together.” Having made this disclosure, the Duke returns to the business at hand: arranging for another marriage, with another young girl. As the Duke and the emissary walk leave the painting behind, the Duke points out other notable artworks in his collection.

Form

“My Last Duchess” comprises rhyming pentameter lines. The lines do not employ end-stops; rather, they use enjambment—that is, sentences and other grammatical units do not necessarily conclude at the end of lines. Consequently, the rhymes do not create a sense of closure when they come, but rather remain a subtle driving force behind the Duke’s compulsive revelations. The Duke is quite a performer: he mimics others’ voices, creates hypothetical situations, and uses the force of his personality to make horrifying information seem merely colorful. Indeed, the poem provides a classic example of a dramatic monologue: the speaker is clearly distinct from the poet; an audience is suggested but never appears in the poem; and the revelation of the Duke’s character is the poem’s primary aim.

Commentary

But Browning has more in mind than simply creating a colorful character and placing him in a picturesque historical scene. Rather, the specific historical setting of the poem harbors much significance: the Italian Renaissance held a particular fascination for Browning and his contemporaries, for it represented the flowering of the aesthetic and the human alongside, or in some cases in the place of, the religious and the moral. Thus the temporal setting allows Browning to again explore sex, violence, and aesthetics as all entangled, complicating and confusing each other: the lushness of the language belies the fact that the Duchess was punished for her natural sexuality. The Duke’s ravings suggest that most of the supposed transgressions took place only in his mind. Like some of Browning’s fellow Victorians, the Duke sees sin lurking in every corner. The reason the speaker here gives for killing the Duchess ostensibly differs from that given by the speaker of “Porphyria’s Lover” for murder Porphyria; however, both women are nevertheless victims of a male desire to inscribe and fix female sexuality. The desperate need to do this mirrors the efforts of Victorian society to mold the behavior—sexual and otherwise—of individuals. For people confronted with an increasingly complex and anonymous modern world, this impulse comes naturally: to control would seem to be to conserve and stabilize. The Renaissance was a time when morally dissolute men like the Duke exercised absolute power, and as such it is a fascinating study for the Victorians: works like this imply that, surely, a time that produced magnificent art like the Duchess’s portrait couldn’t have been entirely evil in its allocation of societal control—even though it put men like the Duke in power.

A poem like “My Last Duchess” calculatedly engages its readers on a psychological level. Because we hear only the Duke’s musings, we must piece the story together ourselves. Browning forces his reader to become involved in the poem in order to understand it, and this adds to the fun of reading his work. It also forces the reader to question his or her own response to the subject portrayed and the method of its portrayal. We are forced to consider, Which aspect of the poem dominates: the horror of the Duchess’s fate, or the beauty of the language and the powerful dramatic development? Thus by posing this question the poem firstly tests the Victorian reader’s response to the modern world—git asks, Has everyday life made you numb yet?—and secondly asks a question that must be asked of all art—git queries, Does art have a moral component, or is it merely an aesthetic exercise? In these latter considerations Browning prefigures writers like Charles Baudelaire and Oscar Wilde.

John Milton - On His Blindness' - poem

Sonnet "On His Blindness," by John Milton

Sonnet  "On His Blindness," by John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent,
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best                         
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly.  Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and waite. 

Though blind when he composed his greatest poetry, John Milton could think in iambic pentameter. Over a period of four to five years he dictated to one or another of his daughters the epic poem Paradise Lost. A shorter sequel, Paradise Regained, and the drama Samson Agonistes followed soon after. Ludwig van Beethoven, stone deaf, wrote and orchestrated symphonies he could hear only in his mind. One wonders if Michelangelo, sightless, could have sculpted the Pieta and the statue of David using only his hands to feel the marble he was shaping to exquisite perfection.

It seems false modesty when, in the sonnet "On His Blindness," Milton refers to his genius and virtuosity as mere talent. But that would be to restrict the galaxies of meaning revolving around the word "talent" and other deceptively ordinary words such as "prevent" and "wait."

The poem commences with the poet's consideration of the second half of his life, which will be spent in darkness. He began to lose his sight in his early 30s. Doctors warned him against persisting in the eye-straining labor of writing pamphlets and public statements in defense and support of Oliver Cromwell's Puritan regime in which he served as Latin Secretary, a post similar to our Secretary of State. Milton chose to continue. He went totally blind in 1651 at age 43.

The man did not have an easy life. Milton's first wife, 17-year-old Mary Powell, fled to her parents' home immediately after the marriage ceremony and stayed there for several years. Milton managed a reconciliation, and Mary bore him three daughters and a son who died in infancy. She died three days after the birth of the third daughter.

He sought child-rearing aid from his mother-in-law, a woman who strongly disliked him. The daughters also found him overbearing and tyrannical. The second wife Milton married had little time to win over her stepdaughters, since she died in childbirth within two years.

Summary

In this sonnet, the speaker meditates on the fact that he has become blind (Milton himself was blind when he wrote this). He expresses his frustration at being prevented by his disability from serving God as well as he desires to. He is answered by "Patience," who tells him that God has many who hurry to do his bidding, and does not really need man’s work. Rather, what is valued is the ability to bear God’s "mild yoke," to tolerate whatever God asks faithfully and without complaint. As the famous last line sums it up, "They also serve who only stand and wait."

This poem presents a carefully reasoned argument, on the basis of Christian faith, for the acceptance of physical impairment. The speaker learns that, rather than being an obstacle to his fulfillment of God’s work for him, his blindness is a part of that work, and that his achievement lies in living patiently with it. (Milton himself went on to write his twelve-book epic poem, "Paradise Lost," after becoming blind.)

William Blake: "Piping down the valleys wild",

Lochinvar - Sir Walter Scott