Victorian Poet: Lewis Carroll (1832 - 1898 )

“Jabberwocky”

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!'

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought --

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood a while in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One two! One two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'

He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

Victorian Poet: Edward Lear (1812 – 1888)

“The Jumblies”

They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,

  In a Sieve they went to sea:

In spite of all their friends could say,

On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,

  In a Sieve they went to sea!

And when the Sieve turned round and round,

And every one cried, 'You'll all be drowned!'

They called aloud, 'Our Sieve ain't big,

But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig!

  In a Sieve we'll go to sea!'

      Far and few, far and few,

            Are the lands where the Jumblies live;

      Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

            And they went to sea in a Sieve.

II

They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,

In a Sieve they sailed so fast,

  With only a beautiful pea-green veil

Tied with a riband by way of a sail,

  To a small tobacco-pipe mast;

And every one said, who saw them go,

'O won't they be soon upset, you know!

For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,

And happen what may, it's extremely wrong

  In a Sieve to sail so fast!'

      Far and few, far and few,

            Are the lands where the Jumblies live;

      Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

            And they went to sea in a Sieve.

III

The water it soon came in, it did,

  The water it soon came in;

So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet

In a pinky paper all folded neat,

  And they fastened it down with a pin.

And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,

And each of them said, 'How wise we are!

Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,

Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,

  While round in our Sieve we spin!'

      Far and few, far and few,

            Are the lands where the Jumblies live;

      Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

            And they went to sea in a Sieve.

IV

And all night long they sailed away;

  And when the sun went down,

They whistled and warbled a moony song

To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,

  In the shade of the mountains brown.

'O Timballo! How happy we are,

When we live in a Sieve and a crockery-jar,

And all night long in the moonlight pale,

We sail away with a pea-green sail,

  In the shade of the mountains brown!'

      Far and few, far and few,

            Are the lands where the Jumblies live;

      Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

            And they went to sea in a Sieve.

V

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,

  To a land all covered with trees,

And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,

And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,

  And a hive of silvery Bees.

And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,

And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,

And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,

  And no end of Stilton Cheese.

      Far and few, far and few,

            Are the lands where the Jumblies live;

      Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

            And they went to sea in a Sieve.

VI

And in twenty years they all came back,

  In twenty years or more,

And every one said, 'How tall they've grown!

For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,

  And the hills of the Chankly Bore!'

And they drank their health, and gave them a feast

Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;

And every one said, 'If we only live,

We too will go to sea in a Sieve,---

  To the hills of the Chankly Bore!'

      Far and few, far and few,

            Are the lands where the Jumblies live;

      Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

            And they went to sea in a Sieve.

Victorian Poet: Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830–1894)

“Song”

 

WHEN I am dead, my dearest,

  Sing no sad songs for me;      

Plant thou no roses at my head,

  Nor shady cypress tree:         

Be the green grass above me             5

  With showers and dewdrops wet;      

And if thou wilt, remember,      

  And if thou wilt, forget.          

I shall not see the shadows,      

  I shall not feel the rain;                    10

I shall not hear the nightingale   

  Sing on, as if in pain;  

And dreaming through the twilight         

  That doth not rise nor set,      

Haply I may remember,                    15

  And haply may forget.

“In an Artist’s Studio”

One face looks out from all his canvases,

One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:

We found her hidden just behind those screens,

That mirror gave back all her loveliness.

A queen in opal or in ruby dress,

A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,

A saint, an angel -- every canvas means

The same one meaning, neither more nor less.

He feeds upon her face by day and night,

And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,

Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:

Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;

Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;

Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

Victorian Poet: Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882)

“Silent Noon”

YOUR hands lie open in the long, fresh grass,—          

The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:           

Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms

’Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.   

All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,                5

Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge        

Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn hedge.       

’Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.          

Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly          

Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky,—                 10

So this wing’d hour is dropped to us from above.         

Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,          

This close-companioned inarticulate hour          

When twofold silence was the song of love.      

“Love-Sweetness”

SWEET dimness of her loosened hair’s downfall          

About thy face; her sweet hands round thy head           

In gracious fostering union garlanded;   

Her tremulous smiles; her glances’ sweet recall 

Of love; her murmuring sighs memorial;                           5

Her mouth’s culled sweetness by thy kisses shed          

On cheeks and neck and eyelids, and so led     

Back to her mouth, which answers there for all:—        

What sweeter than these things, except the thing           

In lacking which all these would lose their sweet:—                10

The confident heart’s still fervor: the swift beat  

And soft subsidence of the spirit’s wing,           

Then when it feels, in cloud-girt wayfaring,        

The breath of kindred plumes against its feet?

Victorian Poet: Matthew Arnold (1822–1888)

“Dover Beach”

THE SEA is calm to-night,       

The tide is full, the moon lies fair           

Upon the straits;—on the French coast the light

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, 

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.              5

Come to the window, sweet is the night air!      

Only, from the long line of spray           

Where the sea meets the moon-blanch’d land,  

Listen! you hear the grating roar           

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,                 10

At their return, up the high strand.         

Begin, and cease, and then again begin,

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring           

The eternal note of sadness in.  

Sophocles long ago               15

Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought  

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow    

Of human misery; we   

Find also in the sound a thought,           

Hearing it by this distant northern sea.            20

The Sea of Faith          

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore        

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl’d.          

But now I only hear     

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,          25

Retreating, to the breath           

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear   

And naked shingles of the world.          

Ah, love, let us be true 

To one another! for the world, which seems              30

To lie before us like a land of dreams,  

So various, so beautiful, so new,          

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,         

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;      

And we are here as on a darkling plain          35

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,         

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Victorian Poet: Emily Bronte (1818–1848)

“No Coward Soul”

  NO coward soul is mine,       

No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere:        

  I see Heaven’s glories shine,  

And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.     

  O God within my breast,                 5

Almighty, ever-present Deity!   

  Life—that in me has rest,       

As I—undying Life—have power in Thee!       

  Vain are the thousand creeds 

That move men’s hearts: unutterably vain;                  10

  Worthless as wither’d weeds,

Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,           

  To waken doubt in one          

Holding so fast by Thine infinity;           

  So surely anchor’d on         15

The steadfast rock of immortality.         

  With wide-embracing love     

Thy Spirit animates eternal years,         

  Pervades and broods above,  

Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.                    20

  Though earth and man were gone,      

And suns and universes cease to be,     

  And Thou were left alone,      

Every existence would exist in Thee.     

  There is not room for Death,           25

Nor atom that his might could render void:        

  Thou—Thou art Being and Breath,     

And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

Victorian Poet: Robert Browning (1812–1889)

“My Last Duchess”

Ferrara

THAT’S my last Duchess painted on the wall,   

Looking as if she were alive. I call         

That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands  

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.        

Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said                  5

“Frà 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)          10

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         15

Frà 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             20

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 favor at her breast,                   25

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,                    30

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            35

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             40

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;              45

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            50

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,              55

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

-----------------------------------------------

“Rabbi Ben Ezra”

GROW old along with me!        

The best is yet to be,     

The last of life, for which the first was made:     

Our times are in his hand          

Who saith, “A whole I planned,          5

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!”  

Not that, amassing flowers,       

Youth sighed, “Which rose make ours,   

Which lily leave and then as best recall?”           

Not that, admiring stars,         10

It yearned, “Nor Jove, nor Mars;           

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!” 

Not for such hopes and fears    

Annulling youth’s brief years,    

Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!            15

Rather I prize the doubt

Low kinds exist without,

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.  

Poor vaunt of life indeed,          

Were man but formed to feed            20

On joy, to solely seek and find a feast:   

Such feasting ended, then          

As sure an end to men; 

Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?          

Rejoice we are allied             25

To that which doth provide        

And not partake, effect and not receive!

A spark disturbs our clod;         

Nearer we hold of God 

Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.             30

Then, welcome each rebuff       

That turns earth’s smoothness rough,     

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!       

Be our joys three-parts pain!     

Strive, and hold cheap the strain;                    35

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!         

For thence,—a paradox

Which comforts while it mocks,—         

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: 

What I aspired to be,             40

And was not, comforts me:       

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i’ the scale.          

What is he but a brute   

Whose flesh has soul to suit,      

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?                    45

To man, propose this test—       

Thy body at its best,      

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?          

Yet gifts should prove their use: 

I own the Past profuse           50

Of power each side, perfection every turn:         

Eyes, ears took in their dole,      

Brain treasured up the whole;    

Should not the heart beat once “How good to live and learn”?     

Not once beat “Praise be thine!          55

I see the whole design,  

I, who saw power, see now Love perfect too:    

Perfect I call Thy plan: 

Thanks that I was a man!         

Maker, remake, complete,—I trust what Thou shalt do!”         60

For pleasant is this flesh;           

Our soul, in its rose-mesh          

Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest:       

Would we some prize might hold           

To match those manifold                    65

Possessions of the brute,—gain most, as we did best!     

Let us not always say,  

“Spite of this flesh to-day          

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!”      

As the bird wings and sings,               70

Let us cry, “All good things       

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!”  

Therefore I summon age           

To grant youth’s heritage,         

Life’s struggle having so far reached its term:             75

Thence shall I pass, approved    

A man, for aye removed           

From the developed brute; a God though in the germ.      

And I shall thereupon    

Take rest, ere I be gone         80

Once more on my adventure brave and new:      

Fearless and unperplexed,         

When I wage battle next,          

What weapons to select, what armor to indue.    

Youth ended, I shall try          85

My gain or loss thereby;

Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold:        

And I shall weigh the same,      

Give life its praise or blame:      

Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.          90

For note, when evening shuts,    

A certain moment cuts  

The deed off, calls the glory from the gray:        

A whisper from the west          

Shoots—“Add this to the rest,            95

Take it and try its worth: here dies another day.”

So, still within this life,   

Though lifted o’er its strife,       

Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,       

“This rage was right i’ the main,         100

That acquiescence vain:

The Future I may face now I have proved the Past.”      

For more is not reserved           

To man, with soul just nerved    

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day:         105

Here, work enough to watch     

The Master work, and catch     

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool’s true play.    

As it was better, youth  

Should strive, through acts uncouth,                110

Toward making, than repose on aught found made:         

So, better, age, exempt  

From strife, should know, than tempt      

Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor be afraid!     

Enough now, if the Right                    115

And Good and Infinite   

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own,         

With knowledge absolute,          

Subject to no dispute     

From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.             120

Be there, for once and all,         

Severed great minds from small,

Announced to each his station in the Past!         

Was I, the world arraigned,       

Were they, my soul disdained,            125

Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!

Now, who shall arbitrate?         

Ten men love what I hate,         

Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;           

Ten, who in ears and eyes                  130

Match me; we all surmise,        

They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?  

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called “work,” must sentence pass,       

Things done, that took the eye and had the price;         135

O’er which, from level stand,    

The low world laid its hand,       

Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:       

But all, the world’s coarse thumb           

And finger failed to plumb,                 140

So passed in making up the main account;          

All instincts immature,   

All purposes unsure,     

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man’s amount:      

Thoughts hardly to be packed             145

Into a narrow act,         

Fancies that broke through language and escaped;          

All I could never be,     

All, men ignored in me, 

This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.                  150

Ay, note that Potter’s wheel,     

That metaphor! and feel

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,—           

Thou, to whom fools propound,  

When the wine makes its round,         155

“Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!”       

Fool! All that is, at all,   

Lasts ever, past recall;  

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:  

What entered into thee,          160

That was, is, and shall be:          

Time’s wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.           

He fixed thee ’mid this dance    

Of plastic circumstance,

This Present, thou, forsooth, would fain arrest:             165

Machinery just meant   

To give thy soul its bent,

Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.        

What though the earlier grooves,           

Which ran the laughing loves              170

Around thy base, no longer pause and press?     

What though, about thy rim,       

Skull-things in order grim           

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?         

Look not thou down but up!                175

To uses of a cup,          

The festal board, lamp’s flash and trumpet’s peal,           

The new wine’s foaming flow,  

The master’s lips aglow!           

Thou, heaven’s consummate cup, what needst thou with earth’s wheel?           180

But I need, now as then,           

Thee, God, who mouldest men;  

And since, not even while the whirl was worst,   

Did I—to the wheel of life        

With shapes and colors rife,               185

Bound dizzily—mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst:        

So, take and use Thy work:       

Amend what flaws may lurk,     

What strain o’ the stuff, what warpings past the aim!      

My times be in Thy hand!                  190

Perfect the cup as planned!       

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!