LYCIDAS - JOHN MILTON

 Lycidas – John Milton

 

(In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned in his Passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height.)

 

YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more,

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never-sere,

I come to pluck your berries harash and crude,

And with forced fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.                     5

Bitter constraints, and sad occasion dear,

Compels me to disturb your season due:

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,

Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer;

Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew                           10

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

He must not float upon his watery bier

Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,

Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

     Begin then, sisters of the sacred well,                               15

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.

Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,

So may some gentle Muse

With lucky words favour my destined urn,                             20

And as he passes turn,

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,

Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.

     Together both, ere the high lawns appeared                      25

Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,

We drove a-field, and both together heard

What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn,

Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,

Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright,                            30

Towards heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel.

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,

Tempered to th’ oaten flute;

Rough Satyrs dance, and Fauns with cloven heel,

From the glad sound would not be absent long,                     35

And old Damætas loved to hear our song.

     But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,

Now thou art gone and never must return!

Thee, shephered, thee the woods, and desert caves,

With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown,                40

And all their echoes mourn.

The willows, and the hazel copses green,

Shall now no more be seen,

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.

As killing as the canker to the rose,                                       45

Or taint-worn to the weanling herds that graze,

Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear

When first the white-thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s ear.

     Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep       50

Clased o’er the head of your loved Lycidas?

For neither were ye, playing on the steep,

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:                    55

Ay me. I fondly dream!

Had ye been there—for what could that have done?

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,

The Muse herself, for her enchanting son

Whom universal nature die lament,                                        60

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,

His gory visage down the stream was sent,

Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

     Alas! what boots it with incessant care

To tend the homely slighted shephered’s trade,                     65

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?

Were it not better done, as others use,

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neæra’s hair?

Fame is the sour that the clear spirit doth raise                      70

(That last infirmity of noble mind)

To scorn delights, and live laborious days;

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

Comes the blind Fury with th’ abhorred shears,                     75

And slits the thin-spun life. “Rust not the praise.”

Phœbus replied, and touched my trembling ears;

“Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,

Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to th’ world, nor in broad rumour lies,                        80

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;

As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.”

     O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,                85

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,

That strain I heard was of a higher mood;

But now my oat proceeds,

And listens to the herald of the sea

That came in Neptune’s plea,                                                 90

He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,                    

What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?

And questioned every gust of rugged wings

That blows from off each beaked promontory.

They knew not of his story,                                                    95                                            

And sage Hippotades their answer brings,

That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;

The air was calm, and on the level brine

Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.

It was that fatal and perlidious bark                                       100

Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

     Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,

His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge                         105

Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.

‘Ah! Who hath reft,’ (quoth he) ‘my dearest pledge?’

Last came, and last did go,

The pilot of the Galilean lake;

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain                               110

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);

He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:

‘How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,

Enow of such as for their bellies’ sake,

Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold!                           115

Of other care they little reckoning make,

Than how to scramble at the shearers’ feast,

And shove away the worthy bidden guest.

Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold

A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least                120

That to the faithful herdman’s are belongs!

What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;

And when they list, their lean and flashy songs

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,                           125

But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;’

Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw,

Daily devours a pace, and nothing said,

But that two-handed engine at the door                                 130

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.’

     Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,

That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,

And call the vales, and bid them hither cast

Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues.                       135

Ye valleys low where the mild whispers use

Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,

On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks,

Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,

That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,                 140

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,

The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,

The glowing violet                                                                  145

The musk-rose, and the well attired-woodbine.

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,

And every flower that sad embroidery wears:

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,

And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,                              150

To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.

For so to interpose a little ease,

Let our frails thoughts dally with false surmise,

Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding seas.

Wash far away, where’er thy bones are hurled,                      155

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,

Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide

Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;

Or whether thou to our moist vows denied,

Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,                                      160

Where the great vision of the guarded mount

Looks toward Namancos and Bayons’s hold;

Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth.

And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

     Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,            165

For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,

And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore,                170

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,

Through the dear might of him that walked the waves

Where, other groves and other streams along,

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,                              175

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,

In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.

There entertain him all the saints above,

In solemn troops, and sweet societies,

That sing, and singing in their glory move,                            180

And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 

Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;

Henceforth thou art the genuius of the shore,

In thy large recompense, an shalt be good,

To all that wander in that perilous flood.                                185

     Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills

While the still morn went out with sandals grey;

He touched the tender stops of various quills,

With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:

And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,                     190

And now was dropt into the western bay;

At last he rose, and twitched his 

To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 

 

 ed. mastanappa puletipalli

Lycidas – John Milton (Summary)

 

“Lycidas” is a pastoral elegy written by the English poet John Milton in 1637, dedicated to his friend Edward King, who had drowned at Irish sea. The poem is known for its intricate structure, rich imagery, and its exploration of themes such as grief, mortality, and the fragility of life. 

 

The poem is presented as a monody, a lament for the dead, and is written in the form of a pastoral elegy, a genre that draws on the conventions of classical poetry to express grief and lamentation. The central speaker of the poem mourns the loss of Lycidas, the drowned shepherd, and reflects on the unfairness of his early death. 

 

The poem begins with the speaker calling on the Muses to help him sing a mournful song for Lycidas. He describes the idyllic pastoral setting and the sorrow of the shepherds who have lost their companion. The speaker then expresses his grief over the untimely death of Lycidas, noting how death has taken him before he could fully realize his poetic potential. 

 

As the poem progresses, the speaker transitions into a criticism of the corrupt state of the church and the clergy of the time. He addresses the clergy directly, blaming them for their negligence and worldly pursuits, which he believes have contributed to Lycidas’s untimely death. This portion of the poem reflects Milton’s discontent with the state of the Church of England and his longing for reform. 

 

Toward the end of the poem, the tone shifts as the speaker envisions Lycidas, transformed into a water deity, and he becomes more optimistic about the afterlife and the possibility of salvation. The poem concludes with a hopeful and comforting image of Lycidas’s spirit joining the company of other deceased poets and shepherds in a celestial realm.   

 

In summary, “Lycidas” by John Milton is a pastoral elegy that mourns the death of the poet’s friend, Edward King, while also addressing broader themes of loss, mortality, and the state of the Church. The poem is rich in imagery and uses the convention of pastoral poetry to create a complex and emotionally charged exploration of grief and transcendence. 

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SISTER HELEN - DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

 SISTER HELEN – DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

 

“Sister Helen” is a narrative poem by the English poet and painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The poem was published in 1881 as part of Rossetti’s collection titled “Ballads and Sonnets”. It tells the story of a woman named sister Helen who seeks revenge on a man named James. The poem is inspired by the ballad traditions and combines elements of Gothic horror and supernatural themes.

 

The poem begins with Sister Helen speaking to her brother, who is a priest. She tells him about her encounter with James, a man who had betrayed and abandoned her, causing her to suffer greatly. She asks her brother for guidance on how to seek revenge on James for the wrongs he has done to her.  

 

The brother advises Sister Helen to pray for James and not to seek revenge, as vengeance is not her role as a nun. However, sister Helen is consumed by anger and desire for revenge. She rejects her brother’s advice and decides to use black magic to cast a spell on James, with the help of a witch. 

 

Sister Helen and the witch gather ingredients for the spell, including a wax effigy of James, a vial of her own blood, and various herbs and potions. They perform the dark ritual, invoking supernatural forces to curse James. The ritual involves symbolic actions like melting the wax effigy and chanting incantations.

 

As the spell progresses, Sister Helen begins to experience the consequences of her actions. Her chamber becomes filled with a noxious smell, and she hears eerie sounds. She starts to have doubts and fears about the path she has chosen. The poem vividly describes the eerie and unsetting atmosphere as the ritual unfolds.

 

Eventually, the spell seems to take effect. James falls ill and is tormented by disturbing visions and hallucinations. He believes he sees Sister Helen and is haunted by her presence. Despite his suffering, he does not die immediately.

 

Sister Helen is tormented by guilt and remorse for what she has done. She realizes that her desire for revenge has led down a dark and destructive path. She prays for forgiveness and redemption, acknowledging the consequences of her actions.

 

The poem ends with Sister Helen’s brother finding her dead body in her chamber. The implications are that her attempt to seek revenge through dark magic ultimately led to her own downfall and death. 

 

The poem “Sister Helen” explores themes of revenge, morality, supernatural forces, and the consequences of one’s actions. It serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of succumbing to vengeful desires and dabbling in forbidden powers. 

 

 

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SNAKE - D.H. LAWRENCE

 SNAKE – D.H. LAWRENCE

 

D.H. Lawrence’s poem “Snake” is complex and evocative piece that explores themes of human nature, respect for nature, and the conflict between intellect and instinct. The poem is written in first person and describes an encounter between speaker and a snake that comes to drink at the speaker’s water trough. The speaker is initially dilled with conflicting emotions of fear and fascination as they observe the snake.

 

Throughout the poem, Lawrence delves into the speaker’s thoughts and emotions, highlighting their internal struggle between the fear instilled by societal norms and the instinctual respect for nature and its creatures. The snake is depicted as majestic and ancient creature, embodying a sense of primordial wisdom and natural rhythm.

 

The turning point of the poem occurs when the speaker decides to act on their instincts and not succumb to the fear-driven impulse to kill the snake. Instead, the speaker allows the snake to drink peacefully and even consider it a kind of honoured guest. This choice represents a moment of revelation for the speaker, as they come to realize the beauty and significance of coexisting with nature without trying to dominate or destroy it. 

 

The poem concludes with a sense of regret and longing as the snake slowly retreats into the undergrowth. The speaker reflects on their own inability to fully embrace their instinctual connection with nature due to societal constraints and the conditioning of civilization.

 

In summary, “Snake” by D.H. Lawrence is a reflective and introspective poem that uses the encounter with a snake as a metaphor for exploring the tension between human intellect and primal instincts, as well as the desire to find harmony with the natural world. 

 

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Resolution and Independence -- William Wordsworth (Outline Summary)

 Resolution and Independence – William Wordsworth (Outline Summary)

 

“Resolution and Independence” is a narrative poem written by the renowned English Romantic Poet William Wordsworth. The poem first published in 1807 as part of his collection “Poems in Two Volumes”, delves into the themes of nature, human perseverance, and the wisdom of experience. 

 

The poem recounts a speaker’s encounter with an old, humble leech-gatherer (a person who collects medicinal leeches) during a solitary walk in the country side. The speaker is initially filled with feelings of despondency and doubt, contemplating the struggles and uncertainties of life. However, upon meeting the leech-gatherer, the speaker witnesses a contrasting example of resilience and fortitude in the face of hardship.

 

The leech-gatherer is portrayed as an emblem of steadfastness and resolution. Despite his old age and arduous profession, he maintains a cheerful and contented demeanor, deriving wisdom from his long experience with the natural world. Through their conversation, the speaker comes to appreciate the wisdom that can be gained through endurance and patient observation of nature’s cycles.  

 

The poem presents a stark contrast between the speaker’s initial melancholy and the leech-gatherer’s unyielding spirit, ultimately leading to a sense of moral rejuvenation and hope for the future. The encounter serves as a reminder of the profound lessons that nature and human experience can offer, encouraging the speaker, and by extension, the reader, to find solace and strength in life’s trials and tribulations.

 

“Resolution and Independence” exemplifies Wordsworth’s signature themes of the power of nature, the beauty of simplicity and the transformative potential of encounters with ordinary people. It remains an enduring work that highlights the Romantic Belief in the redemptive qualities of the natural world and indomitable spirit of the human soul.

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KANAKAPALA, THE PROTECTOR OF GOLD (FOLK STORY)

 KANAKAPALA, THE PROTECTOR OF GOLD 

 

(A Folklore Story Similar to Raja Rao’s Short Story “The True Story of Kanakapala, The Protector of Gold”)

 

Once upon a time, in the mystical land of Vajrapura, there existed a lagend about a magnificent creature known as Kanakapala, the protector of Gold. This enchanting being was said to be a divine elephant adorned in shimmering gold scales, gifted with extraordinary powers to safeguard the precious metal that lay hidden in the heart of the Vajrapura forest.

 

The tale of Kanakapala had been passed down through generations, captivating the imaginations of young and old alike. It was said that whenever the kingdom faced perilous times or was on the verge of financial ruin, Kanakapala would rise from the depths of the forest to save the day.

 

The people of Vajrapura were kind-hearted and peaceful, and they never sought to exploit the gold found in their forest for personal gain. Instead, they saw it as a blessing from the gods and a symbol of prosperity.  But, as rumors of the city’s riches spread far and wide, greedy and wicked outsiders began plotting to seize the golden treasure for themselves.

 

One such conniving character was Kaliya, a notorious warlord from distant realm. He amassed a formidable army and set his sights on conquering Vajrapura to claim the treasure of Kanakapala. His dark intentions threatened to plunge the kingdom into chaos, as the peaceful citizens had no means to defend themselves against such a formidable force.

 

In their desperation, the people of Vajrapura turned to their wise and compassionate king, Raja Varun, for guidance. Recognizing the gravity of the situation, the king decided to seek the sid of Kanakapala. With a heavy heart, he entered the sacred forest, hoping to connect with the majestic elephant guardian. 

 

Deep within the forest, surrounded by ancient trees and mystical energy, Raja Varun chanted sacred prayers and invoked the spirit of Kanakapala. The ground trembled, and the air hummed with magic as the divine creature from a golden mist. The king stood in awe as he beheld the magnificent, gleaming form of Kanakapala. 

 

With a gentle voice, Raja Varun explained the peril facing his kingdom and humbly requested Kanakapala’s protection. Touched by the sincerity of the king’s plea, Kanakapala agreed to lend his aid.

 

As the sun set and the moon ascended, Kaliya’s army marched toward Vajrapura, unaware of the force they were about to face. Just as the invaders reached the outskirts of the city, a deafening trumpet echoed through the night. The ground shook, and Kanakapala, glowing like a celestial being, charged into battle with grace and ferocity. With each swing of his golden tusks, Kanakapala repelled the attackers, scattering their ranks. The sheer power and brilliance of the divine elephant struck fear into the hearts of Kaliya’s soldiers, causing many to flee in disarray.

 

Kaliya himself, witnessing the marvel before him, was consumed by greed and madness. He foolishly believed that if he could somehow capture Kanakapala, he would possess the secret to turning all things into gold. But the divine elephant was not to be tamed and with a burst of ethereal energy, Kanakapala banished Kaliya and his remaining forces from the sacred land of Vajrapura forever. 

From that day on, the legend of Kanakapala, the protector of Gold, grew even stronger. The people of Vajrapura continued to live in harmony, knowing that their precious treasure would forever be safeguarded by the divine guardian of the forest.

 

As for Kanakapala, he returned to the heart of the forest, always ready to answer the call of those in need. His tale lived on, inspiring generations to come, reminding them that true wealth lies not in material possession but in the spirit of unity, kindness, and the protection of what is truly precious.

 

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THE SCHOLAR GIPSY - MATTHEW ARNOLD

 THE SCHOLAR GIPSY – MATTHEW ARNOLD

 

“THE SCHOLAR GIPSY” is a thought provoking and melancholic poem written by Matthew Arnold in the year 1853 of 19^th century. The poem revolves around the intriguing and mythical figure of the “Scholar Gipsy”, a wandering scholar of great wisdom and intellect who belongs to the Romani (gipsy) Community.

 

The setting of the poem “THE SCHOLAR GIPSY” is the Oxford countryside, where the narrator learns about the existence of the Scholar Gipsy from a local shepherd. The Scholar Gipsy was once a diligent and studious oxford student who decided to forsake traditional academic pursuits for a simpler and more profound way of learning. He leaves the confines of the academic world, seeking knowledge and wisdom from nature and the open road.

 

Arnold portrays the character of the Scholar Gipsy as a symbol of the pursuit of knowledge beyond the confines of formal education. He suggests that the traditional scholastic environment may not always be the ideal place to find true wisdom and enlightenment. Instead, the Scholar Gipsy represents the idea that knowledge can be found in the untamed and unexplored aspects of life, away from the trappings of conventional society.  

 

The poem blends elements of nature, nostalgia, and existential contemplation, presenting a wistful narrative of a life devoted to the pursuit of knowledge and wisdom. The “THE SCHOLAR GIPSY” becomes an embodiment of a romanticized and idyllic existence, living on the fringes of society while seeking a deeper understanding of life’s mysteries.

 

Arnold’s “THE SCHOLAR GIPSY” raises questions about the value of formal education, the allure of the unknown, and the potential rewards of an unconventional life dedicated to the pursuit of wisdom. The poem’s introspective and contemplative tone leaves readers reflecting on the nature of knowledge, the choices we make in our lives, and the eternal quest for enlightenment.

 

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THE SCHOLAR GIPSY -- MATHEW ARNOLD

 THE SCHOLAR GIPSY —MATHEW ARNOLD 

 

Go, for they call you, Shepherd from the hill;

Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes;

No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,

 

Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats,

Nor the cropp’d grasses shoot another head.

But when the fields are still,

 

And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest,

And only the white sheep are sometimes seen

Cross and recross the strips of moon-blench’d green;

Come, Shepherd, and again renew the quest.

 

Here, where the reaper was at work of late,

In this high field’s dark corner, where he leaves

His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse,

 

And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves;

Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use:

Here will I sit and wait.

 

While to my ear from uplands far away

The bleating of the folded flocks is borne

With distant cries of reapers in the corn

All the live murmur of a summer’s day.

 

Screen’d is this nook over the high, half-reap’d field,

And here till sun-down, Shepherd, will I be.

Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep,

 

And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see

Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep:

And air swept lindens yield

 

Their scant, and rustle down their perfum’d showers

Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,

And bower me from me from the August sun with shade;

And the eye travels down to Oxford’s towers:

 

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil’s book

Come, let me read the oft-read tale again,

The Story of that Oxford Scholar poor

 

Of pregnant parts quick inventive brain,

Who, tired of knocking at preferment’s door

One summer morn forsook

 

 

His friends, and went to learn the Gipsy lore,

And roamed the world with that wild brotherhood:

And came, as most men deem’d, to little good,

But came to Oxford and his friends no more.

 

But once, years after, in the country lanes,

Two scholars whom at college erst he knew

Met him, and of his way of life inquired

Whereat he answer’d, that the Gipsy crew,

His mates, had arts to rule as they desired

The workings of men’s brains;

 

And they can bind them to what thoughts they will:

‘And I,’ he said, ‘the secret of their art,

When fully learned, will to the world impart:

But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill.’

 

This said, he left them, and return’d no more,

But rumours hung about the country side

That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray.

 

Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied

In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey. 

The same the Gipsies wore. 

 

Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring;

At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,

On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock’d boors

Had found him seated at their entering,

 

But ’mid their drink and clatter, he would fly;

And I myself seem half to know thy looks,

And put the shepherds wanderer, on thy trace;

 

And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks

I ask if thou hast pass’d their quiet place;

Or in my boat I lie

 

Moor’d to the cool bank in the summer heats,

Mid wide wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills,

And watch the warm green muffled Cumner hills.

And wonder if thou haunt’st their shy retreats;

 

For most, I know, thou lov’st retired ground.

Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe,

Retuning home on summer nights, have met

Crossing the stripling Thames at Bablock-hithe,

Trailling in the cool stream thy fingers wet,

As the slow punt swings round:

And leaning backwards in a pensive dream,

And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers

Plucked in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers

And thine eyes resting on the moonlight stream:

 

And then they land, and thou art seen no more.

Maidens who from the distant hamlets come

To dance around the Fyfield elm in May,

Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam,

 

Or cross a stile into the public way;

Oft thou hast given them store

Of flowers —the frail—leafed, white anemone—

Dark bluebells drenched with dews of summer eves—

 

And purple orchises with spotted leaves—

But none has words she can report of thee.

 

And, above Godstow Bridge, when hey-time’s here

In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames,

Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass

Where black-winged swallows haunt the glittering Thames.

 

To bathe in the abandon’d lasher pass,

Have often pass’d thee near

 

Sitting upon the river bank o’ergrown:

Mark’d thy outlandish garb, thy figure spare,

Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air;

But, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone.

 

At some lone homestead in the Cummer hills,

Where at her open door the housewife darns,

Thou hast been seem, or hanging on a gate

 

To watch the threshers in the mossy barns.

Children, who early range these slopes and late

For cresses from the rills.

 

Have known thee watching all an April day,

The springing pastures and the feeding kine,

And mark’d thee, when the stars come out and shine.

 

Through the long dewy grass move slow away.

In Autumn, on the skirts of Bagley wood,

Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edg’d way

Pitch their smok’d tents, and every bush you see

With scarlet patches tagg’d and shreds of grey,

Above the forest ground call’d Thessaly—

The black-bird picking food

 

Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;

So often has he known thee past him stray

Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither’d spray,

And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall.

 

And once, in winter, on the causeway chill

Where home through flooded fields foot travellers go,

Have I not pass’d thee on the wooden bridge

 

Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow,

Thy face towards Hinksey and its wintry ridge?

Abd thou hast climb’d the hill.

 

And gain’d the white brow of the Cummer range,

Turn’d once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall,

The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall—

Then sought thy straw in some sequester’d grange.

 

But what— I dream! Two hundred years are flown

Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls,

And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe

 

That thou wert wander’d from the studious walls

To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy tribe;

And thou from earth art gone

 

Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid;

Some country nook, whereo’er thy unknown grave

Tall grasses and white flowering nettlet wave—

Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree’s shade.

 

—No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours.

For what wears out the life of mortal men?

’Tis that from change to change their being rolls;

Exhaust the energy of strongest souls 

And numb the elastic powers.

 

Till having us’d our nerves with bliss and teen,

And tir’d upon a thousand schemes our with,

And to the just-pausing Genius we remit

 

Our worn-out life and are— what we have been,

Thou hast not liv’d, why should’st thou perish, so?

Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire:

Else were thou long since number’d with the dead—

 

Else hadst thou spent like other men, thy fire.

The generations of thy peers are fled.

And we ourselves shall go;

 

But thou possessest an immortal lot,

And we imagine thee exempt from age

And living as thou liv’st on Glanvil’s page,

Because thou hadst-what we, alas, have not!

For early didst thou leave the world, with powers

Fresh, undiverted to the world, without,

Firm to their mark, not spent on other things;

Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt,

Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings.

 

O life unlike to ours!

Who fluctuate idly without term or scope,

Of whom each strives, not knows for what he strives,

 

And each half lives a hundred different lives;

Who wait like thee, but not like thee, in hope,

 

Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven; and we,

Vague half-believers of our casual creeds,

Who never deeply felt, our clearly will’d

 

Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds,

Whose weak resolves never have been fulfill’d;

For whom each year we see

 

Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new;

Who hesitate and falter life away,

 

And loose to-morrow the ground won to-day—

Ah, do not we, wanderer, await it too?

Yes, we await it, but it still delays,

And then we suffer, and amongst us one.

Who most has suffered takes, dejectedly

 

His seat upon the intellectual throne:

And all his store of sad experience he 

Lays bare of wretched days;

 

Tells us his misery’s birth and growth and sighs,

And how the dying spark of hope was fed,

And how the breast was sooth’d and how the head,

And all his hourly varied anodynes.

 

This for our wisest; and we others pine,

And wish the long unhappy dream would end,

And waive all claim to bliss and try to bear,

With close lipp’d Patience for our only friend,

Sad patience, too near neighbour to Despair;

But none has hope like thine.

Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray.

Roaming the country side, a truant boy,

Nursing thy project in unclouded joy,

And every doubt blown by time away,

 

O born in days when wits were fresh and clear,

And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames;

Before this strange disease of modern life,

With its sick hurry, its divided aims,

Its heads o’ertax’d, its palsied hearts, was rife

Fly hence, our contact fear!

 

Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood!

Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern

From her false friend’s approach in Hades turn,

Wave us away, and keep thy solitude,

 

Still nursing the unconquerable hope,

Still clutching the inviolable shade,

With a free onward impulse brushing through,

By night, the silver’d branches of the glade —

Far on the forest skirts, where none pursue,

On some mild pastoral slope

Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales,

Freshen thy flowers, as in former years,

With dew: or listen with enchanted ears,

From the dark dingles, to the nightingales.

 

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly!

For strong the infection of our mental strife,

Which, thou it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest;

And we should win thee from thy own fair life,

Like us distracted, and like us unblest.

Soon, soon thy cheer would die.

 

Thy hopes frow timorous, and unfix’d thy powers,

And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made:

And then thy glad perennial youth would fade.

Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours.

 

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!

—As some grave Tyrian trader; from the sea,

Descried at sunrise an emerging prow

Lifting the cool-hair’d creepers stealthily,

The fringes of a southward-facing brow

Among the Aegean isles;

 

And saw the merry Grecian coaster come,

Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,

Green bursting figs, and tunnies steep’d in brine;

And knew the intruders on his ancient home,

The young light-hearted Masters of the waves;

And snatch’d his rudder: and shook out more sail,

And day and night held on indignantly

O’er the blue Midland waters with the gale,

Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,

To where the Atlantic raves

Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails

There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,

 

Shy traffickers, the dark lberians come:

And on the beach undid his corded bales.

 

                              *****

 

 

 THE SCHOLAR GIPSY – MATTHEW ARNOLD

 

“THE SCHOLAR GIPSY” is a thought provoking and melancholic poem written by Matthew Arnold in the year 1853 of 19^th century. The poem revolves around the intriguing and mythical figure of the “Scholar Gipsy”, a wandering scholar of great wisdom and intellect who belongs to the Romani (gipsy) Community.

 

The setting of the poem “THE SCHOLAR GIPSY” is the Oxford countryside, where the narrator learns about the existence of the Scholar Gipsy from a local shepherd. The Scholar Gipsy was once a diligent and studious oxford student who decided to forsake traditional academic pursuits for a simpler and more profound way of learning. He leaves the confines of the academic world, seeking knowledge and wisdom from nature and the open road.

 

Arnold portrays the character of the Scholar Gipsy as a symbol of the pursuit of knowledge beyond the confines of formal education. He suggests that the traditional scholastic environment may not always be the ideal place to find true wisdom and enlightenment. Instead, the Scholar Gipsy represents the idea that knowledge can be found in the untamed and unexplored aspects of life, away from the trappings of conventional society.  

 

The poem blends elements of nature, nostalgia, and existential contemplation, presenting a wistful narrative of a life devoted to the pursuit of knowledge and wisdom. The “THE SCHOLAR GIPSY” becomes and embodiment of a romanticized and idyllic existence, living on the fringes of society while seeking a deeper understanding of life’s mysteries.

 

Arnold’s “THE SCHOLAR GIPSY” raises questions about the value of formal education, the allure of the unknown, and the potential rewards of an unconventional life dedicated to the pursuit of wisdom. The poem’s introspective and contemplative tone leaves readers reflecting on the nature of knowledge, the choices we make in our lives, and the eternal quest for enlightenment.

 

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 mastanappa puletipalli