Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood -- William Wordsworth

Ode: Intimations of immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

—William Wordsworth

 

The child is father of the man;

And I could wish my days to be 

Bound each to each by natural piety.

(Wordsworth, “My Heart Leaps Up”)

 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.

It is not now as it hath been of yore;—

Turn wheresoe’er I may,

By night or day.

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

 

The Rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the Rose,

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare,

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair; 

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where’er I go,

That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,

And while the young lambs bound

As to the tabor’s sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief:

A timely utterance gave that thought relief;

And I again am strong:

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;

No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;

I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,

The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,

And all the earth is gay;

Land and sea 

Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May

Doth every Beast keep holiday; —

Thou Child of Joy,

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy. 

 

Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I See

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;

My heart is at your festival,

The fulness of your bliss, I feel —I feel it all.

Oh evil day! If I were sullen 

While Earth herself is adorning,

This sweet May-morning,

And the Children are culling 

On every side,

In a thousand valleys far and wide,

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 

And the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s arm; — 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

—But there’s a Tree, of many, one, 

A single field which I have looked upon,

Both of them speak of something that is gone;

The Pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat:

Whither is fled the visionary gleam?

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing Boy,

But he beholds, who daily farther from the east

Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended;

At length the Man perceives it die away,

And fade into the light of common day.

 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,

And, even with something of a Mother’s mind,

And no unworthy aim,

The homely Nurse doth all she can

To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,

Forget the glories he hath known, 

And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the child among his new-born blisses,

A six years’ Darling of a pigmy size! 

See, where ‘’mid work of his own hand he likes,

Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,

With light upon him from his father’s eyes!

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,

Some fragment from his dream of human life,

Shaped by himself with newly-learn{e}d art

A wedding or a festival,

A mourning or a funeral;

And this hath now his heart,

And unto this he frames his song:

Then will he fit his tongue

To dialogues of business, love, or strife;

But it will not be long

Ere this be thrown aside,

And with new joy and pride

The little Actor cons another part;

Filling from time to time his “humorous stage”

With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,

That Life brings with her in her equipage;

As if his whole vocation

Were endless imitation.

 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy Soul’s immensity;

Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep

Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,

That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,

Haunted forever by the eternal mind,—

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!

On whom those truths do rest,

Which we are toiling all our lives to find,

In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;

Thou, over who why Immortality

Broods loke the Day, a Master o’er a Slave,

A Presence which is not to be put by;

Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might

Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,

Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke

The years to bring the inevitable yoke,

Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?

Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,

And custom lie upon thee with a weight,

Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

 

O Joy! That in our embers

Is something that doth live, 

That Nature yet remembers 

What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed

Perpetual benediction: not indeed

For that which is most worthy to be blest;

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: —

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise

But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a Creature

Moving about in worlds not realized,

High instincts before which our mortal Nature

Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may

Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,

Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make

Our noisy years seem moments in the being

Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,

To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

Nor Man nor Boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence is a season of calm weather

Though inland far we be,

Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us hither, 

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the Children sport upon the shore,

And heart the mighty waters rolling evermore.

 

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 which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour 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 colouring from an eye

That hath kept watch o’ver man’s mortality;

Another race hath been, and other palms are won.

Thanks so 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.

 

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Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night - Dylan Thomas

 Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night – Dylan Thomas (1914-1952)

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightening they 

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Grave men near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Glossary:

 

rave:     protest

rage:     to become angry

forked:   divided

bay:      a part of the sea enveloped by curved land

grave:    serious

gay:      happy

 

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night – Dylan Thomas

 

The present poem ‘Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night’ is not directly on death but about the arrival of death. The poet protests the arrival of death to his aged father whom he loves much.

 

The theme of the poem is not directly death but it is certainly about death. The narrator asks his dying father not to go into that good night gently. The word ‘night’ implies the eternal kingdom if Death. He loves his father and does not want him to die. The word ‘father’ metaphorically means ‘Christ’, the son of God. The poet reveres him and begs him not to go into that night gently. The dying man has the anger against death. All sorts of men do not want to go into oblivion (death). The poet categorizes them as ‘wise men’, ‘good men’, ‘wild men’ and ‘grave men’. Every time one says ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’ in an altered tone, it suggests irony, mockery and so on.

 

 Death for man is inevitable but it is certainly unwelcome. He protests it though man knows that it is certain. The narrator loves his father so much that he does not want his father to die. He asks his father to resist it and not yield to it gently. Old age is compared to the evening when day light is spent. He asks his father to protest against the dying of the light.

 

The wise men know that the day light would end and darkness would engross it, but they refuse to go gentle in that good night. The earthly ties emotively bind them to life. Good men remember their frail deeds to shudder the death. Wild men enjoy their life in the bright sun-shine and grieve when it is spent. They are unwilling to go gently into that good night. The solemn and serious though remain blind to the blazing light of their evening and seem to be happy are also unwilling to go gently into that good night. Hence, protest against the dying of the light.

 

The narrator asks his old father who is on the sad height to cure his end and bless him with his fierce tears. He urges his father not to go gentle into that good night. He wants his father to stay on.

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The Express - Stephen Spender

 The Express – Stephen Spender (1909-1998)

 

After the first powerful plain manifesto

The black statement of pistons, without more fuss

But gliding like queen, she leaves the station.

Without bowing and with restrained unconcern

She passes the houses which humbly crowd outside,

The gasworks and at last the heavy page

Of death, printed by the gravestones in the cemetery 

Beyond the town there lies the open country

Where, gathering speed, she acquires mystery,

The luminous self–possession of ships on ocean.

It is now she begins to sing–at first quite low

Then loud, and at last with jazzy madness– 

The song of her whistle screaming at curves,

Of deafening tunnels, brakes, innumerable bolts.

And always light, aerial underneath,

 

Goes the elate metre of her wheels.

Streaming through metal landscape on her lines

She plunges new eras of wild happiness

Where speed throws up strange shapes, broad curves,

And always light, aerial underneath,

And parallels clean like the steal of the guns.

At last, farther than Edinburg or Rome,

Beyond the crest of the world, she reaches night

Where only a low streamline brightness

Of phosphorous on the tossing hills is white.

Ah, like a comet through flame, she moves entranced 

Wrapt in her music no bird song, no, nor bough

Breaking with honey buds, shall ever equal.

Lying with your eyes shut, together secretly,

You and she are flung into a darkness beyond the waters of her mouth,

Where no hand can clutch and all identity is lost.

For then there is a great singing in your ears,

And your bodies are dashed together by the storms in your flesh

And generations are leaping in creation through your veins

Through the strong exultation of your heart

And in creation your heat is powerful sun,

Quickening the bud that flower silently

In the secret recesses of her body

And her heart, as a moon, draws into her tide.

And lying with her infinity,

You will begin to dream of all women:

The rectitude of their breasts in their night,

Your fingers tangled in their yellow hair in the darkness,

The scent of their flesh like the calm earth in summer,

And you will know that she is all women that have ever been,

And that like a hunger in yourself

You must continue to feed her body on your own.

 

 

Glossary:

 

the Express:        the express train

manifesto:          a public announcement of ideology

the back statement of pistons: the backward and forward movement of the pistons indicating its starting

like a queen:       train is personified as a queen

lines 13 to 14:     the movement of stumbling train is the realistically described

elate metre:        joyous rhythm

streaming through metal landscape: metallic railway track 

plunges into new eras of wild happiness: the train is compared to a ship on the sea.

crest of the world: the edge of the world

streamline:         a clear line

24 line:              the poet refers to the smoke emitted by the chimney against the yellowish sky of the sunset

wrapt in her music no bird sing: the poet implies that the singing of the bird is merged with the singing if the train. No bird sings.

 

honey buds:         in poet’s eyes the train is the most beautiful thing though it is machine. What nature is to Wordsworth, train is to Stephen Spender

 

The Express – Stephen Spender

 

The poem ‘The Express’ is typical of Spender’s art. It describes the glamour of express train, which the poet feels, is even superior to the beauty of nature. The train is viewed differently as a ship, a singer and a comet. Stephen’s idea is to show us that even simple objects like trains also be unusual and beautiful.

 

The poem starts with the departure from the station. It makes a striking move and grips the attention of onlookers by making a powerful announcement of its starting. The poet is careful to show us that the train leaves the station quietly by using phrases like ‘without more fuss’ and ‘gliding’. The pistons of the engine move forward and backward to accelerate the train. Like Queen, she passes the crowded houses on either side without stopping but with great control and dignity. Finally it passes the burial ground usually located at the outer limit of a town. The poet hints that the train is leaving the town.

 

Once train moved out of the city into the open fields, it looks like ship in the open sea. It gathers speed and passes through the open country like a ship that slides gently on the ocean.

 

To elaborate the idea of its personification the poet uses the ‘song’ to describe her whistle. The music of this song is punctuated by the rattle of the bolts and brakes while passing thorough the plains. She begins to sing at first quite slowly and harshly screaming at curves and making deafening noise at the tunnels. 

 

Though the train is made up of heavy metals yet she is as light as air. Her song has the rhythm that her wheels kept. All trains make a drum-like sound while they move swiftly over the rails. The poet says that the train is singing because it is happy. 

 

When the night falls, all that we see of the train is her smoke. She moves like a comet. Thus the train goes on through the night singing herself. It looks more beautiful than a bird or a tree with sweet flowers. It is lovelier than the bird or the tree laden with flowers. She is so much engrossed in herself moving on swiftly and majestically singing her beautiful song.

 

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To His Coy Mistress -- Andrew Marvell

 To His Coy Mistress – Andrew Marvell

 

Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime,

We would sit down, and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

 

Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side

Shouldest rubies find; I by the tide

Of humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the flood,

Love you ten years before the flood,

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

 

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart,

For, lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

 

But at my back I always hear

Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found,

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long-preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust:

The grave’s a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do here embrace.

 

Now, therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Through the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

 

Andrew Marvell was very famous writer of political verse and satire. Being a supporter of Oliver Cromwell, he was appointed as assistant Latin Secretary for the Commonwealth Government and worked with John Milton. His poems are known for their dramatic quality. As a poet, his wit and ability of image is admirable. Marvell at first wrote poems of love, nature and religion in which he mixed a delight in the pleasures of life with a simple puritan piety.

 

In the poem ‘To His Coy Mistress’ Marvell expresses man’s helplessness in relation to Time and Space; the poem begins in a note of hurry. The speaker in the poem tells his beloved that how soon time passes and how difficult it is to love leisurely. He even alerts her to tale note of paucity of time and space to love each other in a relaxed way. As love is eternal, the poet thinks of how eternity of time is required to love. 

 

The poet compares time to a winged chariot hurrying behind nearer and nearer. This consciousness of time makes envision the damaging effects of time in his beloved’s life and in his life against the preserved virginity and the respected honour.

 

Against this background the poem proposes his beloved to make the best use of youth and beauty by loving each other.

 

He compares his beloved and himself to birds of prey. Before being devoured by time he proposes that they love each other in such animalistic way that the sun should run, away even it they can not make him stand still. The poet indicates love can conquer.

 

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On His Having Arrived At The Age Of Twenty Three - John Milton

On His Having Arrived At The Age Of Twenty Three – John Milton

 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,

Stolen on, his wing, my three and twentieth year!

My hasting days fly on with full career,

But my late spring no bud or blossom show’th.

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,

That I to manhood am arrived so near,

And inward ripeness doth much less appear,

That some more timely-happy spirits endu’th.

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high,

Towards which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven;

All is, if I have grace to use it so,

As ever in my great Taskmaster’s eye.

 

The Sonnet “On His Having Arrived at the Age of Twenty-Three” was printed twice during Milton’s lifetime. It was likely written in 1632 at a crucial time in Milton’s life, just after his graduation from Cambridge. Milton here acknowledges that he may not seem as mature as some of his contemporaries but express his desire to use his talents well and his trust in God’s will for his over time. Milton writes a range of political sonnets, occasional sonnets, elegiac sonnets, and sonnets of personal meditation. This particular poem of our study comes under meditative sonnets.  

 

Milton expresses his regret in the poem for having spent already twenty-three years without achieving anything worthy though he looked youthful, he has arrived at manhood. But he still does not have inward maturity. He consoles himself with faith in God that he would bless him with needed maturity. He believed that the task for which he is determined may be important or unimportant, but in course of time God would certainly bless him with necessary maturity. So he should not worry about it and think that when time comes, he should use his talent, as if he were a slave always watched over by God, his master. Thus the poem expresses the poet’s sense of mission in Life.

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Laodamia - William Wordsworth

 Laodamia - William Wordsworth 

 “With sacrifice before the rising morn

Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;

And from the infernal Gods, ’mid shades forlorn

Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:

Celestial pity I again implore: —

Restore him to my sight— great Jove, restore!” 

 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 

With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;

While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,

Her countenance brightens— and her eye expands;

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;

As she expects the issue in repose.

 

O terror! What hath she perceived?— O joy! 

What doth she look on?— whom doth she behold?

Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy?

His vital presence? His corporeal mould?

It is— if sense deceive her not— ’tis He!

And a God leads him, wingèd Mercury!

 

Mild Hermes spake— and touched her with his wand

That calms all fear, “Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,

Laodamia! That at Jove’s command

Thy husband walks the paths of upper air:

 He comes to tarry with thee three hours’ space;

Accept the gift, behold him face to face!”

 

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp;

Again that consummation she essayed;

But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp

As often as that eager grasp was made.

The Phantom parts— but parts to re-unite,

And re-assume his place before her sight.

 

“Protesilàus, lo! Thy guide is gone!

Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice:

This is our palace,— yonder is thy throne;

Speak, and the floor thou tread’st on will rejoice.

Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 

This precious boon; and blest a sad abode.”

 

“Great Jove, Laodamia! Doth not leave

His gifts imperfect:— Spectre though I be,

I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;

But in reward of thy fidelity.

And something also did my worth obtain;

For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.

“Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand

Should die; but me the treat could not withhold:

A generous cause a victim did demand; 

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain:

A self-devoted chief— by Hector slain.”

 

“Supreme of Heroes— bravest, noblest, best!

Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,

Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest

By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore;

Thou found’st—and I forgive thee— here thou art—

A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.

 

“But thou, capable of sternest deed,

Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;

And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed

Thou should’st elude the malice of the grave:

Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair

As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.

 

“No spectre, greets me, —no vain shadow this;

Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side!

Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss

To me, this day a second time thy bride!”

Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parcæ threw

Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue

 

“this visage tells thee that my doom is past:

Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys

Of sense were able to return as fast

And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys

Those raptures duly— Erebus disdain:

Calm pleasures there abide— majestic pains. 

 

“Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control 

Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve

The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul; 

A fervent, not ungovernable love.

Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn

When I depart, for brief is my sojourn—”

 

“Ajh wherefore?— Did not Hercules by force 

Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb

Alcestis, a reanimated corse,

Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom?

Medea’s spells dispersed the weight of years,

And Æson stood a youth ’mid youthful peers. 

 

 “The Gods to us are merciful— and they 

Yet further may relent: for mightier far

Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway

Of magic potent over sun and star,

Is love, though oft to agony distrest,

And though his favourite seat be feeble woman’s breast.

 

“but if thou goest, I follow—” “Peace!” he said,—

She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered;

The ghastly colour from his lips had fled;

In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace,

Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

 

He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel

In worlds whose course is equable and pure;

No fears to beat away— no strife to heal—

The past unsighed for, and the future sure;

Spake of heroic arts in graver mood

Revived, with finer harmony pursued;

 

Of all that ius most beauteous — imaged there

In happier beauty; more pellucid streams,

An ampler ether, a diviner air,

And fields invested with purpureal gleams;

Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.

 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned

That privilege by virtue,— “I’ll,” said he,

“The end of man’s existence I discerned,

Who from ignoble games and revelry

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight,

While tears were thy best pastime, day and night;

 

“And while my youthful peers before my eyes

(Each hero following his peculiar bent)

Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise

By martial sports, —or, seated in the tent,

Chieftains and kings in council were detained;

What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.

 

“The wished-for wind was given:—I then revolved

The oracle, upon the silent sea;

And, if no worthier led the way, resolved

That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be

The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,—

Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

 

 “Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang

When of thy loss I thought, belovèd Wife!

On thee too fondly did my memory hang,

And on the joys we shared in mortal life,—

The paths which we had trod—these fountains, flowers:

My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.

 

“But should suspense permit the Foe to cry,

‘Behold they tremble!—haughty their array,

Yet of their numbers no one dares to die?’ 

In soul I swept the indignity away:

Old frailties then recurred:—but lofty thought,

In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.

 

“And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak

In reason, in self-government too slow;

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek

Our blest re-union in the shades below,

The invisible world with thee hath sympathized;

Be thy affections raised and solemnized.

 

“Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend—

Seeking a higher object. Love was given,

Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end;

For this the passion to excess was driven—

That self might be annulled: her bondage prove

The fetters of a dream opposed to love.—

 

Aloud she shrieked! For Hermes re-appears!

Round the dear Shade she would have clung — ’its vain:

The hours are past—too brief had they been years;

And him no mortal effort can detain:

Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day,

He through the portal takes his silent way,

And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay.

 

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved,

She perished; and, as for a wilful crime,

By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved,

Was doomed to wear out her appointed time,

Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers

Of blissful quiet ’mid unfading bowers.

 

—Yet tears to human suffering are due;

And mortal hopes defeated and o’erthrown

Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,

As fondly he believes.—Upon the side

Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew

From out the tomb of him for whom she died;

And ever, when such stature they had gained

That Ilium’s walls were subject to their view,

The trees’ tall summits withered at the sight;

A constant interchange of growth and blight!

 

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poem ed by mastanappa puletipalli

 

Analysis

William Wordsworth’s poem “Laodamia” (1815) is a narrative of tragic love, loss, and the tension between earthly passions and spiritual transcendence. It draws on the mythological story of Laodamia and Protesilaus, a tale from Greek mythology. Here is a summary of the background and themes:

 

Mythological background: 

 

Laodamia was the wife of Protesilaus, the first Greek hero to die in the Trojan War. According to the myth, Protesilaus was the first Greek to set foot on Trojan soil, knowing that whoever did so was fated to die. After his death, Laodmaia was overwhelmed by grief. In some versions of the myth, the gods, moved by her mourning, allowed Protesilaus to return from the dead for a brief time to comfort her. 

 

However, this moment of reunion is bittersweet. In the myth, once Protesilaus must return to the underworld, Laodamia’s grief consumes her, and in some versions, she eventually dies to join him in the afterlife. Wordsworth takes this myth as the foundation for his poem. 

 

Themes in Wordsworth’s “Laodamia”

 

Grief and Love:

 

Laodamia’s passionate love for her husband is central to the poem. She is depicted as a devoted wife whose sorrow and longing for Protesilaus lead to her tragic end. Wordsworth explores how excessive attachment to earthly love can be destructive.  

 

The Conflict Between Earthly and Spiritual Love

 

Wordsworth presents a contrast between Laodamia’s intense, earthly love for Protestilaus and his transformed, spiritualized nature after his death. Protesilaus returns as a figure who has transcended earthly concerns, and he urges Laodamia to let go of her sorrow and focus on higher, spiritual ideals., He speaks to her about the futility of clinging to mortal life and encourages her to seek a purer, more detached love that aligns with divine wisdom.

 

Transience of Life

 

The poem reflects on the fleeting nature of life and the inevitability of death Laodamia’s inability to reconcile herself with this truth leads to her downfall, illustrating Wordsworth’s frequent meditations on the impermanence of human experience.

 

Moral and Philosophical Reflection

 

Wordsworth uses the mythological story to reflect on broader philosophical themes, such as the proper response to suffering and the importance of accepting loss with resignation. Protesilaus’s advice to Laodamia echoes the poet’s belief in the necessity of tempering emotions with reason and spiritual understanding.

 

  Structure and Style

 

“Laodamia” is written in elegiac stanzas, combining solemnity and lyricism. The poem’s classical subject matter is typical of the Romantic era’s engagement with ancient myths, but Wordsworth gives it a moral and philosophical dimension that reflects his own worldview. The language is dignified and reflective, creating a tone that mirrors the tragic and contemplative nature of the story.

 

In “Laodamia”, Wordsworth blends classical mythology with Romantic ideals, using the story of tragic love to explore deep philosophical concerns about the nature of human attachment, grief, and spiritual transcendence. 

  

Summary

 

The poem opens by introducing Laodamia, the wife of Protesilaus., the Greek hero who was the first to die in the Trojan War. As the Greeks were about to invade Troy, an oracle had foretold that the first warrior to step on Trojan soil would be the first to fall.  Protesilaus bravely accepted this fate and led the Greek charge, dying almost immediately after setting foot on the battlefield. His death left Laodamia in deep mourning, consumed by grief over her husband’s early demise.

 

Laodamia’s Grief and Prayer 

 

Unable to accept the loss, Laodamia prays to the gods to reunite her with Protesilaus, even if only for a short time. She is willing to bargain with fate and the divine powers, driven by her overwhelming love and yearning. The depth of her grief and the strength of her love are made clear, and her intense prayers reflect her unwillingness to let go of her earthly desires.

 

The God’s Reponse

 

Moved by her sorrow, the gods grant her wish. They allow Protesilaus to return to the mortal realm briefly so that he and Laodamia can have one final meeting. However, this reunion comes with a clear condition: it is only temporary, and Protesilaus will have to return to the underworld once the moment has passed.

 

Protesilaus’s Return

 

Protesilaus, now in a purified and spiritualized state, appears before Laodamia. He has undergone a transformation since his death, now existing in a higher, more enlightened form. While Laodamia’s love for his is still grounded in her earthly passions. Protesilaus’s perspective has changed. Having transcended mortal concerns, he advises Laodamia to release herself from her deep attachment to the physical world and to him. He urges her to turn away from her consuming grief and focus instead on higher, spiritual ideals.

 

Protesilaus’s Counsel

 

Protesilaus offers Laodamia wisdom aboiut life, love, and death. He tells her that excessive attachment to the temporal world leads to suffering and that true fulfillment lies in embracing a more spiritual love that is aligned with divine wisdom. In this sense, Protesilaus embodies a voice of reason and spiritual understanding. He encourages Laodamia to live her remaining days with purpose and to find comfort in the idea that their love can endure beyond death, but only if she learns to let go of her earthly desires. 

 

Laodamia’s Refusal 

 

Despite Protesilaus’s counsel, Laodamia struggles to accept his message. Her love for him is still too deeply rooted in the physical world., and she cannot let go of the desire to be with him in life. The intensity of her emotions prevents her from heeding his advice and finding peace in spiritual detachment. 

 

Protesilaus’s Departure

 

Protesilaus’s time in the mortal world is short, and he must soon return to the underworld. His departure is marked by finality, leaving Laodamia heartbroken once again. His parting words serve as a warning and a plea for her to seek solace in a higher realm of understanding, but Laodamia remains trapped in her sorrow, unable to transcend her grief.  

 

Laodamia’s Tragic End

 

In the concluding lines of the poem, Laodamia’s fate is revealed. Uanable to reconcile herself to life without Protesilaus and un willing to embrace the spiritual detachment he encouraged. Laodamia succumbs to her grief. In her overwhelming despair, she dies, joining her husband in death. This tragic ending reflects the consequences of her inability to release her emotional attachment to the physical world.

 

Final Reflection

 

The poem ends with a reflection on the tragic fate of Laodamia. Wordsworth, through his narrator, offers a moral and philosophical commentary on the nature of love, grief and human desire. He suggests that while love is a powerful and essential part of life, it must be tempered with reason and acceptance of life’s transient nature. Excessive attachment to worldly concerns can lead to suffering, and it is only through spiritual understanding and resignation that true peace can be achieved. Thus, the poem enlightens us that spiritual happiness is greater than earthly desires through this great poem from the pen of William Wordsworth. 

 

   

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 mastanappa puletipalli