Lyrical Ballads E-Book

William Wordsworth

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 93

Beschreibung

It is the honourable characteristic of Poetry that its materials are to be found in every subject which can interest the human mind. The evidence of this fact is to be sought, not in the writings of Critics, but in those of Poets themselves. The majority of the following poems are to be considered as experiments. They were written chiefly with a view to ascertain how far the language of conversation in the middle and lower classes of society is adapted to the purposes of poetic pleasure. Readers accustomed to the gaudiness and inane phraseology of many modern writers, if they persist in reading this book to its conclusion, will perhaps frequently have to struggle with feelings of strangeness and aukwardness: they will look round for poetry, and will be induced to enquire by what species of courtesy these attempts can be permitted to assume that title. It is desirable that such readers, for their own sakes, should not suffer the solitary word Poetry, a word of very disputed meaning, to stand in the way of their gratification; but that, while they are perusing this book, they should ask themselves if it contains a natural delineation of human passions, human characters, and human incidents; and if the answer be favourable to the author's wishes, that they should consent to be pleased in spite of that most dreadful enemy to our pleasures, our own pre-established codes of decision.

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Table of contents

THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE,

THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE, A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.

THE NIGHTINGALE;

THE FEMALE VAGRANT.

GOODY BLAKE, AND HARRY GILL, A TRUE STORY.

LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY ARE ADDRESSED.

SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT.

WE ARE SEVEN.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

THE THORN.

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.

THE DUNGEON.

THE MAD MOTHER.

THE IDIOT BOY.

LINES WRITTEN NEAR RICHMOND, UPON THE THAMES, AT EVENING.

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.

THE TABLES TURNED; AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

OLD MAN TRAVELLING; ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY, A SKETCH.

THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN

THE CONVICT.

LINES WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, July 13, 1798.

It is the honourable characteristic of Poetry that its materials are to be found in every subject which can interest the human mind. The evidence of this fact is to be sought, not in the writings of Critics, but in those of Poets themselves.The majority of the following poems are to be considered as experiments. They were written chiefly with a view to ascertain how far the language of conversation in the middle and lower classes of society is adapted to the purposes of poetic pleasure. Readers accustomed to the gaudiness and inane phraseology of many modern writers, if they persist in reading this book to its conclusion, will perhaps frequently have to struggle with feelings of strangeness and aukwardness: they will look round for poetry, and will be induced to enquire by what species of courtesy these attempts can be permitted to assume that title. It is desirable that such readers, for their own sakes, should not suffer the solitary word Poetry, a word of very disputed meaning, to stand in the way of their gratification; but that, while they are perusing this book, they should ask themselves if it contains a natural delineation of human passions, human characters, and human incidents; and if the answer be favourable to the author's wishes, that they should consent to be pleased in spite of that most dreadful enemy to our pleasures, our own pre-established codes of decision.Readers of superior judgment may disapprove of the style in which many of these pieces are executed it must be expected that many lines and phrases will not exactly suit their taste. It will perhaps appear to them, that wishing to avoid the prevalent fault of the day, the author has sometimes descended too low, and that many of his expressions are too familiar, and not of sufficient dignity. It is apprehended, that the more conversant the reader is with our elder writers, and with those in modern times who have been the most successful in painting manners and passions, the fewer complaints of this kind will he have to make.An accurate taste in poetry, and in all the other arts, Sir Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an acquired talent, which can only be produced by severe thought, and a long continued intercourse with the best models of composition. This is mentioned not with so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the most inexperienced reader from judging for himself; but merely to temper the rashness of decision, and to suggest that if poetry be a subject on which much time has not been bestowed, the judgment may be erroneous, and that in many cases it necessarily will be so.The tale of Goody Blake and Harry Gill is founded on a well-authenticated fact which happened in Warwickshire. Of the other poems in the collection, it may be proper to say that they are either absolute inventions of the author, or facts which took place within his personal observation or that of his friends. The poem of the Thorn, as the reader will soon discover, is not supposed to be spoken in the author's own person: the character of the loquacious narrator will sufficiently shew itself in the course of the story. The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere was professedly written in imitation of the style, as well as of the spirit of the elder poets; but with a few exceptions, the Author believes that the language adopted in it has been equally intelligible for these three last centuries. The lines entitled Expostulation and Reply, and those which follow, arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably attached to modern books of moral philosophy.

THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE,

IN SEVEN PARTS.ARGUMENT.How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by Storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own Country.I.It is an ancyent Marinere, And he stoppeth one of three:"By thy long grey beard and thy glittering eye "Now wherefore stoppest me?"The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide "And I am next of kin;"The Guests are met, the Feast is set,— "May'st hear the merry din.—But still he holds the wedding-guest— There was a Ship, quoth he—"Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale, "Marinere! come with me."He holds him with his skinny hand, Quoth he, there was a Ship—"Now get thee hence, thou grey-beard Loon! "Or my Staff shall make thee skip."He holds him with his glittering eye— The wedding guest stood stillAnd listens like a three year's child; The Marinere hath his will.The wedding-guest sate on a stone, He cannot chuse but hear:And thus spake on that ancyent man, The bright-eyed Marinere.The Ship was cheer'd, the Harbour clear'd— Merrily did we dropBelow the Kirk, below the Hill, Below the Light-house top.The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the Sea came he:And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the Sea.Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon—The wedding-guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon.The Bride hath pac'd into the Hall, Red as a rose is she;Nodding their heads before her goes The merry Minstralsy.The wedding-guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot chuse but hear:And thus spake on that ancyent Man, The bright-eyed Marinere.Listen, Stranger! Storm and Wind, A Wind and Tempest strong!For days and weeks it play'd us freaks— Like Chaff we drove along.Listen, Stranger! Mist and Snow, And it grew wond'rous cauld:And Ice mast-high came floating by As green as Emerauld.And thro' the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen;Ne shapes of men ne beasts we ken— The Ice was all between.The Ice was here, the Ice was there, The Ice was all around:It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd— Like noises of a swound.At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the Fog it came;And an it were a Christian Soul, We hail'd it in God's name.The Marineres gave it biscuit-worms, And round and round it flew:The Ice did split with a Thunder-fit; The Helmsman steer'd us thro'.And a good south wind sprung up behind, The Albatross did follow;And every day for food or play Came to the Marinere's hollo!In mist or cloud on mast or shroud It perch'd for vespers nine,Whiles all the night thro' fog-smoke white Glimmer'd the white moon-shine."God save thee, ancyent Marinere! "From the fiends that plague thee thus—"Why look'st thou so?"—with my cross bow I shot the Albatross.II.The Sun came up upon the right, Out of the Sea came he;And broad as a weft upon the left Went down into the Sea.And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet Bird did followNe any day for food or play Came to the Marinere's hollo!And I had done an hellish thing And it would work 'em woe:For all averr'd, I had kill'd the Bird That made the Breeze to blow.Ne dim ne red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist:Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the Bird That brought the fog and mist.'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay That bring the fog and mist.The breezes blew, the white foam flew, The furrow follow'd free:We were the first that ever burst Into that silent Sea.Down dropt the breeze, the Sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could beAnd we did speak only to break The silence of the Sea.All in a hot and copper sky The bloody sun at noon,Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon.Day after day, day after day, We stuck, ne breath ne motion,As idle as a painted Ship Upon a painted Ocean.Water, water, every where And all the boards did shrink;Water, water, every where, Ne any drop to drink.The very deeps did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be!Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy Sea.About, about, in reel and rout The Death-fires danc'd at night;The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green and blue and white.And some in dreams assured were Of the Spirit that plagued us so:Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us From the Land of Mist and Snow.And every tongue thro' utter drouth Was wither'd at the root;We could not speak no more than if We had been choked with soot.Ah wel-a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young;Instead of the Cross the Albatross About my neck was hung.III.I saw a something in the Sky No bigger than my fist;At first it seem'd a little speck And then it seem'd a mist:It mov'd and mov'd, and took at last A certain shape, I wist.A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it ner'd and ner'd;And, an it dodg'd a water-sprite, It plung'd and tack'd and veer'd.With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd Ne could we laugh, ne wail:Then while thro' drouth all dumb they stoodI bit my arm and suck'd the blood And cry'd, A sail! a sail!With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd Agape they hear'd me call:Gramercy! they for joy did grinAnd all at once their breath drew in As they were drinking all.She doth not tack from side to side— Hither to work us wealWithouten wind, withouten tide She steddies with upright keel.The western wave was all a flame, The day was well nigh done!Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun;When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun.And strait the Sun was fleck'd with bars (Heaven's mother send us grace)As if thro' a dungeon grate he peer'd With broad and burning face.Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she neres and neres!Are those her Sails that glance in the Sun Like restless gossameres?Are these her naked ribs, which fleck'd The sun that did behind them peer?And are these two all, all the crew, That woman and her fleshless Pheere?His bones were black with many a crack, All black and bare, I ween;Jet-black and bare, save where with rustOf mouldy damps and charnel crust They're patch'd with purple and green.Her lips are red, her looks are free,Her locks are yellow as gold:Her skin is as white as leprosy,And she is far liker Death than he; Her flesh makes the still air cold.The naked Hulk alongside came And the Twain were playing dice;"The Game is done! I've won, I've won!" Quoth she, and whistled thrice.A gust of wind sterte up behind And whistled thro' his bones;Thro' the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth Half-whistles and half-groans.With never a whisper in the Sea Off darts the Spectre-ship;While clombe above the Eastern barThe horned Moon, with one bright Star Almost atween the tips.