For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane as I do here. LORD BYRON: Childe Harold. HELPS TO STUDY Note that the first four stanzas deal with the power of the ocean as opposed to man; the fifth stanza extols the ocean as the image of Eternity; the last stanza speaks of the poet's personal attachment to the ocean. The stanza is the Spenserian stanza of the Faery Queen. Compare the two. 1. Is it quite true now to say to the ocean, "The wrecks are all thy deed"? Why? 2. Explain line 6 of stanza 1. 3. What striking images in lines 7 and 8 suggest the insignificance of man? 4. What adjectives in the second stanza add to the feeling of man's helplessness in the presence of the ocean? 5. What are the oak leviathans of stanza 3, line 4? 6. If Byron were writing to-day would he describe battle ships in this way? 7. What can you tell of the Spanish Armada which sailed to invade England in 1588 and was destroyed by battle and tempest? 8. When and between what navies was the battle of Trafalgar? Many of the ships which surrendered were destroyed by a storm. What great admiral was killed at Trafalgar? 9. What is the most striking figure of speech in the fourth stanza? ocean in the fifth stanza? 11. beginning of the last stanza? 10. What adjectives are applied to the What sudden change in feeling at the 12. How does Byron's feeling for the ocean differ from Tennyson's in "Break, Break, Break." 13. Since Byron wrote the poem, in what ways has man carried his control beyond the shore? For Study with the Glossary: Apostrophe, ravage, unknelled, leviathans, arbiter, Trafalgar (trăf-al-gär'), wantoned. TO A SKYLARK Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! That from Heaven, or near it, In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest The blue deep thou wingest And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of Heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, — but yet I hear thy shrill delight, Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see we feel that it is there. S All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when Night is bare, From one lonely cloud 5 The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see 10 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a Poet hidden In the light of thought, Till the world is wrought 15 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soul in secret hour 20 With music sweet as love, - which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aërial hue 25 Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves: Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, 5 Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, Sprite or Bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus Hymeneal, Or triumphal chaunt, Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields or waves or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Never came near thee; 5 Thou lovest - but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream — 10 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; 15 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, 20 I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, That in books are found, 25 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! |