The English Poetry:Selected pages

The Main Periods of English History and Literature

• Old English and Medieval Literature

Beowulf (Old English, also called Anglo-Saxon)The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer (Middle English)

• The Renaissance (Shakespeare, Raleigh, Donne, Lovelace, Milton)

• The Restoration and 18th Century (Gay, Pope, Burns)

• Romanticism and 19th Century (Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Scott, Landor, Southey, Shelly, Keats, Byron, Tennyson, Emily Bronte, Stevenson)

• The 20th Century (Yeats, Douglas, Bentley, Chesterton, Mansfield, Lawrence, Aldington)

Legend about Beowulf - the greatest warrior of the past

‘Beowulf’ is the longest surviving poem in Old English written in the 10th century, but composed at least two centuries earlier. The legend tells about events which take place in the Kingdom of Denmark during the reign of King Hrotgar. He ordered to build a castle for his warriors where they may sleep and take their meals. He named the castle ‘Heorot’, which means ‘Hall of the Hart’. But the noble warriors of King Hrotgar do not feel safe within the castle walls because of Grendel, an evil spirit of the forest. He comes at night and kills the man, then devours them. A brave warrior Beowulf (bee, wulf – пчелиный волк, т.е. медведь) and his people from the land of Geats come to fight with Grendel…

From the stretching moors, from the misty hollows,Grendel came creeping, accursed of God,A murderous ravager minded to snareSpoil of heroes in high-built hall.Under clouded heavens he held his wayTill there rose before him the high-roofed house, Wine-hall of warriors gleaming with gold…Storming the building he burst the portal,Though fastened of iron, with fiendish strength;Forced open the entrance in savage furyAnd rushed in rage o’er the shining floor…The demon delayed not, but quickly clutchedA sleeping thane in his swift assault,Tore him to pieces, bit through the bones,Gulped the blood, and gobbled the flesh…Beowulf sprang to his feet, clutched Grendel fast,Though fingers were cracking, the fiend pulling free.The earl pressed after; the monster was mindedTo win his freedom and flee to the fens.He knew that his fingers were fast in the gripOf a savage foe. Sorry the venture,The raid the ravager made on the hall…The walls resounded, the fight was fierce…

And Beowulf gained the glory of battle.Grendel, fated, fled to the fens,To his joyless dwelling, sick unto death.He knew in his heart that his hours were numbered…

Geoffrey Chaucer (1343 -1400), known as the Father of English literature, is widely considered the greatest English poet of the Middle Ages and was the first poet to have been buried in Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey. He achieved fame as an author, philosopher, alchemist and astronomer. Chaucer also maintained an active career in the civil service as a courtier and diplomat. Among his many works, which include The Book of the Duchess, the House of Fame, the Legend of Good Women and Troilus and Criseyde, he is best known today for The Canterbury Tales. Chaucer is a crucial figure in developing the legitimacy of the vernacular, Middle English, at a time when the dominant literary languages in England were French and Latin.

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londs;And specially from every shires endeOf Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,The holy blisful martir for to seeke,That hem hath holpen whan that they were seke.

Ic wæs fæmne geong, feaxhar cwene,Ond ænlic rinc on ane tid;Fleah mid fulgum ond on flode swom,Deaf under ype dead mid fiscum,Ond on foldan stop; hæfde ferδ cwicu

From Canterbury Tales(Middle English)

A riddle written in Old English

William Shakespeare (1564-1616) English poet and playwright, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language. Shakespeare was born and brought up in Stratford-upon-Avon. At the age of 18, he married Anne Hathaway, with whom he had three children. In 1585 he began a successful career in London as an actor, writer, and part owner of a playing company called the Lord Chamberlain's Men, later known as the King's Men. His early plays were mainly comedies and histories. He then wrote mainly tragedies until about 1608, including Hamlet, King Lear, Othello, and Macbeth, considered some of the finest works in the English language.

Globe theatre

Shakespeare famous monologue from Hamlet

To be or not to be: that is the question:Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,And, by opposing, end them? To die, - to sleep, -No more; and, by a sleep to say we endThe heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To die; - to sleep; -To sleep! Perchance to dream! Ay, there s the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause: there s the respectThat makes calamity of so long life;For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,The oppressor s wrong, the proud man s contumely,The pangs of disprized love, the law s delay,The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bare,To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,The undiscovered country, from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the will,And make us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied over with the pale cast of thought,The enterprises of great pitch and momentWith this regard their currents turn awryAnd lose the name of action.

Shakespeare about love: Sonnet XCI

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,Some in their wealth, some in their wealth, some in their bodies’ forceSome in their garments, though new-fangled ill, Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;And every humour hath his own adjunct pleasure,Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:But these particulars are not my measure;All these I better in one general best.Thy love is better than high birth to me,Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ cost,Of more delight than hawks or horses be;And having thee of all men’s pride I boast:Wretched in this alone, that you mayst take All this away and me most wretched make.

Robert Burns (1759 –1796) is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland, and is celebrated worldwide. He is the best known of the poets who have written in the Scots language, although much of his writing is also in English and a "light" Scots dialect, accessible to an audience beyond Scotland. He is regarded as a pioneer of the Romantic movement, and after his death he became a great source of inspiration to the founders of both liberalism and socialism, and a cultural icon in Scotland. Burns also collected folk songs from across Scotland, often revising or adapting them. His song Auld Lang Syne is often sung at Hogmanay (the last day of the year), and Scots Wha Hae served for a long time as an unofficial national anthem of the country.

My My Heart’s in the Highlands in the Highlands

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,My heart’s in the Highlands achasing the deer,Chasing the wild deer and following the roe.My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

All hail to the Highlands, all hail to the North,The birth-place of valour, the country of worth,Wherever I wonder, wherever I rove,The hills of the Highlands forever I love.

Farewell to the mountains, high covered with snow,Farewell to the straths and green valleys below,Farewell to the forests and high hanging woods,Farewell to the torrents and loud pouring floods.

Adieu for a while, I can never forget thee,The land of my fathers, the soil of my free,I sigh for the hour that shall bid me retrace The path of my childhood, my own native place.

O My Luve’s Like a Red, Red rose

O my Luve’s like a red, red roseThat’s newly sprung in June:O my Luve’s like the melodieThat’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deeply in luve am I;And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a’ the seas gang dry;

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi’ the sunI will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve!And fare thee weel a while!And I will come again, my Luve,Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

Epigrams

Of Lordly acquaintances you boast,And the Dukes that you dined wi’ yestreen,Yet an insect’s an insect at most,Tho’ it crawl on the curl of a Queen!

У него герцогиня знакомая, Пообедал он с графом на днях…Но осталось собой насекомое,Побывав в королевских кудрях.

That there is falsehood in his looks,I must and will deny:They say their Master is a knave,And sure they do not lie.

Нет, у него не лживый взгляд.Его глаза не лгут.Они правдиво говорят,Что их владелец – плут.

‘Stop, thief!’ dame Nature call’d to death,As Willy drew his latest breath;‘How shall I make a fool again?My choicest model thou hast ta’en.’

Склонясь у гробового входа,- О смерть! – воскликнула природа, - Когда удастся мне опять Такого олуха создать!..

In se’enteen hunder forty-nineThe deil gat stuff to mak a swine,An’ coost it in a corner;But wilily he chang’d his plan,An’ shap’d it something like a man,An’ ca’d it Andrew Turner.

В году семьсот сорок девятом(Точнее я не помню даты)Лепить свинью задумал черт.Но вдруг в последнее мгновеньеОн изменил свое решенье,И вас он вылепил, милорд!

Rhyme

В классическом английском стихосложении три вида рифмы:

• Masculine (мужская): ударение падает на конечный слог

All days are nights to see till I see thee;And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

• Feminine (женская): ударение падает на предпоследний слог

Thy gowns, thy shoes, the beds of roses,Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

• Triple (трехсложная): ударение на третьем слоге от конца строки, чаще в легких, юмористических стихах

Stranger! Approach this spot with gravity!John Brown is filling his last cavity.

Blank verse‘The tragic history of Dr. Faustus’ by Christopher Marlowe, 1589. The story tells about necromancer Faustus who sells his soul to the devil in exchange for knowledge and power.

Mephostophilis: But now thou must bequeath it solemnly, And write a deed of gift with thine own blood, For that security craves Lucifer. If thou deny it, I must back to hell. Faustus: Stay, Mephostophilis, and tell me What good will my soul do thy lord?Mephostophilis: Enlarge his kingdom.

Faustus: First will I question with thee about hell. Tell me, where is the place that men call hell?Mephostophilis: Under the heavens. Faustus: Ay, so are all things else; but whereabouts?Mephostophilis: Within the bowels of these elements, Where we are tortured and remain forever. Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed In one self place, but where we are is hell, And where hell is, there we must ever be… Faustus: I think hell’s a fable.Mephostophilis: Ay, think so still, till experience change thy mind

Love’s secret by William Blake

Never seek to tell thy love, Love that never told can be;For the gentle wind doth moveSilently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,I told her all my heart,Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,Ah! She did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,A traveller came by,Silently, Invisibly:He took her with a sigh.

Lucy by William Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,A Maid to whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye!Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.

She lived unknown and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and, oh!The difference to me.

She is not fair by Samuel Coleridge

She is not fair to outward view,As many maidens be;Her loveliness I never knewUntil she smiled on me.Oh, then I saw her eye was bright,A well of love, a spring of light.But now her looks are coy and cold – To mine they ne’er reply;And Yet I ceased not to behold The love-light in her eye:Her very frowns are sweeter farThan smiles of other maidens are.

Walter Landor epigram on Georges the Kings

George the First was always reckonedVile, but viler George the Second;And what mortal ever heardAny good of George the Third?When from earth the Fourth descendedGod be praised, the Georges ended!

George Gordon Byron (1788 – 1824), commonly known simply as Lord Byron, was a British poet and a leading figure in the Romantic movement. Among Byron's best-known works are the brief poems She Walks in Beauty, When We Two Parted, and So, we'll go no more a roving, in addition to the narrative poems Childe Harold's Pilgrimage and Don Juan. He is regarded as one of the greatest British poets and remains widely read and influential.Byron was celebrated in life for aristocratic excesses including huge debts, numerous love affairs, rumours of a scandalous incestuous liaison with his half-sister, and self-imposed exile. He was famously described by Lady Caroline Lamb as "mad, bad and dangerous to know". It has been speculated that he suffered from bipolar I disorder, or manic depression. He travelled to fight against the Ottoman Empire in the Greek War of Independence, for which Greeks revere him as a national hero. He died at 36 years old from a fever contracted while in Missolonghi in Greece.

Stanzas

When a man has no freedom to fight for at home,Let him combat for that of his neighbours;Let him think of the glory of Greece and of Rome,And get knocked on the head for his labours.

To be good to mankind is a chivalrous plan,And is always as nobly requited;Then battle for freedom wherever you can,And, if not shot or hanged, you’ll get knighted.

Addressed to the Rev. J.T.Beecher,On His Advising the AuthorTo Mix More with Society

Dear Beecher, you tell me to mix with mankind;I cannot deny such a precept is wise;But retirement accords with the tone of my mind;I will never descend to a world I despise.

Deceit is a stranger, as yet, to my soul;I, still, am unpractised to varnish the truth:Then, why should I live in a hateful control?Why waste, upon folly, the days of my youth?

Sympathy by Emily Bronte

There should be no despair for youWhile nightly stars are burning,While evening pours its silent dewAnd sunshine gilds the morning.

There should be no despair, though tears May flow down like a river:Are not the best beloved of yearsAround your heart forever?

They weep – you weep – it must be so;Winds sigh as you are sighing;And Winter sheds its grief in snowWhere Autumn’s leaves are lying:

Yet these revive, and from their fate Your fate cannot be parted,Then journey on, if not elate,Still, never broken-hearted!

If - - by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you,If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance on their doubting to;If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,And yet don’t look too good, don’t talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim,If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same;If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breathe a word about your loss;If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,If all man count with you, but none too much;If you can feel the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,And - which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

Memory game

1. What is the longest surviving poem in Old English?2. Who is called the Father of English literature and why?3. What are the most famous tragedies written by William Shakespeare?4. Who is considered the national poet of Scotland?5. What kinds of rhyme are used in English verse-making?6. What is the blank verse?7. What authors does the love lyrics you’ve just listen belong to?8. What is the most famous work of lord Byron? 9. What differ Kipling view of society relationship from that of Byron?10. What periods in the history of English literature you may name?