The Vagabond -- Robert Louis Stevenson

(Poem #780) The Vagabond Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip in the river - There's the life for a man like me, There's the life for ever. Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me. Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I seek, the heaven above And the road below me. Or let autumn fall on me Where afield I linger, Silencing the bird on tree, Biting the blue finger. White as meal the frosty field - Warm the fireside haven - Not to autumn will I yield, Not to winter even! Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around, And the road before me. Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I ask, the heaven above And the road below me. -- Robert Louis Stevenson

 From "Songs of Travel and Other Verses", published in 1896.
 Meant to be sung "to an air of Schubert", though I don't know which one.

Robert Louis Stevenson's verse - energetic, enthusiastic and exciting - is
in many ways reminiscent of his prose, and like his prose, it's always fun
to read. Readers looking for profound insight or gut-wrenching emotion are
likely to be disappointed; equally, though, readers looking for metrical
felicity and magical atmospherics are likely to be enchanted.

I often think of Stevenson as a mixture of Walter de la Mare and John
Masefield: the former for his command of atmosphere, and the latter for his
wanderlust. The romance of the open road plays a significant role in
Stevenson's writings, yet it's always tempered with a sense of the beauty of
stillness, of silence. And while RLS cannot (in all honesty) hold a candle
to either de la Mare or Masefield, in many respects he does not miss by
much: his poems rarely fail to capture the imagination, and, having captured
it, to take it to places it's rarely seen before.

thomas.

PS. A quick comment on form: note how the steady rhythm of the hexameter
drives this poem on, and gives it a vigour befitting its subject. Nicely
done.

[Links]

Stevenson poems on the Minstrels:
Poem #20, "Requiem"
Poem #84, "From a Railway Carriage"
Poem #290, "Bed in Summer"
Poem #450, "Auntie's Skirts"
The first of these has a biography and some critical information.

Walter de la Mare:
Poem #2, "The Listeners"
Poem #272, "Napoleon"
Poem #484, "Brueghel's Winter"
Poem #725, "Silver"

John Masefield:
Poem #27, "Sea Fever"
Poem #74, "Cargoes"
Poem #555, "Trade Winds"
Poem #695, "Beauty"
Poem #702, "Night is on the Downland"
Poem #758, "Sea-Change"

The Poet's Corner has many more poems by RLS, including the complete text of
"Songs of Travel" [1] and of "A Child's Garden of Verses" [2].

[1] [broken link] http://www.geocities.com/~spanoudi/poems/rls04.html
[2] [broken link] http://www.geocities.com/~spanoudi/poems/rls01.html

Fire and Ice -- Robert Frost

(Poem #779) Fire and Ice Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. -- Robert Frost

[Somebody Else's Commentary]

Initially, few readers progressed in their appreciation beyond the
deceptively simple surfaces of his poems. But Frost writes symbolic poetry;
to arrive at certain basic truths about life, he explores feelings and
thoughts obliquely, through the use of simple bucolic incidents. Poems as
immediately accessible as "Stopping by Woods", "Mending Wall" and "Birches"
possess levels of meaning that are dark and profound - like subtle literary
parables. Although few of his early readers ever went beyond the delight to
the wisdom of Frost's poetry, the notion that he was merely the singer of a
benevolent nature is no longer accepted. He was a passionate and troubled
man, who sought in his poems 'a momentary stay against confusion'; and his
skillfully constructed poems testify to his mastery over that confusion.

     -- Gary Geddes, "20th Century Poetry and Poetics" (Oxford, 1996).

[My Own Commentary]

Frost is a master at making simple words say profound things. Here, he takes
an idle daydream, a whimsical (albeit slightly dark) musing, and converts it
into a telling insight into the destructive power of desire and hate, fire
and ice respectively. The metaphor is apt, and powerful: just as fire and
ice may one day destroy the external, physical world, desire and hate
destroy the internal, spiritual one. Very gnomic, and very Frost.

thomas.

[Minstrels Links]

Other poems by Robert Frost:

Poem #730, "Mending Wall"
Poem #681, "The Secret Sits"
Poem #336, "A Patch of Old Snow"
Poem #170, "The Need of Being Versed in Country Things"
Poem #155, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"
Poem #51, "The Road Not Taken "

The last of these has a biography and lots of critical notes.

Incident of the French Camp -- Robert Browning

(Poem #778) Incident of the French Camp You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver a yonder wall," -- Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect -- (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The Marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes: "You're wounded!" "Nay", the soldier's pride Touched to quick, he said: "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. -- Robert Browning

A rather straightforward tale of adventure, but one that's given additional
strength by the vigour of its verse. Browning's metrical skill and command
of the spoken voice save the poem from mediocrity, though some of the
passages do seem a bit strained (especially the eagle metaphor, which,
though it might be apt, I do not much care for).

Pay special attention to the first and last lines: the former converts what
would ordinarily have been a common-or-garden variety ballad into the form
so beloved of Browning, the dramatic monologue, while the latter is (though
predictable) justly celebrated for its portrayal of courage and dedication
to duty. A bit dated, perhaps, but enjoyable nonetheless.

thomas.

[On the events described]

Regensburg: also called Ratisbon, city, Bavaria Land (state), southeastern
Germany, on the right bank of the Danube River at its most northerly course,
where it is joined by the Regen River. In the area of the old city was a
Celtic settlement (Radasbona), which later became the site of a Roman
stronghold and legionary camp, Castra Regina (founded AD 179). The Roman
north gate (Porta Praetoria) and parts of the walls survive. The capital of
the dukes of Bavaria from 530, it was made a bishopric in 739 and shortly
afterward became a capital of the Carolingians. The only imperial free city
in the Duchy of Bavaria from 1245, Regensburg was exceedingly prosperous in
the 12th-13th century. It was taken by the Swedes and later by imperial
troops in the Thirty Years' War (17th century) and was destroyed by the
French in 1809. It passed to Bavaria in 1810. The astronomer Johannes Kepler
died there (1630), and the painter Albrecht Altdorfer (d. 1538) was both a
city architect and counselor.

        -- EB

It was during the artillery bombardment at Ratisbon that Napoleon was
wounded for the first and only time in his military career: a bullet struck
the Emperor on the right heel as he was giving instructions to Marshal
Lannes. Word of the wounding spread rapidly, and the French army is said to
have been on the verge of panic until the Emperor showed himself on
horseback.

        -- [broken link] http://www.miniatures.de/html/int/campaigns/1809Regensburg.html

Google[Napoleon Ratisbon 1809] has more.

[Minstrels Links]

Browning poems:
Poem #65, "Home Thoughts From Abroad"
Poem #104, "My Last Duchess"
Poem #130, "The Lost Leader"
Poem #133, "Song, from Pippa Passes"
Poem #242, "The Pied Piper of Hamelin"
Poem #352, "My Star"
Poem #364, "The Patriot"
Poem #425, "Memorabilia"
Poem #526, "A Toccata of Galuppi's"
Poem #635, "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister"

Napoleon poems:
Poem #272, "Napoleon", Walter de la Mare
Poem #258, "Macavity: The Mystery Cat", T. S. Eliot

Upon Julia's Clothes -- Robert Herrick

(Poem #777) Upon Julia's Clothes Whenas in silks my Julia goes Then, then, (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; Oh, how that glittering taketh me! -- Robert Herrick

A brief, yet bewitching poem from Herrick. The sensuous enchantment of his
words rivals anything by the great Romantics, but the choice of topic -
prosaic, and even a bit earthy - sets his poem apart.

thomas.

[Minstrels Links]

Poems by Robert Herrick:
Poem #332, "Delight In Disorder"
Poem #398, "The Night Piece, To Julia"
Poem #593, "The Hag"
Poem #665, "Dreams"
The second of these has a biography and links to several archives of
Herrick's poetry.

Herrick always reminds me of John Donne, both for his technical mastery and
for his outspoken emotion. Check out the following poems by the latter:
Poem #330, "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning"
Poem #384, "Song"
Poem #403, "A Lame Beggar"
Poem #465, "The Sun Rising"

[Moreover]

"Upon Julia's Clothes" is but one of several Herrick poems addressed to
Julia; others include "The Night Piece: To Julia", "On Julia's Voice", "A
Ring Presented to Julia", "Julia's Petticoat" and "The Bracelet: To Julia"
(I'm sure there are more). The "Julia" poems (not to be confused with Samuel
Daniel's "Delia" sonnets - see Poem #375 on the Minstrels for an example)
have varying forms and themes, but underlying them all is a wonderfully
romantic love.

Surprisingly, none of the usual references (Britannica, Google) have
anything to say on who this Julia might be. Would some kind member of this
list care to enlighten me?

To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest, With The Plough -- Robert Burns

Guest poem submitted independently by Suresh Ramasubramanian, and William Johns:

(Poem #776) To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest, With The Plough Wee, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion, Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell --- Till crash ! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld ! But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain; The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy ! Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! -- Robert Burns

[Suresh's Commentary]

Robert Burns was born in 1759, Ayrshire, Scotland. He grew up on his
father's farm, and was self-taught. When he was just 15 years old, his
father died, saddling him with an  unproductive farm. His poetry gradually
became popular though, so much so that he published a book of poems in 1786
(aged 27) to finance a trip to Jamaica. The book sold much better than
anticipated, but Burns decided to go to Edinburgh and publish a "better"
second edition of his poems. He died only 10 years later at the early age of
37, but not before writing some excellent poetry such as "Auld Lang Syne"
(till today a staple of new year parties in England) and "To a mouse ...".

This poem has one immortal line, which has passed into (fairly) common
English usage -
  The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
  Gang aft agley,
Here's where Steinbeck got the title of his "Of Mice and Men", by the way.

The poem is written in his typical "broad scots" and deals with a field
mouse whose nest he apparently destroyed when plowing a field. Burns sees
the mouse scuttling out of its nest, cowering and shivering in terror (and
cold? it is mid-winter after all) in front of him. He starts off on the poor
mouse suffering because of his actions, and then reassures it that it only
has to fear the present, whereas he has had a dreary past, and "guesses and
fears" his unseen but easily guessed future.

Nothing at all would have differentiated this poem from the millions of
sentimental and tear-jerking verses churned out by assorted poets (and
ridiculed by several others) - but for the fact that Burns seems to have
opened his heart to the mouse, and speaks to it as if he's trying to cheer
up an old friend who has somehow fallen upon hard times.

The broad scots is an added bonus, making this poem a delight to read aloud
(or to listen to). For what it's worth, the "r"s are rolled out here, ...
rrrr ... almost like in French.

http://www.robertburns.org/works/75.html has a version with hyperlinks to a
glossary of the scottish words.

Suresh.

[William's Commentary]

One of my favorites. When I was a kid, we caught a mouse in the kitchen. He
became the family pet, named "Wee sleeket cowran tim'rous beastie", and he
lived a long and happy life in his new home. Kind of the exact opposite of
what happened in the poem...

Bill.