English Advanced – Poetry Section

THE TWA CORBIES

(Scottish Version – Anonymous) When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
(Sonnet 29)
AS I was walking all alane William Shakespeare - 1564-1616
I heard twa corbies making a mane:
The tane unto the tither did say, When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
'Whar sall we gang and dine the day?' I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
'—In behint yon auld fail dyke 5
I wot there lies a new-slain knight; wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
And naebody kens that he lies there Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
'His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, 10 Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
His lady 's ta'en anither mate, Haply I think on thee—and then my state,
So we may mak our dinner sweet. Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate;
'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en: That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair 15
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. Shakespeare's Sonnet 18 - "Shall I compare thee to a
summer's day?" (To His Love)
'Mony a one for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken whar he is gane: LOVE’S FAREWELL
O'er his white banes, when they are bare, MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563–1631)
The wind sall blaw for evermair.' 20
SINCE there’s no help, come let us kiss and part,—
FEAR NO MORE Nay I have done, you get no more of me;
(WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE) And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Fear no more the heat ‘o the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages; Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, 5
Thou they worldly task hast done, And when we meet at any time again,
Home art gone, and ta’en they wages: Be it not seen in either of our brows
Golden lads and girls all must That we one jot of former love retain.
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Now at the last gasp of love’s latest breath,
Fear no more the frown o’ the great, When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, 10
Thou are past the tyrant’s stroke; When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
Care no more to clothe and eat; And innocence is closing up his eyes,
To thee the reed is as the oak;
The sceptre, learning, physic, must —Now if thou would’st, when all have given him
All follow this, and come to dust. over,
From death to life thou might’st him yet decover!
Fear no more, the lightning-flash,
Nor th’ all-dreaded thunder-stone; DEATH THE LEVELLER
Fear not slander, censure rash; JAMES SHIRLEY. 1596–1666
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must THE glories of our blood and state
Consign to thee, and come to dust. Are shadows, not substantial things;
(‘Cymbeline.’) There is no armour against Fate;
No exorciser harm thee Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Nor no witchcraft charm thee
Ghost unlaid forbear thee Sceptre and Crown 5
Nothing ill come near thee Must tumble down,
Quiet consumation have And in the dust be equal made
And renowned be they grave. With the poor crookeè d scythe and spade.

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English Advanced – Poetry Section

Some men with swords may reap the field, But, ah! my soul with too much stay
And plant fresh laurels where they kill: 10 Is drunk, and staggers in the way.
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still: Some men a forward motion love;
But I by backward steps would move,
Early or late And when this dust falls to the urn,
They stoop to fate, In that state I came, return.
And must give up their murmuring breath 15
When they, pale captives, creep to death. How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth
(Sonnet 7):
The garlands wither on your brow, John Milton
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
See where the victor-victim bleeds. 20 Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
Your heads must come But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
To the cold tomb:
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
Only the actions of the just
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near;
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
THE RETREAT
HENRY VAUGHAN 1621–1695 Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n
Happy those early days! when I
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Shined in my angel infancy.
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n:
Before I understood this place
All is, if I have grace to use it so
Appointed for my second race,
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.
Or taught my soul to fancy aught
But a white, celestial thought; TO DAFFODILS
ROBERT HERRICK 1591–1674
When yet I had not walked above
A mile or two from my first love, Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
And looking back, at that short space,
As yet the early-rising sun
Could see a glimpse of His bright face;
Has not attain'd his noon.
When on some gilded cloud or flower Stay, stay,
My gazing soul would dwell an hour, Until the hasting day
Has run
And in those weaker glories spy But to the even-song;
Some shadows of eternity; And, having pray'd together, we
Before I taught my tongue to wound Will go with you along.
My conscience with a sinful sound, We have short time to stay, as you,
Or had the black art to dispense We have as short a spring;
A several sin to every sense, As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
But felt through all this fleshly dress We die
Bright shoots of everlastingness. As your hours do, and dry
Away,
O, how I long to travel back, Like to the summer's rain;
And tread again that ancient track! Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
That I might once more reach that plain Ne'er to be found again.
Where first I left my glorious train,
From whence th’ enlightened spirit sees
That shady city of palm trees.

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English Advanced – Poetry Section

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE

WILLIAM COLLINS. 1721–1759

HOW sleep the brave, who sink to rest

By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 5
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 10
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!

THE POPLAR-FIELD (1784)

WILLIAM COWPER 1731–1800

The poplars are fell’d, farewell to the shade

And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade,
The winds play no longer, and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elaps’d since I last took a view

Of my favourite field and the bank where they grew,
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat

Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene where his melody charm’d me before,
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,

And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can,

To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.

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