GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE
As she saw it from the belfry
'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls [328];" When I talk of Whig and Tory,[329] when I tell the Rebel story, To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.
I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle[330];5 Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still; But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.
'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning. Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore:10 "Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter? Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?"
Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking, To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar: She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage,15 When the Mohawks[331] killed her father with their bullets through his door.
Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any, For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play; There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"— For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day.20
No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing; Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels; God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing, How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels!
In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping25 Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on the wooden leg he wore, With a knot of women round him,—it was lucky I had found him, So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.
They were making for the steeple,—the old soldier and his people; The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair,30 Just across the narrow river—Oh, so close it made me shiver!— Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.
Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it, Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb: Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other,35 And their lips were white with terror as they said, The Hour Has Come!
The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted, And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill, When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately; It was Prescott, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.40
Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure, With the banyan[332] buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall; Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure, Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.
At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' ranks were forming;45 At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers; How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and listened To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!
At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted), In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs,50 And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter, Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.
So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order; And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still: The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,—55 At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.
We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing— Now the front rank fires a volley—they have thrown away their shot; For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying, Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.60
Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple),— He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,— Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,— And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:—
"Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's,65 But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls; You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm[333] Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!"
In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all;70 Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing, We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.
Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,—nearer,—nearer, When a flash—a curling smoke-wreath—then a crash—the steeple shakes— The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended;75 Like a morning mist is gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks!
O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over! The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay; Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.80
Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat—it can't be doubted! God be thanked, the fight is over!"—Ah! the grim old soldier's smile! "Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak we shook so),— "Are they beaten? Are they beaten? Are they beaten?"—"Wait a while."
O the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error:85 They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain; And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered, Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.
All at once, as we were gazing, lo! the roofs of Charlestown blazing! They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down!90 The Lord in Heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them,— The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a peaceful town!
They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep. Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed?95 Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?
Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder! Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm! But the words have scarce been spoken when the ominous calm is broken, And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!100
So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water, Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe; And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for: They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!"
And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features,105 Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask: "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,—once more, I guess, they'll try it— Here's damnation to the cut-throats!" then he handed me his flask,
Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of Old Jamaiky; I'm afeared there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;"110 So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow, Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.
All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial, As the hands kept creeping, creeping,—they were creeping round to four, When the old man said, "They're forming with their bayonets fixed for storming:115 It's the death-grip that's a-coming,—they will try the works once more."
With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring, The deadly wall before them, in close array they come; Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,— Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum!120
Over heaps all torn and gory—shall I tell the fearful story, How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck; How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated, With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?
It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted,125 And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair: When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,— On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.
And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for Warren! hurry! hurry! Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his wound!"130 Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow, How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.
Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was, Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door, He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows,135 As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.
For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,— And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "What will his mother do?" Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing, He faintly murmured, "Mother!"—and—I saw his eyes were blue.140
—"Why, grandma, how you're winking!"—Ah, my child, it sets me thinking Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along; So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a—mother, Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong.
And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather;145 —"Please to tell us what his name was?"—Just your own, my little dear. There's his picture Copley[334] painted: we became so well acquainted, That,—in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children are all here!"
[NOTES]
[WILLIAM COWPER]
William Cowper was born at Great Berkhamstead, Hertfordshire, England, in 1731. He was educated first at a private school and afterwards at Westminster in London. He studied law, but his progress in the profession was blocked because of an attack of insanity brought on in 1763 by nervousness over an oral examination for a clerkship in the House of Commons. After fifteen months he recovered and went to live at Huntingdon, where he met the Unwin family and began what was to be a lifelong friendship with Mrs. Unwin. Upon Mr. Unwin's death in 1767, Cowper moved with Mrs. Unwin to Olney, passing a secluded life there until 1786. In 1773 he suffered a second attack of melancholia, which lasted sixteen months. Soon after his recovery he coöperated with the Rev. John Newton in writing the well-known Olney Hymns (1779). In 1782 he published his first volume of poems, and a second volume followed in 1785, containing The Task, Tirocinium, and the ballad of John Gilpin. A translation of Homer was completed in 1791. After 1791 his reason became hopelessly deranged, and he passed the time until his death in 1800 in utter misery.
Cowper was a man of kind and gentle character, a lover of nature in her milder aspects, and especially fond of animals. As one of the forerunners of the so-called Romantic movement in English poetry, his name is significant. Though at his best in work of a descriptive or satiric kind, he was also gifted with a subtle humor which appears frequently in many short tales and ballads. A good biography of Cowper is that by Goldwin Smith in the English Men of Letters Series.
The Diverting History of John Gilpin [(Page 1)]
The story of John Gilpin was told to Cowper by his friend, Lady Austen, who had heard it when a child. The poet, upon whom the tale made a deep impression, eventually turned it into this ballad, which was first published anonymously in the Public Advertiser for November 14, 1782. It became popular at once, and is to-day probably the most widely known of the author's works. It is written in the conventional ballad metre, and preserves many expressions characteristic of the primitive English ballad style.
[ [1] 3. Eke; also.
[ [2] 11. Edmonton is a suburb a few miles directly north of London.
[ [3] 16. After we. John Gilpin's wife does not hesitate to sacrifice grammar for the sake of rime.
[ [4] 23. Calender; one who operates a calender, a machine for giving cloth or paper a smooth, glossy surface.
[ [5] 39. Agog; eager.
[ [6] 44. Cheapside was one of the most important of the old London streets.
[ [7] 49. The saddletree is the frame of the saddle.
[ [8] 115. Carries weight. The bottles seem to resemble the weights carried in horse races by the jockeys.
[ [9] 133. Islington, now part of London, was then one of its suburbs.
[ [10] 152. Ware is a town about fifteen miles north of London.
[ [11] 178. Pin; mood.
[12] 222. Amain; at full speed.
[ [13] 236. The hue and cry; a term used to describe the rousing of the people in pursuit of a rogue.
[ROBERT BURNS]
Robert Burns was born of peasant parentage near Ayr, Scotland, on January 25, 1759. Up to the time when he was twenty-five years old he lived and worked on his father's farm, except for two short absences in near-by towns. While he was very young, he formed bad habits, from which he could never free himself, and which eventually wrecked his career. He was frequently in love, and many of the resulting entanglements brought him little but sorrow. In 1786, as a result of an unfortunate affair with Jean Armour, he determined to sail for America, and in order to raise the necessary money, published a volume of poems for which he was paid twenty pounds. The book was received with enthusiasm and so elated Burns with his success, that he decided to remain in Scotland. He accepted an invitation to Edinburgh, where he was entertained royally by literary circles. However, he was compelled to return to farming, and after marrying Jean Armour took a tenancy at Ellisland in 1788. A little later he was appointed exciseman, but his convivial tendencies were undermining his health, and he found his duties hard to attend to. He moved to Dumfries, where he died in poverty in 1796.
Burns as a writer of songs, especially of love lyrics, is unsurpassed. He touched the depths of human passion as few have ever done, and has made his poetry live in the hearts of the people. He is also the poet of Scottish peasant life, the enemy of oppression and tyranny, and the supporter of patriotism. Failure though he was from a worldly point of view, he was more unfortunate than culpable, and deserves our pity rather than our censure.
Carlyle's Essay on Burns gives an excellent idea of the character and work of the poet.
Tam O'Shanter [(Page 11)]
Written in 1790 in a single day and first published in 1791 as a contribution to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland, it has been called "a masterpiece of Scottish character, Scottish humor, Scottish witch-lore, and Scottish imagination." Burns himself considered it to be his finest poem.
[ [14] 1. Chapman billies; pedlar fellows.
[ [15] 2. Drouthy; thirsty.
[ [16] 4. Tak the gate; take the road.
[ [17] 5. Nappy; liquor.
[ [18] 6. Fou; tipsy.
[ [19] 6. Unco; very.
[ [20] 8. Slaps; gates in fences.
[ [21] 14. Frae; from.
[ [22] 14. Ayr; a town in Ayrshire, Scotland, on the west coast about thirty miles south of Glasgow. Near it is the birthplace of Burns.
[ [23] 19. Skellum; ne'er-do-well.
[ [24] 20. Blethering; talking nonsense.
[ [25] 20. Blellum; babbler.
[ [26] 23. Ilka; every.
[ [27] 23. Melder; corn or grain sent to the mill to be ground.
[ [28] 25. Ca'd; driven.
[ [29] 30. Doon; a river near Ayr immortalized in Burns's song, "Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon."
[ [30] 31. Warlocks; wizards.
[ [31] 31. Mirk; dark.
[ [32] 32. Alloway; a small town near Ayr, Scotland.
[ [33] 32. Kirk; church.
[ [34] 33. Gars me greet; makes me weep.
[ [35] 38. Planted; fixed.
[ [36] 39. Ingle; fireside.
[ [37] 40. Reaming swats; foaming new ale.
[ [38] 41. Souter; shoemaker.
[ [39] 68. Maun; must.
[ [40] 78. The Deil; the Devil.
[ [41] 81. Skelpit; hurried.
[ [42] 81. Dub; puddle.
[ [43] 86. Bogles; bogies or goblins.
[ [44] 88. Houlets; owls.
[ [45] 90. Smoored; smothered.
[ [46] 91. Birks; birches.
[ [47] 91. Meikle stane; huge stone.
[ [48] 93. Whins; furze bushes.
[ [49] 93. Cairn; pile of stones.
[ [50] 94. Bairn; child.
[ [51] 102. Bleeze; blaze.
[ [52] 103. Bore; hole.
[ [53] 105. John Barleycorn; a Scotch term for whiskey.
[ [54] 108. Usquebae; whiskey.
[ [55] 110. Boddle; farthing.
[ [56] 116. Brent; brought.
[ [57] 117. Strathspeys. The strathspey was a Scottish dance.
[ [58] 119. Winnock-bunker; window-seat.
[ [59] 121. Towzie tyke; shaggy dog.
[ [60] 123. Gart them skirl; made them shriek.
[ [61] 124. Dirl; ring.
[ [62] 127. Cantrip slight; magic charm.
[ [63] 134. Gab; throat.
[ [64] 147. Cleekit; took hold.
[ [65] 148. Carlin; witch.
[ [66] 149. Coost her duddies; threw off her clothes.
[ [67] 150. Linket; tripped.
[ [68] 150. Sark; shirt.
[ [69] 151. Queans; young women.
[ [70] 153. Creeshie flannen; greasy flannel.
[ [71] 154. Seventeen-hunder linen; fine linen. Technical weaving terms were familiar to the hand-loom workers of Burns's district.
[ [72] 157. Hurdies; hips.
[ [73] 158. Burdies; maidens.
[ [74] 159. Beldams; hags.
[ [75] 160. Rigwoodie; ancient.
[ [76] 160. Spean; wean.
[ [77] 161. Crummock; a short staff.
[ [78] 163. Brawlie; perfectly.
[ [79] 164. Walie; large.
[ [80] 165. Core; corps.
[ [81] 169. Bear; barley.
[ [82] 171. Cutty-sark; short shirt.
[ [83] 171. Paisley harn; a coarse cloth, made in Paisley, a Scotch town famous for its cloth-making industry.
[ [84] 174. Vauntie; proud.
[ [85] 176. Coft; bought.
[ [86] 181. Lap and flang; leapt and capered.
[ [87] 184. E'en; eyes.
[ [88] 185. Fidged fu' fain; fidgeted with eagerness.
[ [89] 186. Hotched; jerked his arm while playing the bagpipe.
[ [90] 187. Syne; then.
[ [91] 188. Tint; lost.
[ [92] 193. Fyke; fret.
[ [93] 194. Byke; hive.
[ [94] 200. Eldritch; unearthly.
[95] 201. Fairin'; reward.
[ [96] 208. According to an old superstition, witches are unable to pursue their victims over running water. Compare the story of the Headless Horseman in Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.
[ [97] 213. Ettle; aim.
[WALTER SCOTT]
Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1771, of an old Border family. Up to the age of four he was rather feeble, an attack of fever having left him with a shrunken right leg. This disability, though it did not prevent his becoming a strong, sturdy man, still gave him ample leisure for wide reading while he was young. In high school and at the University of Edinburgh he was not known as a scholar, though he was popular with his companions, especially as a storyteller. In obedience to his father's wishes he took up law and toiled unenthusiastically at this profession for some years. Some trips of his into the Scotch Highlands led him to make a collection of old ballads, published in Border Minstrelsy (1802). From this time on he devoted himself exclusively to literature. His first important original poem, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, came out in 1805, followed by Marmion (1808), The Lady of the Lake (1810), The Vision of Don Roderick (1811), and others of less merit. He had about this time become a silent partner in the printing firm of Ballantyne Brothers, contributing largely to the capital. In 1812 he purchased a farm on the river Tweed and built the famous house Abbotsford. The estate was an unprofitable investment, as it led him into extravagances apparently justified by an increasing income but really based on a false optimism.
In 1814 Scott wrote Waverley, the first of the long series of novels which made him distinguished as a prose-writer. From this time on his major work was in prose. He recognized without envy that Byron was beating him on his own ground in poetry, and accordingly changed to a field where success was surer. He was apparently prospering financially when, in 1827, the firm of which he was a member went into bankruptcy, largely because of poor business management, and he was left shouldered with a debt of about $600,000. Undaunted he set to work at the age of fifty-five to satisfy his creditors, and book after book poured from his pen until in four years he had paid off $270,000. The effort, however, was too much for his health; he broke down, and, after a short visit to Italy, died at Abbotsford in 1832.
Scott's character was almost wholly admirable. He was manly, courageous, faithful, and generous. Always popular, he was a lavish entertainer in his prosperous days. He did his work cheerfully and bore up without complaint against misfortune and suffering such as few men are called upon to endure.
As a poet he was fluent, vigorous, and spirited, but usually paid little attention to form and polish. He made no effort to become a careful writer; but this is sometimes compensated for by a certain robustness which most of his verses possess. His poetical genius is best shown in narrative, where the movement is rapid and the action full of exciting moments. If his poems lack intense passion and deep meditation, they are at least picturesque and interesting.
J. G. Lockhart, Scott's son-in-law, is the author of the most complete biography. A good shorter life is that by R. H. Hutton in the English Men of Letters Series.
Lochinvar [(Page 19)]
Published first in Marmion (1808) as "Lady Heron's Song."
[ [98] 2. Border; the country on the border between England and Scotland, a region of warfare and strife for many centuries.
[ [99] 8. The Esk River is in southwest Scotland, and flows into Solway Firth.
[ [100] 32. Galliard; a lively dance of the period.
[ [101] 41. Scaur; a steep bank of rock.
[WILLIAM WORDSWORTH]
William Wordsworth was born in 1770 at Cockermouth on the borders of the beautiful English lake country. During a boyhood spent largely out of doors, rowing, walking, and skating, he imbibed a love for nature which had a broader manifestation in his later life and poetry. After a short period at Hawkshead School, he entered St. John's College, Cambridge, where he took a degree in 1791. He then resided for a time in France; but was driven from there in 1793 by the Reign of Terror, and passed a few years in a rather idle way in the vicinity of London. His real poetic awakening came in 1797, when he and Coleridge lived near each other at Alfoxden among the Quantock Hills in Somerset. Here, in 1798, the two young men published Lyrical Ballads, a collection of poems written for the most part by Wordsworth, though Coleridge contributed The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and a few others. This book, especially in its treatment of nature, was a reaction against the stilted formalism which had characterized much of the English poetry of the eighteenth century, and as such it was the real stimulus for the revival of Romanticism which followed its appearance. After a year in Germany with his sister Dorothy, Wordsworth returned to the lake region now associated with his name, living at Grasmere until 1813, and after that at Rydal Mount. He married his cousin, Mary Hutchinson, in 1802. Among his later important works were The Prelude (1805), The Excursion (1814), and many shorter poems and sonnets. He was made poet-laureate in 1843, and died seven years after in 1850.
Wordsworth, though a radical in his youth, became more conservative in later years. He was a man of quiet tastes, and deliberately chose to live where he could be among simple people. As a poet, he was first of all an interpreter of nature, endowed with extraordinary keenness of observation and delighting in all her phases. In humanity, too, he had a sympathetic interest, especially in the everyday emotions and occupations of the plain men and women around him. And influencing his attitude toward both nature and humanity was a sort of religious mysticism which conceived the spirit of God as permeating all things, flowers and trees as well as the human heart.
Michael [(Page 21)]
Written in 1800 and published in the same year. Wordsworth's own note on the poem is as follows: "Written at Town-end, Grasmere, about the same time as 'The Brothers.' The Sheepfold, on which so much of the poem turns, remains, or rather the ruins of it. The character and circumstances of Luke were taken from a family to whom had belonged, many years before, the house we lived in at Town-end, along with some fields and woodlands on the eastern shore of Grasmere. The name of the Evening Star was not in fact given to this house, but to another on the same side of the valley, more to the north."
[ [102] 2. Greenhead Ghyll; a ravine near Grasmere.
[ [103] 134. Easedale; a small lake near Grasmere.
Lucy Gray; or, Solitude [(Page 36)]
Written in 1799 and published first in 1800. Wordsworth says of it: "Written at Goslar in Germany. It was founded on a circumstance told me by my Sister, of a little girl, who, not far from Halifax, in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snowstorm. Her footsteps were traced by her parents to the middle of the lock of a canal, and no other vestige of her, backward or forward, could be traced. The body, however, was found in the canal."
[THOMAS CAMPBELL]
Thomas Campbell was born at Glasgow, Scotland, July 27, 1777. He was educated at the University of Glasgow, where he made somewhat of a reputation as a versifier and translator. After some desultory attempts at tutoring, he published in 1799, The Pleasures of Hope, a long didactic poem which brought him real fame and a considerable financial reward. Soon after he travelled on the continent, where many of his war ballads were written. In his later days he was a figure in literary circles and was given a pension by the crown. He died in 1844 and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
Much of Campbell's longer poetic work is dull and unequal. However, in his own field of the vigorous patriotic ballad, he is without a rival. Saintsbury says of him, "He holds the place of best singer of war in a race and language which are those of the best singers, and not the worst fighters, in the history of the world."
Hohenlinden [(Page 39)]
Written in 1800, after the author had visited the battlefield.
In the battle of Hohenlinden (December 3, 1800), the French under General Moreau defeated the Austrians and compelled the Austrian Emperor to sue for peace. The treaty of Luneville, which followed, extended French territory to the Rhine.
[ [104] 4. The Iser is a river rising in northern Switzerland and flowing into the Danube.
Battle of the Baltic [(Page 40)]
Written in 1809.
The battle of the Baltic took place in the Baltic Sea before Copenhagen, April 2, 1801, between the English and the Danish fleets. England had accepted a declaration of the Armed Neutrality League (Russia, Denmark, and Sweden) as being really in the interests of her enemy, France, and the English fleet under Lord Parker was sent to the Baltic. Under Lord Nelson, the second in command, a decisive victory was gained, largely through the fact that Nelson refused to obey the orders of his superior officer.
[ [105] 67. Riou was one of Nelson's officers.
[CHARLES WOLFE]
Charles Wolfe was born at Dublin, Ireland, in 1791 and died at Queenstown in 1823. He graduated at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1814 and became curate of Donoughmore, Ireland. His Remains, with a brief memoir, were published in 1825.
His only poem of any distinction is the one here printed, The Burial of Sir John Moore.
The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna [(Page 43)]
First published in the Newry Telegraph, an Irish paper, in 1817, under the initials C. W.
Sir John Moore (1761-1809) was commander of an English army of twenty-four thousand men in Spain against a French force of eighty thousand under Soult. At the battle of Corunna, January 16, 1809, the English army won a doubtful victory in which their leader was killed. After burying him at dead of night, the English troops embarked for their own country.
[ [106] Corunna is a city in northwest Spain.
[BYRON]
George Gordon, Lord Byron, was born in London, January 22, 1788, and died at Missolonghi, April 19, 1824, at the age of thirty-six. Byron's father, a captain in the guards, after a romantic first marriage, wedded Catharine Gordon, a wealthy girl, of Aberdeenshire, whom, after squandering her fortune, he deserted shortly after young Byron's birth. Byron's mother was a quick-tempered, impulsive woman, ill-fitted to bring up a son who had a temperament almost exactly like her own. Once when a companion said to Byron, "Your mother's a fool," the boy answered, "I know it."
As a boy at school Byron formed passionate attachments, entered into the games he played with an unusual fierceness of spirit, and exhibited that sensitive pride which was the cause of much of his posing there and in later life. He was club-footed, a deformity about which he was extremely sensitive. Before entering Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1805, he had attended Harrow for five years. At Cambridge he remained less than three years, but in that time made some close friends and took an active part in all sorts of sports, especially riding and swimming. His vacations he spent at London or Southwell, generally quarrelling violently with his mother.
His first published poetry was Hours of Idleness, which appeared in 1807, and which was attacked by the Edinburgh Review so strenuously that Byron replied in 1809 with English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. In the same year he took his seat in the House of Lords, but he had no interest in politics, and, accordingly, left England for two years' travel on the continent. This tour was the occasion of the first two cantos of Childe Harold. This poem was received so warmly that Byron remarked that "he awoke one morning to find himself famous." From now till the separation from his wife in 1816, after a year of wedded life, he was the lion of British society, but society took sides on this family difference, and as most of them sympathized with Lady Byron, Byron himself left England. He spent some time on Lake Geneva, where the Castle of Chillon is situated. He then went to Italy, where, amid his usual life of dissipation, he became interested in the Italian Insurrection. Among his friends and companions in Italy were Shelley and Leigh Hunt. In 1823, becoming attracted by the attempts of the Greeks to overthrow Turkish rule, he went to Greece as a leader, but he contracted a fever at Missolonghi, where he died, April 19, 1824.
As a poet Byron appeals especially to youth. His tales are so interesting that Scott made the remark that Byron beat him at his own game. Rapidity and force of movement, intensity and passion, excellent description, and a great, though not fine, command of poetic sound are the chief characteristics of his poetry. The romantic tale, Childe Harold, and the satire, Don Juan, are perhaps his best-known works.
The Prisoner of Chillon [(Page 45)]
The castle of Chillon is situated near Montreux at the opposite end of Lake Geneva from the city of Geneva. It is a large castle, built on an isolated rock twenty-two yards from the shore of the lake. Beneath this castle, but some nine or ten feet above the surface of the lake, supported by seven detached pillars and one semi-detached, is a vaulted chamber, which was formerly used as a prison. Here, from 1530 to 1536, was imprisoned Francis Bonnivard.
Bonnivard, the son of the Lord of Lune, was born in 1496. When sixteen years old, he inherited from his uncle the priory of St. Victor, near Geneva. Later he allied himself with this city against the Duke of Savoy, but was captured and imprisoned for two years in Grolée. In 1530 he again fell into the hands of the Duke of Savoy, who this time confined him for six years in Chillon castle. At the end of this period he was liberated by the Bernese and Genevese and returned to Geneva to live a brilliant but wild life until 1570.
Byron takes no pains to stick to the facts of Bonnivard's imprisonment or life, or even to the facts about the prison itself. Notice, however, that he calls the poem "A Fable."
Byron and Shelley made a visit to Chillon in June, 1816, and while delayed for two days at Ouchy, a village on Lake Geneva, Byron wrote this poem.
Byron and Shelley belonged to a group of poets who were influenced by the French Revolution. Byron's love of freedom was so great that he aided Italy, and finally died from a fever contracted at Missolonghi, where he had gone to aid the Greek revolutionists. The following sonnet, which was prefixed to The Prisoner of Chillon, gives an idea of Byron's love of liberty.