Answer or discuss

1. Comment on the main historical and political events of the 17^th century. How did they influence English literature of the period?

2. What is metaphysical poetry? Characterize John Donne’s poetry.

3. Make an overview of John Milton’s life. What are the peculiar features of his poetry? Think over the following: should Paradise Lost be considered a religious poem?

4. Was John Bunyan a prominent man of the 17^th century? What was the most productive period in his life?

5. The Pilgrim's Progress ranked among the masterpieces of English literature is an allegorical dream. Prove it.

6. Comment on the following: the 18^th century is the period of political stability and prosperity.

7. Comment on the peculiarities of English Enlightenment.

8. Give an overview of Daniel Defoe’s life and works.

9. Explain how the circumstances of Jonathan Swift’s life influenced his writing.

10. What is the theme of Swift’s Gulliver’s Travel? What particular objects of Swift ridicule? What is Swift’s view of ideal society?

11. Prove that Mature Enlightenment contributed greatly to the development of a novel.

Seminar 02 the romantic quarrel with the world: first canto and second canto

1. Romanticism as a pan-European trend in the arts.

2. The precursors of the Romantic school: William Blake (Texts 01).

3. Robert Burns: the man and the poet (Text 02).

4. The Lake Poets, and what they believed in (Texts 03 – 04).

5. Byron: the struggling life (Text 05).

6. Shelley's tragic view on the world (Text 06, 07).

7. John Keats, the champion of beauty (Text 08).

Text 01

THE LITTLE BLACK BOY

My mother bore me in the southern wild,

And I am black, but O! my soul is white;

White as an angel is the English child,

But I am black as if bereav'd of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,

And, sitting down before the heat of day,

She took me on her lap and kissed me,

And, pointing to the east, began to say:

'Look on the rising sun, there God does live,

And gives His light, and gives His heat away;

And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive

Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

'And we are put on earth a little space,

That we may learn to bear the beams of love;

And these black bodies and the sunburnt face

Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

'For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,

The cloud will vanish; we shall hear His voice,

Saying: "Come out from the grove, My love and care,

And round My golden tent like lambs rejoice."'

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me;

And thus I say to little English boy.

When I from black and he from white cloud free,

And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear

To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;

And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,

And be like him, and he will then love me.

Text 03

SONG (Tune, Corn rigs are bonie)

It was upon a Lammas night,

When corn rigs are bonie,

Beneath the moon's unclouded light,

I held awa to Annie:

The time flew by, wi' tentless heed,

Till 'tween the late and early;

Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed,

To see me thro' the barley.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,

The moon was shining clearly;

I set her down, wi' right good will,

Amang the rigs o' barley:

I ken't her heart was a' my ain;

I lov'd her most sincerely;

I kiss'd her owre and owre again,

Amang the rigs o' barley.

I lock'd her in my fond embrace;

Her heart was beating rarely:

My blessings on that happy place,

Amang the rigs o' barley!

But by the moon and stars so bright,

That shone that hour so clearly!

She ay shall bless that happy night,

Amang the rigs o' barley.

I hae been blythe wi' Comrades dear;

I hae been merry drinking;

I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear;

I hae been happy thinking:

But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly,

That happy night was worth them a',

Amang the rigs o' barley.

Chorus

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,

An' corn rigs are bonie:

I'll ne'er forget that happy night,

Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

Text 03

* * *

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

That Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Text 04

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free; We were the first that ever burst

Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,

‘Twas sad as sad could be;

And we did speak only to break

The silence of the sea!

And in a hot and copper sky,

The bloody Sun, at noon,

Right up above the mast did stand,

No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idly as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!

That ever this should be!

Yes, slimy things did crawl with legs

Upon a slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout

The death-fires danced at night;

The water, like a witch's oils,

Burnt green, and blue and white.

(…) And every tongue, through utter drought,

Was withered at the root;

We could not speak, no more than if

We had been choked with soot.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks

Had I from old and young!

Instead of the cross, the Albatross

About my neck was hung.

Text 05

From DON JUAN (Dedication)

1

Bob Southey! You're a poet – Poet-laureate,

And representative of all the race,

Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory at

Last, – yours has lately been a common case, –

And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?

With all the Lakers, in and out of place?

A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye

Like "four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;

2

Which pye being open'd they began to sing"

(This old song and new simile holds good),

"A dainty dish to set before the King",

Or Regent, who admires such kind of food; –

And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,

But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, –

Explaining metaphysics to the nation –

I wish he would explain his Explanation.

3

(…)

4

And Wordsworth, in a rather long Excursion

(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages),

Has given a sample from the vasty version

Of his new system to perplex the sages;

'Tis poetry – at least by his assertion,

And may appear so when the dog-star rages –

And he who understands it would be able

To add a story to the Tower of Babel.

5

You – Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion

From better company, have kept your own

At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion

Of one another's minds, at last have grown

To deem as a most logical conclusion,

That Poesy has wreaths for you alone:

There is a narrowness in such a notion,

Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.

Text 06

OZYMANDIAS

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert ... Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:

«My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair! »

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Text 07

SONG TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND

I

Men of England, wherefore plough

For the lords who lay ye low?

Wherefore weave with toil and care

The rich robes your tyrants wear?

II

Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save,

From the cradle to the grave,

Those ungrateful drones who would

Drain your sweat – nay, drink your blood?

III

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge

Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,

That these stingless drones may spoil

The forced produce of your toil?

(…)

VI

Sow seed, – but let no tyrant reap;

Find wealth, – let no impostor heap;

Weave robes, – let not the idle wear;

Forge arms, – in your defence to bear.

(…)

Text 08

TO A STAR

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art –

Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night,

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature's patient, sleepless eremite,

The moving waters at their priest-like task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors;

No – yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft swell and fall,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever – or else swoon to death.