English Sonnets

[philomath]

London, 1802
By William Wordsworth

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

 

[John Nyberg]

@philomath

Makes me wonder, are there any great British poets left to pine for the days of Wordsworth

 

[darrellmaurina]

@philomath

Makes me wonder, are there any great British poets left to pine for the days of Wordsworth

Good question. Short answer: Probably not. Woodsworth, though he had problems, both theological and personal, did not reject his Christian faith unlike most of his literary contemporaries (yes, even in the early 1800s).

A century later, CS Lewis owed his professorship to his scholarship which, when he was studying for his degrees and was a junior professor, was not "biased" by religious belief. When he was converted, he was an academician at a high level and nothing could be done to remove him despite his conversion.

Today, it's questionable whether a white British male who took the religious history of Britain seriously could have gotten through his pre-doctoral and doctoral studies without problems at Oxford or Cambridge, and if he was a non-Anglican evangelical, would likely be discouraged by his church from even applying to the upper levels of British education for studies of the religious content of literature or history. A CS Lewis wouldn't develop in current British academia, and if he did, he might well get "cancelled."

Now a Nigerian Anglican woman bringing a "colonial perspective" on how British literature was received in Africa? That might lead to a doctoral degree from a faculty that didn't fully understand that their student actually BELIEVED what she was reading, and wasn't just studying it the way modern scholars study Greek mythology.

Ask me how I know how minorities and women can navigate academia...

 

[philomath]

@philomath

Makes me wonder, are there any great British poets left to pine for the days of Wordsworth

That's a good question! Would be hard for me to tell since I know very few modern British poets. The only current one I know is Malcolm Guite.

I'm sure in years to come there will be poets pining for the days of Wordsworth! We see a current infatuation with the Victorian era among many (sometimes including me), so it's not hard to imagine.

It's interesting to think of the topic of "longing for past eras". People certainly have a habit of looking back with rose colored lenses (again, including me), and not seeing the ways in which things were worse. That being said, theres the opposite error of modernist triumphalism where people think things have only gotten better in every single way.

 

[John Nyberg]

@darrellmaurina

Great point Darrell. I agree that the (formerly) great British universities are unlikely to produce excellent Christian poets. However, with such heritage of poetry from the likes of Wordsworth, Donne, and Milton, it is not impossible that such a poet could develop outside those institutions.

It's interesting to think of the topic of "longing for past eras". People certainly have a habit of looking back with rose colored lenses (again, including me), and not seeing the ways in which things were worse. That being said, theres the opposite error of modernist triumphalism where people think things have only gotten better in every single way.

This is a great point. I am also guilty of having a too favorable view of the past. Being that we are having this discussion on the Puritan Board, an eye to the past is something that defines our little sub-culture. One thing that helps me have a more measured view of past societies is actually reading about their lives. The reformation was a wonderful time of renewal, but intermixed with much sin and error. The puritans made a great society in New England, but they could be cruel. I may fanboy over Herbert’s poetry, but I much prefer the preaching of my own pastors for true spiritual instruction. Herbert certainly has his theological errors.

 

[philomath]

@darrellmaurina

Great point Darrell. I agree that the (formerly) great British universities are unlikely to produce excellent Christian poets. However, with such heritage of poetry from the likes of Wordsworth, Donne, and Milton, it is not impossible that such a poet could develop outside those institutions.


This is a great point. I am also guilty of having a too favorable view of the past. Being that we are having this discussion on the Puritan Board, an eye to the past is something that defines our little sub-culture. One thing that helps me have a more measured view of past societies is actually reading about their lives. The reformation was a wonderful time of renewal, but intermixed with much sin and error. The puritans made a great society in New England, but they could be cruel. I may fanboy over Herbert’s poetry, but I much prefer the preaching of my own pastors for true spiritual instruction. Herbert certainly has his theological errors.

These are great thoughts John! The old idiom states it well: "chew the meat and spit out the bones". Some eras and locations may seem to be less boney than others, yet none are boneless.

Whether we tend to look on the past with rosie lenses or with chronological snobbery, one thing must always be acknowldged: The Lord, in his providence, has us exactly where he intends us to be, and has blessed us with a wealth of knowledge and examples from the past that we must not ignore. Each era and people have had their particular besetting sins and each has had their virtues. We should learn from them all. And at the end of the day, we can rest in our Lord and savior who "hath made every thing beautiful in his time".

 

[philomath]

To My Cottage
By John Clare

Thou lowly cot, where first my breath I drew,
Past joys endear thee, childhood's past delight;
Where each young summer's pictur'd on my view;
And, dearer still, the happy winter-night,
When the storm pelted down with all his might,
And roar'd and bellow'd in the chimney-top,
And patter'd vehement 'gainst the window-light,
And on the threshold fell the quick eaves-drop.
How blest I've listen'd on my corner stool,
Heard the storm rage, and hugg'd my happy spot,
While the fond parent wound her whirring spool,
And spar'd a sigh for the poor wanderer's lot.
In thee, sweet hut, this happiness was prov'd,
And thee endear and make thee doubly lov'd.

 

[philomath]

The Shepherd's Tree
By John Clare

Huge elm, with rifted trunk all notched and scarred,
Like to a warrior's destiny! I love
To stretch me often on thy shadowed sward,
And hear the laugh of summer leaves above;
Or on thy buttressed roots to sit, and lean
In careless attitude, and there reflect
On times and deeds and darings that have been -
Old castaways, now swallowed in neglect, -
While thou art towering in thy strength of heart,
Stirring the soul to vain imaginings
In which life's sordid being hath no part.
The wind of that eternal ditty sings,
Humming of future things, that burn the mind
To leave some fragment of itself behind.

 

[John Nyberg]

@philomath Man, this John Clare guy is really up your alley. What with his rural/pastoral themes and all

To My Cottage is a refreshing take on childhood. It’s sentimental without being sappy, a gaze into the past without the slightest hint of bitterness. It made me think: I hope I have created a home that makes my own children feel this way, even if they could never put that feeling into words.

Thanks for sharing brother!

 

[John Nyberg]

I found this thread from 2019 in which Jacob (@RamistThomist) wrote a brief overview of the theme of physical beauty in the sonnets of William Shakespeare. I really enjoyed the post, Jacob! On that note, here is Sonnet 27 by Shakespeare:

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired,
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind when body’s work’s expired.
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see;
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents ⌜thy⌝ shadow to my sightless view,
Which like a jewel hung in ghastly night
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.

 

[philomath]

Man, this John Clare guy is really up your alley. What with his rural/pastoral themes and all

He sure is! This thread has given me more incentive to dig into his works and it's been a real treasure trove!

It’s sentimental without being sappy, a gaze into the past without the slightest hint of bitterness.

This is such a great way to put it. Even though I love poetry that talks of contentment in difficult circumstances (such as Bradstreet), poetry that speaks of contentment in a warm neutrality of circumstance is a very beautiful to me. It's like a scent that brings your mind back to childhood, or to a place called home.

It made me think: I hope I have created a home that makes my own children feel this way, even if they could never put that fee of into words.

Thanks for sharing brother!

 

[philomath]

The Lattice at Sunrise
By Charles Tennyson Turner

As on my bed at dawn I mused and prayed,
I saw my lattice prankt upon the wall,
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal—
A sunny phantom interlaced with shade;
“Thanks be to heaven!” in happy mood I said,
“What sweeter aid my matins could befall
Than this fair glory from the East hath made?
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all,
To bid us feel and see! we are not free
To say we see not, for the glory comes
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea;
His lustre pierceth through the midnight glooms;
And at prime hour, behold! He follows me
With golden shadows to my secret rooms!”

 

[John Nyberg]

Wow, what a wonderful and encouraging piece. Few and far between, it seems, are the moments of peace in a man’s life. The hour of prayer is sweet indeed.

Psalm 19:2 “Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge.”

Herbert’s Mattens:

I cannot ope mine eyes,
But thou art ready there to catch
My morning-soul and sacrifice

 

[John Nyberg]

Sonnet to William Wilberforce
By William Cowper

“Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee, by cruel men and impious, call'd
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose th' enthrall'd
From exile, public sale, and slav'ry's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain!
Thou hast achiev'd a part; hast gain'd the ear
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;
Hope smiles, joy springs, and though' cold caution pause
And weave delay, the better hour is near,
That shall remunerate thy toils severe
By peace for Afric, fenc'd with British laws.
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the just on earth, and all the blest above!”

 

[philomath]

Sonnet VII: "How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth"
By John Milton

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n:
All is, if I have grace to use it so
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.

 

[John Nyberg]

I really enjoy how disciplined Milton is in his poetry. On His Deceased Wife, for instance, begins in such a high poetic style that one almost forgets it is an Elegy and not an Ode. His wife is not merely “my late espoused saint” but also the death defying Alcestis. Not merely Alcestis, but also appearing to Milton “purified”, “vested all in white, and shining with “love, goodness [and] sweetness.” For me, all this finesse makes the last line all that more compelling: “I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.” Milton knows where he wants to take us in his poetry.


Sonnet VII also takes us somewhere quite beautiful. I enjoyed the personification of Time as a “winged thief”. I can relate to the feeling of bewilderment as my own decades pass. Why so little growth? Why am I dealing with the same fears, sins, and disappointments? Yet Miltons leads us past these disappointments to an understanding of Time as the servant of Heaven’s will. In the last lines, the time deity disappears completely as Milton surrenders all to the sovereign eye of Providence. I just love the movement, the progression and growth even, from the beginning of the poem to the end.

 

[John Nyberg]

Edmund Spenser (c. 1552-1559) is most famous for his epic The Faerie Queene. I know very little biographical information about Spenser, so if there are any experts on the board your insights would be welcome.

To read Spenser is to time travel many centuries to the dawn of the modern English tongue. His spelling, syntax, and diction are all archaic even for his own time. In Spenser we find a longing for the mythical past of chivalrous knighthood and mystical religion. Yet as I read The Faerie Queene, I find myself relating to its themes in some surprising ways. For example, Book I Canto IX contains an intense drama as the Redcrosse Knight attempts to battle Despair, a fiendish spirit with a wicked tongue capable of inducing men to suicide. The Knight foolishly believes himself capable of defeating despair in his own strength, yet Despair is privy to his recent sins, mainly his betrayal of the Lady Una and his subsequent defeat and imprisonment.

Despair says:

“Why then doest thou, O man of sin, desire
To draw thy dayes forth to their last degree?
Is not the measure of thy sinfull hire
High heaped up with huge iniquitie,
Against the day of wrath, to burden thee?
Is not enough, that to this Ladie milde
Thou falsed hast thy faith with perjurie,
And sold thy selfe to serve Duessa vilde,
With whom in all abuse thou hast thy selfe defilde?

Is not he just, that all this doth behold
From highest heaven, and beares an equall eye?
Shall he thy sins up in his knowledge fold,
And guiltie be of thine impietie?
Is not his law, Let every sinner die:
Die shall all flesh? what then must needs be donne,
Is it not better to doe willinglie,
Then linger, till the glasse be all out ronne?
Death is the end of woes: die soone, O faeries sonne.”

Despair’s words cut him to the quick. The Redcrosse knight has sinned, and sinned horribly. Apart from grace, he can hope for no absolution or pardon from a just God. Death by his own hands seems the only course of action. Despair even provides the knife, which the knight receives and draws to end his life. Yet the Lady Una comes to his aid with action and words:

“Which when as Una saw, through every vaine
The crudled cold ran to her well of life,
As in a swowne: but soone reliv'd againe,
Out of his hand she snatcht the cursed knife,
And threw it to the ground, enraged rife,
And to him said, Fie, fie, faint harted knight,
What meanest thou by this reprochfull strife?
Is this the battell, which thou vauntst to fight
With that fire-mouthed Dragon, horrible and bright?
lii
Come, come away, fraile, feeble, fleshly wight,
Ne let vaine words bewitch thy manly hart,
Ne divelish thoughts dismay thy constant spright.
In heavenly mercies hast thou not a part?
Why shouldst thou then despeire, that chosen art?
Where justice growes, there grows eke greater grace,
The which doth quench the brond of hellish smart,
And that accurst hand-writing doth deface.
Arise, Sir knight arise, and leave this cursed place.”

Where justice grows, there grows also greater grace. This is the beauty of wise counsel in the face of despair. The gospel and the gospel alone has power to break the wicked spell of depression. I am thankful for those who, like Una, have spoken the truth of the gospel in my life during seasons of depression. Spenser may be a man of the 16th century speaking in an archaic tongue, but his poetry contains nuggets of timeless Christian truth.

As this is a Sonnet thread, I will begin posting some of Spenser’s sonnets starting with sonnet 58:

“WEake is th'assurance that weake flesh reposeth,
In her owne powre and scorneth others ayde:
that soonest fals when as she most supposeth,
her selfe assurd, and is of nought affrayd.
All flesh is frayle, and all her strength vnstayd,
like a vaine bubble blowen vp with ayre:
deuouring tyme & changeful chance haue prayd,
her glories pride that none may it repayre.
Ne none so rich or wise, so strong or fayre,
but fayleth trusting on his owne assurance:
and he that standeth on the hyghest stayre
fals lowest: for on earth nought hath endurance.
Why then doe ye proud fayre, misdeeme so farre,
that to your selfe ye most assured arre.”

 

[philomath]

Edmund Spenser (c. 1552-1559) is most famous for his epic The Faerie Queene. I know very little biographical information about Spenser, so if there are any experts on the board your insights would be welcome.

To read Spenser is to time travel many centuries to the dawn of the modern English tongue. His spelling, syntax, and diction are all archaic even for his own time. In Spenser we find a longing for the mythical past of chivalrous knighthood and mystical religion. Yet as I read The Faerie Queene, I find myself relating to its themes in some surprising ways. For example, Book I Canto IX contains an intense drama as the Redcrosse Knight attempts to battle Despair, a fiendish spirit with a wicked tongue capable of inducing men to suicide. The Knight foolishly believes himself capable of defeating despair in his own strength, yet Despair is privy to his recent sins, mainly his betrayal of the Lady Una and his subsequent defeat and imprisonment.

Despair says:

“Why then doest thou, O man of sin, desire
To draw thy dayes forth to their last degree?
Is not the measure of thy sinfull hire
High heaped up with huge iniquitie,
Against the day of wrath, to burden thee?
Is not enough, that to this Ladie milde
Thou falsed hast thy faith with perjurie,
And sold thy selfe to serve Duessa vilde,
With whom in all abuse thou hast thy selfe defilde?

Is not he just, that all this doth behold
From highest heaven, and beares an equall eye?
Shall he thy sins up in his knowledge fold,
And guiltie be of thine impietie?
Is not his law, Let every sinner die:
Die shall all flesh? what then must needs be donne,
Is it not better to doe willinglie,
Then linger, till the glasse be all out ronne?
Death is the end of woes: die soone, O faeries sonne.”

Despair’s words cut him to the quick. The Redcrosse knight has sinned, and sinned horribly. Apart from grace, he can hope for no absolution or pardon from a just God. Death by his own hands seems the only course of action. Despair even provides the knife, which the knight receives and draws to end his life. Yet the Lady Una comes to his aid with action and words:

“Which when as Una saw, through every vaine
The crudled cold ran to her well of life,
As in a swowne: but soone reliv'd againe,
Out of his hand she snatcht the cursed knife,
And threw it to the ground, enraged rife,
And to him said, Fie, fie, faint harted knight,
What meanest thou by this reprochfull strife?
Is this the battell, which thou vauntst to fight
With that fire-mouthed Dragon, horrible and bright?
lii
Come, come away, fraile, feeble, fleshly wight,
Ne let vaine words bewitch thy manly hart,
Ne divelish thoughts dismay thy constant spright.
In heavenly mercies hast thou not a part?
Why shouldst thou then despeire, that chosen art?
Where justice growes, there grows eke greater grace,
The which doth quench the brond of hellish smart,
And that accurst hand-writing doth deface.
Arise, Sir knight arise, and leave this cursed place.”

Where justice grows, there grows also greater grace. This is the beauty of wise counsel in the face of despair. The gospel and the gospel alone has power to break the wicked spell of depression. I am thankful for those who, like Una, have spoken the truth of the gospel in my life during seasons of depression. Spenser may be a man of the 16th century speaking in an archaic tongue, but his poetry contains nuggets of timeless Christian truth.

As this is a Sonnet thread, I will begin posting some of Spenser’s sonnets starting with sonnet 58:

“WEake is th'assurance that weake flesh reposeth,
In her owne powre and scorneth others ayde:
that soonest fals when as she most supposeth,
her selfe assurd, and is of nought affrayd.
All flesh is frayle, and all her strength vnstayd,
like a vaine bubble blowen vp with ayre:
deuouring tyme & changeful chance haue prayd,
her glories pride that none may it repayre.
Ne none so rich or wise, so strong or fayre,
but fayleth trusting on his owne assurance:
and he that standeth on the hyghest stayre
fals lowest: for on earth nought hath endurance.
Why then doe ye proud fayre, misdeeme so farre,
that to your selfe ye most assured arre.”

Thanks for sharing this John! I have read one or two poems by Spencer in the past and have heard of The Faerie Queene, but I have not gotten deep into his works. I'll have to make his works a priority this Autumn!

Where justice grows, there grows also greater grace. This is the beauty of wise counsel in the face of despair. The gospel and the gospel alone has power to break the wicked spell of depression. I am thankful for those who, like Una, have spoken the truth of the gospel in my life during seasons of depression. Spenser may be a man of the 16th century speaking in an archaic tongue, but his poetry contains nuggets of timeless Christian truth.

I found this especially relatable and edifying

 

[John Nyberg]

Another Sonnet by Spenser.

Amoretti XXIII: "Penelope for her Ulisses sake

Penelope for her Ulisses sake,
Deviz’d a Web her wooers to deceave:
In which the worke that she all day did make
The same at night she did again unreave:
Such subtile craft my Damzell doth conceave,
Th’ importune suit of my desire to shonne:
For all that I in many dayes doo weave,
In one short houre I find by her undonne.
So when I thinke to end that I begonne,
I must begin and never bring to end:
For with one looke she spils that long I sponne,
And with one word my whole years work doth rend.
Such labour like the Spyders web I fynd,
Whose fruitless worke is broken with least wynd.