Sunday Poetry - Andrew Marvell

This week I've chosen a poem by Andrew Marvell (picture from here), one of my favourite poets. The Definition of Love is quoted in Linda Gillard's absorbing new novel, The Glass Guardian, which I reviewed yesterday.
I knew the first & last verses but it was a lovely opportunity to read the rest of the poem again. It's a difficult poem to understand but the melancholy of an impossible love is so beautifully described that I don't feel I have to understand all the metaphysical conceits.

My Love is of a birth as rare
    As 'tis, for object, strange and high ;
It was begotten by Despair,
    Upon Impossibility.

Magnanimous Despair alone
    Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble hope could ne'er have flown,
    But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.

And yet I quickly might arrive
    Where my extended soul is fixed ;
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
    And always crowds itself betwixt.

For Fate with jealous eye does see
    Two perfect loves, nor lets them close;
Their union would her ruin be,
    And her tyrannic power depose.

And therefore her decrees of steel
    Us as the distant poles have placed,
(Though Love's whole world on us doth wheel),
    Not by themselves to be embraced,

Unless the giddy heaven fall,
    And earth some new convulsion tear.
And, us to join, the world should all
    Be cramp'd into a planisphere.

As lines, so love's oblique, may well
    Themselves in every angle greet :
But ours, so truly parallel,
    Though infinite, can never meet.

Therefore the love which us doth bind,
    But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
    And opposition of the stars.

Sunday Poetry - Anonymous Elizabethan

Today's poem is an anonymous lyric from the play Fedele & Fortunio or The Two Italian Gentlemen, translated from the Italian in 1584. The play was considered popular & influential in its day but has only survived in a few extracts, songs & poems. The picture of the lovers is from here.

If love be like the flower that in the night,
When darkness drowns the glory of the skies,
Smells sweet and glitters in the gazer's sight,
But when the gladsome sun begins to rise,
And he that views it would the same embrace,
It withereth and loseth all his grace:


Why do I love and like the cursed tree,
Whose bud appears, but fruit will not be seen?
Why do I languish for the flower I see,
Whose root is not, when all the leaves be green?
In such a case it is a point of skill
To follow chance, and love against my will.

Sunday Poetry - Enduring Love

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose (picture from here) was a Scottish general & hero of the Royalist cause in Scotland during the English Civil Wars. He won many victories for Charles I against the Covenanters but was forced into exile when Charles was defeated by the Covenanters in 1646. After Charles's execution, Montrose swore to do all he could to restore Charles II. He occupied the Orkneys in 1649 as a prelude to a full-scale invasion of Scotland but by the time he reached the mainland, Charles was negotiating with the Scots & ordered Montrose to disband his army. These orders never reached him & he was defeated in battle at Carbisdale. He escaped but was eventually betrayed & executed as a traitor in 1650.

This poem about the power of love is very much in the tradition of the Cavalier poets. It's a fitting end to my posts from Antonia Fraser's anthology of Scottish Love Poetry. Next week, I'll stay in the 17th century with an anthology of metaphysical poetry.

My dear and only Love, I pray
This noble World of thee,
Be govern'd by no other Sway
But purest Monarchie.
For if Confusion have a Part,
Which vertuous Souls abhore,
And hold a Synod in thy Heart,
I'll never love thee more.


Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone,
My Thoughts shall evermore disdain
A Rival on my Throne.
He either fears his Fate too much,
Or his Deserts are small,
That puts it not unto the Touch,
To win or lose it all.

Sunday Poetry - Old Loves

Andrew Lang (picture from here) is best known for his collections of fairy tales & legends that were collected in the Blue Fairy Book, Lilac Fairy Book, the Yellow Fairy Book etc. He also wrote on French literature, Scottish history & literature & poetry. This poem, O Joy of Love's Renewing, is sweetly melancholic, remembering lost delights.

O joy of love's renewing,
Could love be born again;
Relenting for thy rueing,
And pitying my pain:
O joy of love's awaking,
Could love arise from sleep,
Forgiving our forsaking
The fields we would not reap!


Fleet, fleet we fly, pursuing
The love that fled amain,
But will he list our wooing,
Or call we but in vain?
Ah! vain is all our wooing,
And all our prayers are vain,
Love listeth not our suing,
Love will not wake again.

Sunday Poetry - Love in Abeyance

This has always been one of my favourite poems. It could be about the Scots Border reivers harrying the English through the centuries or about a highwayman & his gang at the end of their career. Byron's (picture from here) short lyrics are just perfect. This one is romantic, melancholy, elegiac, lovely.

So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.


For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.


Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

Sunday Poetry - Love Lost

I knew that Mary, Queen of Scots (picture from here) wrote poetry but I don't remember ever reading any of her poems, except probably in biographies of her. This lovely poem, The Absent One, has been translated from the French by Antonia Fraser. It doesn't say when it was written but Mary certainly had many absent loved ones to write about over her long years of imprisonment so maybe it dates to that period of her life. The imagery implies a more active life but maybe she was imagining her life as she wished it could be.

Wherever I may be
In the woods or in the fields
Whatever the hour of day
Be it dawn or the eventide
My heart still feels it yet
The eternal regret.


As I sink into my sleep
The absent one is near
Alone upon my couch
I feel his beloved touch
In work or in repose
We are forever close.

In this same section of the anthology, there was also a poem by Mary's son, James VI of Scotland & I of England (picture from here). Again, I don't know when it was written but this stanza is lovely. It could refer to his mother but, as they were not close (understandable as they were seperated when James was less than two years old), it probably doesn't. It's from a poem called Ane Metaphoricall Invention of a Tragedie called Phoenix.

Yet worst of all, she lived not half her age.
Why stayde thou Tyme at least, which all dois teare
To worke with her? O what a cruell rage,
To cut her off, before her threid did weare!
Wherein all Planets keeps their course, that yeare
It was not by the half yet worne away,
Which sould with her have ended on a day.

Sunday Poetry - Farewells

A sadly Romantic poem today by Thomas Campbell (picture from here). Gilderoy was a 17th century highwayman who killed several people (including a judge & his treacherous mistress) on his way to the gallows or he was a Perthshire freebooter hanged with five of his gang. Although, if he killed his mistress, who is the speaker of the poem? The name Gilderoy may have come from the name of a 13th century Irish chief who raided Scotland & mean the red-haired boy. The poem was set to music in the 19th century.

The last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me:
I hear the dead note of the drum,
I mark the gallows tree!


The bell has toll'd; it shakes my heart;
The trumpet speaks thy name;
And must my Gilderoy depart,
To bear a death of shame?


No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier.


Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad, to part,
When first, in Roslin's lovely glen,
You triumph'd o'er my heart?


Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb!


Ah! little thought I to deplore
Those limbs in fetters bound;
Or hear, upon thy scaffold floor,
The midnight hammer sound...

Sunday Poetry - Doomed Love

I was spoilt for choice in this section of Antonia Fraser's anthology of Scottish love poetry. Some of my favourite ballads were there - The Daemon Lover, Clerk Saunders & Lord Randal. But, I chose a poem I hadn't come across before by a poet I'm not familiar with. J F Hendry (1912-1986) was a writer & editor. Born in Glasgow, he served in the Royal Artillery during WWII & lived in Canada after the war, working at Laurentian University. The image of the compass in The Constant North reminds me of the metaphysical poets of the 17th century, especially John Donne, one of my favourite poets.

Encompass me, my lover,
With your eyes' wide calm.
Though noonday shadows are assembling doom,
The sun remains when I remember them;
And death, if it should come,
Must fall like quiet snow from such clear skies.


Minutes we snatched from the unkind winds
Are grown into daffodils by the sea's
Edge, mocking its green miseries;
Yet I seek you hourly still, over
A new Atlantis loneliness, blind
As a restless needle held by the constant north we always have in mind.

Sunday Poetry - Fainthearts

An anonymous poem this week about a fair lady & a knight (picture from here) who thinks he's going to get his heart's desire but is outwitted. If only he'd been bold instead of baffled! I always have questions about these ballads. Why was the knight out riding with two horses? Was he looking for an opportunity to take off with a willing young lady? Or did he make his squire walk?

Although the setting is medieval, the language & the repetition of "sir" sound more Victorian to me. The last two lines also remind me of the verse inscribed on the little Victorian box that Wilmet receives in Barbara Pym's A Glass of Blessings. The gift is anonymous & Wilmet has a lovely time speculating as to who the giver might be.

The Baffled Knight

There was a knight, and he was young,
A riding along the way, sir,
And there he met a lady fair,
Among the cocks of hay, sir.


Quoth he, Shall you and I, lady,
Among the grass lye down a?
And I will have a special care
Of rumpling of your gown a.


'If you will go along with me
Unto my father's hall, sir,
You shall enjoy my maidenhead,
And my estate and all, sir.'


So he mounted her on a milk-white steed,
Himself upon another,
And then they rid upon the road,
Like sister and like brother.


And when she came to her father's house,
Which was moated round about, sir,
She stepped straight within the gate,
And shut this young knight out, sir.


'Here is a purse of gold,' she said,
'Take it for your pains, sir;
And I will send my father's man
To go home with you again, sir.'


'And if you meet a lady fair,
As you go thro the next town, sir,
You must not fear the dew of the grass,
Nor the trumpling of her gown, sir.


'And if you meet a lady gay,
As you go by the hill, sir,
If you will not when you may,
You shall not when you will, sir.'

Sunday Poetry - Unrequited Love

I haven't been able to find out very much about today's poet, Marion Angus, apart from her dates, 1866-1946. Even the link on the website where I found this photo is broken. She was born in Aberdeen where her father was a minister & spent most of her life there. Her poetry was often based on the old ballad forms & written in Scots like this lovely poem, Mary's Song. Her work was out of print for many years after her death but a new edition of her selected poems was published in 2006. This poem is melancholy & heart breaking as unrequited love is. I think it's beautiful.

I wad hae gi'en him my lips tae kiss,
Had I been his, had I been his;
Barley breid and elder wine,
Had I been his as he is mine.


The wanderin' bee it seeks the rose;
Tae the lochan's bosom the burnie goes;
The grey bird cries at evenin's fa',
'My luve, my fair one, come awa'.'


My beloved sall ha'e this he'rt tae break,
Reid, reid wine and the barley cake,
A he'rt tae break, an' a mou' tae kiss,
Tho' he be nae mine, as I am his.

Sunday poetry - Laments

I love this poem which I first knew as a song. There are many versions of the words of Waly, Waly. It's also known as The Water is Wide. This is only one of them. The version I know best was arranged by Chris Hazell & sung by Bryn Terfel on his lovely album of British folk songs. I couldn't find a video of Bryn singing this but here's a video of him singing Loch Lomond which is the link to the picture of Loch Lomond above (from here).

O waly, waly up the bank!
And waly, waly down the brae!
And waly, waly yon burn-side,
Where I and my love wont to gae!


I lean'd my back unto an aik,
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
Sae my true-love did lightly me.


O waly, waly! but love be bony
A little time, while it is new;
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld,
And fades away like morning dew.


O wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true-love has me forsook,
And says he'll never love me mair.


Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne'er be fyl'd by me;
St Anton's well shall be my drink,
Since my true-love has forsaken me.


Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves off the tree?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am weary.


'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemency;
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my love's heart grown cauld to me.


When we came in by Glasgow town,
We were a comely sight to see;
My love was clad in black velvet,
And I my sell in cramasie.


But had I wist, before I kiss'd,
That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold,
And pin'd it with a silver pin.


Oh, oh, if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I my sell were dead and gone!
For a maid again I'll never be.

Sunday poetry - Warnings

I'm not sure what it says about me that this melancholy poem has always been one of my favourites. I love this photo of gravestones in Kirkconnell churchyard (from here) but really, I wish the weather was a little more grey & windswept. Bright sunshine really isn't appropriate for this Gothic little ballad, The Unquiet Grave. I first came across it in my high school poetry anthology, The World's Contracted Thus, & a lot of my favourite poetry was first encountered there. John Donne, Browning's Last Duchess, & a lot of old ballads. The poem isn't just full of gloom & misery though, there's humour & a little exasperation in the dead woman's attempts to convince her lover to stop mooning around & get on with life. The alternative doesn't bear thinking about. I always felt he was a bit of a poser anyway, playing the role of a pale, wan lover.

'The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true-love;
In cold grave she was lain.


'I'll do as much for my true-love
As any young man may;
I'll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day.'


The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak:
'Oh, who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?'


' 'T is I, my love, sits on your grave,
And will not let you sleep;
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
And that is all I seek.'


'You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips;
But my breath smells earthy-strong;
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long.


' 'T is down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The finest flower that ere was seen
Is wither'd to a stalk.


'The stalk is wither'd dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
Till God calls you away.'

Sunday Poetry - Obsessions

I've chosen Robert Burns (picture from here) again today. Where would Scottish love poetry be without Burns? The young man in this poem seems quite languidly obsessed by his beloved, I imagine him sighing as he thinks about her & waits for her to notice his obsession.

O were I on Parnassus hill,
Or had o' Helicon my fill,
That I might catch poetic skill,
To sing how dear I love thee!
But Nith maun be my Muse's well,
My muse maun be thy bonie sel';
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell,
And write how dear I love thee!


Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day,
I couldna sing, I couldna say,
How much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green-
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean
Thy tempting lips, thy rouguish een, -
By Heaven and earth I love thee!


By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The tholughts o' thee my breast inflame;
And ay I muse and sing thy name,
I only live to love thee.
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun;
Till my last, weary sand was run, -
Till then - and then I love thee!

Sunday Poetry - The Nature of Love

I haven't been able to find out very much at all about this week's poet, Alexander Scott. He lived near Edinburgh in the 16th century, there are about 35 poems attributed to him, including this one, A Rondel of Luve, & that's about it. I couldn't find a picture of him so I've chosen a painting by one of my favourite Scottish artists, Sir Henry Raeburn. The period is wrong but I like this portrait of Mr & Mrs Robert Campbell of Kailzie (from here). They look happy & contented as they walk through the grounds of their home. Although Scott is pretty gloomy on the prospects for happiness in love, I think the Campbells may have achieved his ideal - to lufe and be wyiss.

Lo! what it is to lufe,
Lerne ye, that list to prufe,
Be me, I say, that no wayis may
The grund of greif remufe,
Bot still decay, both nycht and day:
Lo! what it is to lufe.


Lufe is ane fervent fyre,
Kendillit without desyre:
Schort plesour, lang displesour;
Repentence is the hyre;
Ane pure tressour without mesour:
Lufe is ane fervent fyre.

To lufe and to be wyiss,
To rege with gud advyiss,
Now thus, now than, so gois the game,
Incertane is the dyiss:
Thair is no man, I say, that can
Both lufe and to be wyiss.


Flee alwayis frome the snair;
Lerne at me to be ware;
It is pane and dowbill trane
Of endless wo and cair;
For to refrane that denger plane,
Flee alwayis frome the snair.

Sunday Poetry - Marriages

As I read this poem, The Generous Gentleman, by Allan Ramsay (picture from here) I couldn't help thinking about a book I'm reading at the moment. My 19th century bookgroup is currently reading Jennie Gerhardt by Theodore Dreiser. Dreiser is an author I've been aware of but haven't read until now. His most famous novel is probably Sister Carrie (filmed in the 1950s as Carrie with Jennifer Jones & Laurence Olivier). I've raced ahead & read next week's chapters already & I just wish that Jennie could meet a generous gentleman like the narrator of this poem. She hasn't had much luck so far & she certainly doesn't have the confidence & self-esteem of this young woman. I hope I'm wrong but I think Jennie is headed for more heartbreak.

Allan Ramsay was certainly a talented & multi-skilled man. He was a wig-maker, a bookseller & a librarian as well as a poet. He opened the first circulating library in Scotland & promoted the reading of early Scottish verse. His eldest son was the painter of the same name.

As I came in by Tiviot side,
And by the braes of Branksome,
There first I saw my bonny bride,
Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome:
Her skin was safter than the down,
And white as alabaster;
Her hair a shining, wavy brown;
In straightness nane surpast her.

Life glow'd upon her lip and cheek,
Her clear een were surprising,
And beautifully turn's her neck,
Her little breasts just rising:
Nae silken hose with gushets fine,
Or shoon with glancing laces,
On her fair leg forbad to shine,
Well shapen native graces.


Ae little coat, and bodice white,
Was sum of a' her claithing;-
Even these o'er mickle;- mair delyte
She'd given clad wi' naithing.
She lean'd upon a flow'ry brae,
By which a burnie trotted;
On her I glowr'd my saul away,
While on her sweets I doated.


A thousand beauties of desert
Before had scarce alarm'd me,
Till this dear artless struck my heart,
And but designing, charm'd me.
Hurry'd by love, close to my breast
I grasp'd this fund of blisses;
Wha smil'd, and said, without a priest,
Sir, hope for nought but kisses.


I had nae heart to do her harm,
And yet I couldna want her;
What she demanded, ilka charm
Of her's pled, I should grant her.
Since heaven had dealt to me a routh,
Straight to the kirk I led her,
There plighted her my faith and troth,
And a young lady made her.

Sunday poetry - Unromantics

I've been reading quite a bit of Sir Walter Scott (picture from here) lately. I've recently read a couple of his short stories & a novella, The Highland Widow. Then, I've just finished reading The Talisman with my 19th century bookgroup. The Talisman is one of Scott's medieval tales, set mostly at the camp of the crusaders led by Richard the Lionheart. It's a story full of disguises (there's even a disguised dog), dastardly plots & a romance between a poor Scottish knight, Sir Kenneth, & the Lady Edith, a relative of King Richard's that seems doomed because of their difference in rank.

Today's poem from my anthology of Scottish love poetry is from a section called Unromantics & an unromantic lot they are. This poem, Nora's Vow, shows what can happen when a woman makes extravagant claims about what she will & won't do. I think she protests too much! I wonder what she was holding out for?

Hear what Highland Nora said,-
'The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near
That ever valour lost or won,
I would not wed the Earlie's son.'

'A Maiden's vows,' old Callum spoke,
'Are lightly made and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.'

'The swan,' she said, 'the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the the Earlie's son.'

Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild-swan made;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel
No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
-She's wedded to the Earlie's son!

Sunday poetry - Romantics

This beautiful poem by Kathleen Raine (picture from here) is not a conventional romantic poem to a lover. To My Mountain is about a love of landscape, of a place, that the poet obviously knows well. But I wonder if she's not also addressing a human lover using the metaphor of the mountain to express the pain of unrequited love? I've dipped into Raine's poems & autobiography over the years but I would like to read more of her work.

Since I must love your north
of darkness, cold, and pain,
the snow, the lovely glen,
let me love true worth,


the strength of the hard rock,
the deafening stream of wind
that carries sense away
swifter than flowing blood.


Heather is harsh to tears
and the rough moors
give the buried face no peace
but make me rise,


and, oh, the sweet scent, and purple skies!

Sunday poetry - Encounters

Today's Scottish love poem is one of the most famous poems by the most famous Scottish poet. Robert Burns (picture from here) wrote some of the lightest, loveliest love lyrics in the language & I always hear this one in my mind as a song, traditionally sung to the tune of Common Frae the Town.

Comin' thro' the rye, poor body,
Comin' thro' the rye;
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin' thro' the rye.

Oh, Jenny's a' weet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin' thro' the rye.

Gin a body meet a body
Comin' thro' the rye;
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body
Comin' thro' the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the warld ken?

Sunday poetry - Longing & Waiting

A short poem but a lovely one today. George Mackay Brown (photo from here) was an Orkney poet & writer. I know Desperate Reader is a big fan, here's just one of her posts about him, but I haven't read much of his work. Only a little poetry & a few short stories. I'm reading quite a bit of Scottish history & fiction at the moment as well as this lovely anthology of Scottish Love Poetry so I may have to investigate Mackay Brown further. This poem, Fiddler's Song, appealed to me because it reminds me of an old ballad like The Unquiet Grave or The Demon Lover. Especially the last line with its practical bluntness. I wonder if the speaker has designs on the mourning lady himself?

The storm is over, lady.
The sea makes no more sound.
What do you wait for, lady?
His yellow hair is drowned.


The waves go quiet, lady,
Like sheep into the fold.
What do you wait for, lady?
His kissing mouth is cold.

Sunday poetry - First Love

This week's poem from Scottish Love Poems is about first love. Eric Linklater (photo from here) was born in Wales but identified strongly with Orkney, where his father was born. He wrote novels, travel books, history & autobiography. I had vaguely heard of him & then realised that one of his novels, Poet's Pub, was in my boxset of the first ten Penguins. It's one of the still-unread ones, I'm afraid, but I'll get to it one day. Linklater's poem, A Memory, Now Distant, is about unrequited first love recollected long after.

Beauty's a rose, a shining sword, a thief;
Beauty's a singing flute, the narrow flame
That lights the incense-smoke of all belief.
Beauty was You, and You were Beauty's name
When I was young: rose, thief, and cutting sword,
The flute, the flame - I lost my peace to this,
Reached up for that, bled here, and there adored,
Nor, thus bewildered, thought my state amiss.
Youth gives his heart away, for youth's ill fortune
Is often to have nothing else to give:
Where others bargain, he must still importune -
You laughed, and found a fuller life to live.
You were not rich because of me, it's true,
But I was bankrupt quite because of you.