 Rwy'n gweithio, mae'n gweithio i'r hoffi Josephine Hart. Mae'n gweithio i'r hoffi Josephine. Mae'n gweithio i'r hoffi Elizabeth McGovern, Lillie James, ac Freddy Fox i'r hoffi i'r hoffi i'r hoffi. I miciosiau ac y weighs y s Sageherá, o'r boblem hyfawr de allu agor eich rai'mudd i safi'r crosswyr, ac rai sicrhau ni i fynd bod hi'r syniadso i adavad innol. Mae ni wneud y bod, brun yn ddiogel. Mae Dwi'r Hyffaith John byddion tal yoursis. So, now on to on first looking into Chapman's Homer. On first looking into Chapman's Homer. Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen. Round many western islands have I been, which bards infieldy to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told that deep-browed Homer ruled as his domain. Yet did I never breathe its pure serene till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold. Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken, or like stout quarters when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific and all his men looked at each other with a wild surmise, silent upon a peak in Darien. La belle dame sans merci. O what can Ailesie, knighted arms, alone and pale the loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake and no bird sing. O what can Ailesie, knighted arms, so haggered and so woe begone? The squirrel's granary is full and the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow with anguished, moist and fever-dew, and on thy cheeks a fading rose fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads full beautiful of fairy's child. Her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild. I made a garland of her head and bracelets too and fragrant zone. And she looked at me as she did love and made sweet moan. I set her on my pacing steed and nothing else saw all day long. For side-long would she bend and sing a fairy song. And she found me roots of relish sweet and honey-wild and manna-dew. And sure in language strain she said, she took me to her elfen grot and there she wept and sighed full sore and there I shut her wild, wild eyes with kisses for. And there she lulled me asleep and there I dreamed, ah woe betide. The latest dream I ever dreamt on the cold hillside. I saw pale kings and princes too, pale warriors, death pale were they all. They cried la belle dame sans merci the hath in thrall. I saw their starved lips in the gloam with horrid warning gaping wide. And I awoke and found me here on the cold hillside. And this is why I saw John here alone and palely loitering. Though the sedge is withered from the lake and no bird sing. When I have fears that I may cease to be, when I have fears that I may cease to be before my pen has gleamed my teeming brain, before high-piled books in character hold like rich garners the full ripened grain. When I behold upon the night's starred face huge cloudy symbols of a high romance and think that I may never live to trace their shadows with the magic hand of chance. And when I feel fair creature of an hour that I shall never look upon thee more, never have relish in the fairy power of unreflecting love, then on the shore of the wide world I stand alone and think till love and fame to nothingness do sink. And, Dimion, a thing of beauty is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases. It will never pass into nothingness, but still will keep a bower quiet for us and a sleep full of sweet dreams and health and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we breathing a flowery band to bind us to the earth spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth of noble natures, of the gloomy days, of all the unhealthy and awe-darkened ways made for our searching, yet in spite of all, some shape of beauty moves away the pawl from our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, trees old and young sprouting a shady boon for simple sheep, and such are daffodils with the green world they live in and clear rills that for themselves a cooling covert against the hot season. The mid forest break rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms. And such too is the grandeur of the dooms we have imagined for the mighty dead. All lovely tales that we have heard or read, an endless fountain of immortal drink pouring unto us from heaven's brink. Nor do we merely feel these essences for one short hour. No, even as the trees that whisper round a temple become soon dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, the passion-posi, glories infinite, haunt us till they become a cheering light unto our souls and bound to us so fast that whether they be shine or gloom or cast, they always must be with us until they die. Shelley I always go on until I'm stopped and I am never stopped. Shelley was himself tameless and swift and proud, his stirring line from Ode to the West Wing, wind. He started as he meant to go on an incandescent child sometimes literally attempting to heal blanes by means of electrical experiment. The family cat a less lucky victim, blowing up his desk at Eaton where he was known as Mad Shelley. Mercilessly bullied he too became a savager fighter as Keats. He was sent down from Oxford for writing the necessity of atheism, the first public avowal of atheism in England and whom did Shelley send his dangerous indeed potentially trecherous document? Why to the bishops of course. His father, Sir Timothy Shelley MP for Horsham was horrified and sent his communications via legal channels and a furious Shelley disinherited himself. He found consolation with the Westbrook family and ran away with their daughter Harriet aged 16 with whom he had two children. An advocate of free love in his infamous Queen Mab, he nevertheless wrote that love seemed inclined to stay in prison alas it would escape. He fell madly in love this time the phrase is parencically accurate with Mary Godwin also aged 16 the brilliant daughter of William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft author of a vindication of the rights of women. Some years later as Mary Shelley staying with Shelley and Byron in his villa Diodati on Lake Geneva rise to the challenge that they each write a supernatural tale and gift us the Gothic masterpiece Frankenstein. Throughout his passionate and often tragic life poor Harriet drowned herself in the serpentine and her family disputed Shelley's rights to his children who were fostered. Mary and Shelley lost two of their three children Clara aged one and William aged three. Shelley kept on writing mostly without encouragement from a literary establishment which despised him. Our excerpt from Adonneus contains his savage attack on the critic Lockhart and verses that read like a hymn to the dead Keats numbered now by Shelley with the kings of thought. The Mask of Anarchy a Miltonian hymn to freedom was Shelley's inspiring reaction to the shocking Peterloo massacre in 1819 when many unarmed protesters were killed and over 500 injured. The early searing verses suffused with rage slowly calm as a mist, a light, an image rose small at first and weak and frail like the vapor of a veil. Absolute genius. The Eternal Ozymandias was written as a result of a challenge after a visit to the British Museum's Egyptian exhibition. Shelley was in the midst of writing The Triumph of Life the most despairing poem of true eminence in the language and how Dante would have sounded had he written in English according to Harold Bloom. Last line then what is life? Happy those for whom the fold of he put his pen down and joined his boat, the Don Jewin named in honour of Byron. It went down in a storm the Bay of Lerici 1822 he was 29 years old when his body was recovered a copy of Keats Hyperion was found in his pocket he was cremated on the sands and his heart wouldn't burn and that's the essence of Shelley buried beside Keats in Rome his heart was indestructible or Gordium heart of hearts reads his gravestone probably literature's most truthful epitaph. Adonais Our Adonais has drunk poison oh what death and viparous murderer could crown life's early cup with such a draught of woe the nameless worm would now itself disown felt yet could escape the magic tone whose prelude held all envy, hate and wrong but what was howling in one breast alone silent with expectation of the song whose master's hand is cold whose silver lyre unstrum live thou whose infamy is not thy fame, live fear no heavier chastisement from me thou noteless blot on a remembered name but be thyself and know thyself to be and ever at thy season be thou free to spill the venom when thy fangs or a flow remorse and self contempt shall cling to thee hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow and like a beaten hwn tremble thou shalt as now he is made one with nature there is heard his voice in all her music from the moan of thunder to the song of night's sweet bird he is a presence to be felt and known in darkness and in light from urban stone spreading itself where ere that power may move which has withdrawn his being to its own which wields the world with never wearyed love sustains it from beneath and kindles it above he is a portion of the loveliness which once he made more lovely he despair his part while the one spirit's plastic stress sweeps through the dull dense world compelling there all new successions to the forms they wear torturing the unwilling dros that checks its flight to its own likeness as each mass may bear and bursting in its beauty and its might from trees and breasts and men into the heavens light or go to Rome which in the sepulchre oh not of him but of our joy it is nought that ages empires and religions there lie buried in the ravage they have wrought for such as he can lend they borrow not glory from those who made the world their prey and he is gathered to the kings of thought to waged contention with their first times decay and of the past are all that cannot pass away the mask of anarchy as I lay asleep in Italy there came a voice from earth sea and with great power it forth led me to walk to the visions of posey I met murder on the way he had a mask like castle ray very smooth he looked yet grim seven bloodhounds followed him all were fat and well they might be an admirable plight for one by one and two by two he tossed them human hearts to chew which from his wide cloak he drew next came fraud he had on like eldon and ermind gown his big tears for he wept well turned to millstones as they fell and the little children who round his feet played to and fro thinking every tear a gem had their brains knocked out by them clothed with the bible as with light and the shadows of the night like Sidmouth next hypocrisy on a crocodile rode by in this ghastly mascarade all disguised even to the eyes like bishops, lawyers, peers or spies last came anarchy he rode on a white horse splashed with blood he was pale even to the lips like death in the apocalypse and he wore a kingly crown and on in his grasp a scepter shone on his brow this mask I saw I am god and king and law with a pace stately and fast over English land he passed trampling to a mire of blood the adoring multitude and a mighty troop around with their trampling shook the ground waving each a bloody sword for the service of their lord and with glorious triumph drew England proud and gay drunk as with intoxication of the wine of desolation oer fields and towns from sea to sea passed the pageant swift and free tearing up and trampling down till they came to London town and each dweller panic stricken felt his heart with terror sicken hearing the tempestuous cry of the triumph of anarchy for with pomp to meet him came clothed in arms like blood and flame the hired murderers who did sing thou art god and law and king we have waited weak and lone for thy coming mighty one our purses are empty our swords are cold give us glory and blood and gold lawyers and priests a motley crowd to the earth their pale brows bowed like a bad prayer not over loud whispering thou art law and god they all cried with one accord thou art king and god and lord anarchy to thee we bow be thy name made holy now and anarchy the skeleton bowed and grinned to everyone as well as if his education had cost ten millions to the nation for he knew the palaces of our kings his deceptor crown and globe and the gold in woven robe so he sent his slaves before to seas upon the bank and tower and was proceeding with intent to meet his penchant parliament when one fled past a maniac made and her name was Hope she said but she looked more like despair and she cried out in the air my father time is weak and grey with waiting for a better day see how idiot like he stands ffumbling with his palsied hands he has had child after child and the dust of death is piled over every one but me misery oh misery then she laid down in the street right before the horse's feet expecting with a patient eye murder, fraud and anarchy when between her and her foes a mist, a light an image rose small at first and weak and frail like the vapor of the veil till as clouds grow on the blast like tower crowned giants striding fast and glare with lightnings as they fly and speak in thunder to the sky it grew a shape a raid in mail brighter than the viper's scale and upborn on wings whose grain was as the light of sunny rain on its helm seen far away a planet like the morning's lay and those plumes at light rained through like a shower of crimson dew with step as soft as wind it passed all the heads of men so fast that they knew the presence there and looked but all was empty air as flowers beneath maize footsteps waken as stars from night loose hairs are shaken as waves arise when loud winds call thoughts sprung where air that stepped it for and the prostrate multitude looked an ankle deep in blood hope that made in most serene was walking with a quiet mean an anarchy the ghastly birth lay dead earth upon the earth the horse of death tameless as wind fled and with his hooves did grind to dust the murderers thronged behind a rushing light of clouds and splendour a sense awakening and yet tender was heard and felt and at its close these words of joy and fear arose as if their own indignant earth which gave the sons of England birth had felt their blood upon her brow and shuddering with a mother's throw had turned every drop of blood by which her face had been bedewed to an accent unwithstood as if her heart had cried aloud men of England heirs of glory heroes of unwritten story nurslings of one mighty mother hopes of her and one another rise like lions after slumber in unvanquishable number shake your chains to earth like dew which in sleep had fallen on you ye are many they are few nice try Ozimandius 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 it sculpt her well those passions red which yet survived stamped on those lifeless things the hand that mocked them the heart that fed and on the pedestal these words appear my name is Ozimandius 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 Byron I will cut a sway through the world or perish in the attempt Byron aged 16 well he cut a sway to the world and perished in the attempt his death in 1824 aged 36 from fever at myselongi in his heroic attempt at the head of his personally financed army to free Greece from Turkish rule through all of Europe into mourning Macaulay compared him to Napoleon Bertrand Russell's history of western philosophy would dedicate an entire chapter to Byron he would inspire painters Delacroix, musicians, bellios, writers Pushkin, Nietzsche, Goethe the Brontes the poetry and the personality created the Byronic myth how on earth did all this happen the world they say bows to a committed will and the boy born with a call over his head and a club foot which would in time necessitate an iron brace to Catherine Gordon the Laird of Geit and to mad Jack Byron father of his half sister Augusta and from whom he would inherit aged 10 the Gothic masterpiece Newstead Abbey had a formidable will starving himself into physical beauty to become one of the great seduces of his time of both men and women Byron was aware the price for women was higher man's love is of man's life a thing apart it is woman's whole existence he also believed and was loathed for it that women were as sexually voracious as men I'd like to know who's been ravished he once cried when accused again of promiscuity I've been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan War the mocked cripple at Harrow also a fighter became a legendary swimmer swimming the helispont in under two hours and above all the supposed dilettante who was in fact an obsessive student of the classics took his natural gifts of fluency and dashed into poetry with a publication of Child Harrod's Pilgrimage based on his often dangerous travels in Turkey Albania and Malta Byron awoke aged 24 and as he said himself I found myself famous the verses we have chosen in their contempt tell of the price of the vaunting ambition of the madman who has made men mad Stunthal may have described Byron as the unique object of his own attention however he was now the object of adoring fans including infamously lady Caroline Lamb married who when she first saw him declared him to be mad, bad and dangerous to know and walked away alas not for long our obsession destroyed her Byron married cool brilliant mathematician Lady Annabelle Milbank not a marriage made in heaven Byron declaring on their wedding night my god I'm in hell for the red drape surrounding the bed his wife left him within a year taking their daughter Ada with her amidst rumours of sexual abuse within the marriage which itself was often a bizarre mannage à toi with Augusta Byron's deeply loved half sister Caroline Lamb's accusations of homosexuality against Byron a serious criminal offence at the time forced Byron to flee England like Shelley he wrote on his output prodigious Plays, Manfred, the two Foscari translated by Goethe an Armenian dictionary an atoriously difficult language to master and of course poetry of Byron's final masterpiece Don Jewin Eliot said it is full of emotion the emotion is hatred hatred of hypocrisy Byron said of his poem it may be profligate but it is not life is it not the thing it certainly is our selection tells of the adolescent Jewin's slow seduction of Julia 23 married to Alfonso alas 50 and at 50 love for love is rare so we'll go no more a roving few have written a gentler sweeter poem about the inevitable because of his scandalous past Byron was refused burial at Westminster Abbey in St Paul's he was finally entered in the family vault at Newston Abbey ordinary people fronged the streets in tribute as the cortege moved from town to town he was buried as a nobleman and not as a poet as he was a peer many sent their carriages many were empty he knew his country well to Child's Herald from Child's Herald's pilgrimage canto the third excerpts but quiet to quick bosoms is a hell and there had been thy bane there is a fire and motion of the soul that will not dwell in its own narrow being but aspire beyond the fitting medium of desire and but once kindled quenchless evermore praise upon high adventure nor can tire of ought but rest a fever at the core fatal to him who bears to all who ever bore this makes the madmen mad by their contagion conquerors and kings founders of sects and systems to whom add soffists bards, statesmen all unquiet things which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs and are themselves the fools to whose they fool envied yet how unenviable what stings are theirs one breast laid open were a school which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule their breath is agitation and their life a storm whereon they ride to sink at last and yet so nursed and bigoted to strife that should their days surviving perils past melt to calm twilight they feel overcast with sorrow and supine-ness and so die even as a flame unfed which runs to waste with its own flickering or a sword laid by which eats into itself and rusts ingloriously he who ascends to mountaintops shall find the loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow he who surpasses or subduws mankind must look down on the hate of those below though high above the sun of glory glow and far beneath the earth and ocean spread round him are icy rocks and loudly blow contending tempests on his naked head and thus reward the toils which to those summits led from Don Juan Canto I Don Juan and Julia Alfonso was the name of Julia's Lord a man well looking for his years and who was neither much beloved nor yet abhorred they lived together as most people do suffering each other's foibles by accord and not exactly either one or two yet he was jealous though he did not show it for jealousy dislikes the world to know it Joanne she saw and as a pretty child caressed him often such a thing might be quite innocently done and harmless styled when she had 20 years and 13 he but I'm not so sure I should have smiled when he was 16 Julia 23 these few short years make wondrous alterations particularly amongst sunburned nations love then but love within its proper limits was Julia's innocent determination in young Don Juan's favour and to him its exertion might be useful on occasion and lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its ethereal lustre with what sweet persuasion he might be taught by love and her together I really don't know what nor Julia either her plan she deemed both innocent and feasible and surely with a stripling of 16 not scandals fangs could fix or much that's feasible or if they did so satisfied to me nothing but what was good her breast was peaceable a quiet conscience makes one so serene Christians have burnt each other quite persuaded that all the apostles would have done as they did and if in the meantime her husband died but heaven forbid that such a thought should cross her brain though in a dream and then she sighed never could she survive that common loss but just suppose that moment should be tied I only say suppose it into NOS this should be untranew for Julia thought in French but then the rhyme would go for naught a real husband always is suspicious but still no less suspects in the wrong place jealous of someone who had no such wishes or pandering blindly to his own disgrace by harboring some dear friend extremely vicious the last in deeds infallibly the case and when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly he wonders at their vice and not his folly thus parents also are at times short-sighted though watchful as the links they ne'er discover the while the wicked world beholds delighted young hopefuls mistress or Miss Fanny's lover till some confounded escapade has blighted the plan of 20 years and all is over and then the mother cries the father swears and wonders why the devil he got heirs it was upon a day a summer's day summer's indeed a very dangerous season and so is spring about the end of May the sun no doubt is the prevailing reason but what's the way the cause is one may say and stand convicted of more truth than treason that there are months which nature grows more marion March has its hairs and May must have its heroin she's sate but not alone I know not well how this same interview had taken place and even if I knew I should not tell people should hold their tongues in any case no matter how or why the thing befell but there was she and Jewyn face to face when two such faces are so to be wise but very difficult to shut their eyes how beautiful she looked her conscious heart glowed in her cheek and yet she felt no wrong so love how perfect is thy mystic art strengthening the weak and trampling on the strong how self deceitful is the sages part of mortals whom I lure have led along the precipice she stood on was immense so was her creed in her own innocence she thought of her own strength and Jewyn's youth and of the folly of all prudish fears victorious virtue and domestic truth and then of Don Alfonso's 50 years I wish these last had not occurred in sooth because that number rarely much endears and through all climbs the snowy and the sunny sounds ill in love what ere it may in money when people say I've told you 50 times they mean to scold and very often do when poets say I've written 50 rhymes they make you dread that they'll recite them too and gangs of 50 thieves commit their crimes at 50 love for love is rare it is true but then no doubt it equally as true is a good deal may be bought for 50 Louis Julia had on a virtue truth and love for Don Alfonso and she only swore by all the vows below to powers above she never would disgrace the ring she wore nor leave a wish which wisdom might reproof and while she pondered this besides much more one hand on Jewyn's carelessly was thrown quite by mistake she thought it was her own unconsciously she leaned upon the other which played within the tangles of her hair and to contend with thought she could not smother she seemed by the distraction of her hair was surely very wrong in Jewyn's mother to leave together this imprudent pair she who for many years had watched her son so I'm very certain mine would not have done so the hand which still held Jewyn's by degrees gently but palpably confirmed its grasp as if it said detain me if you please yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp his fingers with the purest platonic squeeze she would have shrunk as from a toad or asp had she imagined such a thing could rouse a feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse and Julia sate with Jewyn half embraced and half retiring from the glowing arm which trembled like the bosom where it was placed yet still she must have thought there was no harm or else to her easy to withdraw her waist and then the situation had its charm and then God knows what next I can't go on I'm almost sorry I have begun and Julia's voice was lost except in size until too late for useful conversation the tears were gushing from her gentle eyes I wish indeed they had not had occasion but who alas can love and then be wise not that remorse did not oppose temptation a little still she strove and much repented and whispering I will never consent consented so we'll go no more eroving so late into the night though the heart be still as loving and the moon be still as bright for the sword out wears its sheath and the soul wears out the breast and the heart was 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 eroving by the light of the moon