Poems I Journey With 25

Introduction: Poems and characters from Elizabethan Times 1

Shakespeare’s plays – written in Elizabethan times, that epoch in English history marked by the reign of Queen Elizabeth I (1558–1603, born 1533) – are highly popular and constantly studied and reinterpreted in performances with diverse cultural and political contexts for some few centuries now though there was an period when his work lay undiscovered or unpopular. The genius of Shakespeare's characters and plots are that they present real human beings in a wide range of emotions and conflicts that transcend their origins in Elizabethan England. His themes, then, are truly universal and transcend time and place.

Christopher  Marlowe

It is, I find, very fruitful to place Shakespeare in his era by listing several of his many contemporaries, those who lived at any time during his life span: Shakespeare’s own dates are 1564 – 1616 and he was 39 when Elizabeth died, and some of his contemporaries are Christopher Marlowe (1564 –1593), a brilliant young playwright and poet killed in a tavern brawl; James I of England 1566 – 1625, formerly James VI of Scotland who translated what is known as the famous King James Bible,  Sir Walter Raleigh 1554 –1618, one of whose poems I have already reproduced in these pages; Dr. Simon Forman (1552 – 1611) the astrologer, occultist and herbalist, much maligned and persecuted during his lifetime because of his heretical and unorthodox beliefs, yet he is credited with having saved many patients during the London plagues (1592 and 1594); and, of course, the famed actor, theatre owner and artist Richard Burbage (1567 –  1619).

Poems and songs appear in many of Shakespeare’s plays. They are often profound. One universal theme, of course, is that of death and dying, that is, one of the four ultimate concerns outlines by the Existential Psychotherapist, Irvin Yalom. Mortality and the sheer unpredictability, even the pure random chance of life are uppermost in my mind as I write these lines.  Firstly, I was in a car smash yesterday where I wrote the vehicle off, or totalled it, as those of you who are from the USA would say. Thankfully I was uninjured and no one except me was involved as I nodded off at the wheel after an exhausting day at work. How I got out of the car in one piece I’ll never know. Having to spend 12 hours in A & E or ER was in itself a wonderfully mind-concentrating experience. I witnessed much that I care not to dwell on much here, yet it was a “wake up call,” to live whatever remains to me on this earth as fully and as profitably as I can as indeed we are fragile and brittle creatures that can literally be snuffed out at any time. Meditating on death and mortality is good for the soul as it enables us to value life all the more and to live in the moment or in the NOW. 

William Shakespeare

With this in mind, I have been leafing through and pondering poems that I love on line.  I quite like the following poem or song from Shakespeare’s play Cymbeline (Act IV, Scene ii, lines 2656 to 2680). The first two stanzas are spoken (not sung) alternately by the two brothers, Guiderius and Arviragus. Then, they take it in turns to recite each line of the remaining two stanzas alternately, except the final two lines of each stanza, which they recite together. Guiderius and Arviragus are the sons of Cymbeline, abducted as babies by Belarius, and brought up as woodsmen. They recite the song over the corpse of Fidele, who they think is a man, but who is in fact Imogen, their sister, who they have never seen, and who is actually not dead, but who has drunk a draught of a poison the effect of which puts her into a state which resembles death. Cymbeline is often called a "problem play" because it defies traditional categories of genre. Many Shakespeare critics settle on calling it a "tragicomedy" since the first three acts of the play feel like mini-tragedy, while the play's second half feels like a comedy. In this sense, it is a play that incorporates many existential themes as well as humour as a way to cope with those problematic themes. In short, this beautiful song speaks much to me after my recent escape from the swing of the “Grim Reaper’s” indifferent scythe.

Fear No More

Fear no more the heat o' the sun;
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.

Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave! 

Poems I Journey With 24

Sir Walter Raleigh

Sir Walter Raleigh (or Ralegh) was a most amazing man – a wonderfully alive, creative and swashbuckling Elizabethan who was a soldier, a sailor, a land-owner, a courtier, an explorer as well as being a poet, a writer and a historian. Again, when he was writing his The Historie of the World in the Tower of London he used sources written in some six different languages. It was maintained by some historians that Raleigh was responsible for the introduction of the potato or spud into Ireland. However, this is disputed by other historians. However, he is widely regarded as the one who introduced tobacco and pipe smoking into England. To add to all these accomplishments the fact that he was also a good family man is actually quite astonishing. In short, he was a courageous and ambitious Elizabethan who was truly a Renaissance man, though he rejected the high-flowing style (loaded with classical allusions) of the Italian Renaissance poets in favour of a more direct unornamented fashion of writing known simply as “plain style.”  This was why the critic C.S. Lewis called Sir Walter one of the foremost “Silver Poets” of the seventeenth century.

The poem from Raleigh that I’d like to offer to the reader this evening is one called “The Lie” which, I should imagine, he composed in the Tower of London some time before his execution. That his execution was unjust is the verdict of history. One of the judges at his trial later said: "The justice of England has never been so degraded and injured as by the condemnation of the honourable Sir Walter Raleigh." Raleigh was beheaded in the Old Palace Yard at the Palace of Westminster on 29 October 1618. The accounts of his last comments before his death are indeed very brave and noble: "Let us dispatch", he said to his executioner. "At this hour my ague comes upon me. I would not have my enemies think I quaked from fear."  It is also reported that after he was allowed to see the axe that would be used to behead him, he mused: "This is a sharp Medicine, but it is a Physician for all diseases and miseries." Further, according to biographers, Raleigh's last words (as he lay ready for the axe to fall) were: "Strike, man, strike!"

Ralegh the Soldier

I shall let the poem “The Lie” speak for itself below. One gets a sense of the poet’s nobility, integrity and authenticity in its stanzas. He has little concern, he tells us, for the hypocrisies of either Church or State. We learn that what Raleigh prizes are the virtues of honesty and sincerity.  He also appreciates that we are only pilgrims here on the earth and that our little lives are transient indeed. Like any Elizabethan or Renaissance man he sees the life of the soul as being immortal and imperishable and that of the flesh as mortal and perishable.   This poem will demand that you read it reflectively several times and then perhaps aloud, and then finally you will feel the passion and conviction of a man weighing truthfully and honestly the significance of his life before the axe of execution cuts off his head:

The Lie

Sir Walter Raleigh (1552 –1618)

GO, Soul, the body’s guest,   Upon a thankless arrant: Fear not to touch the best;   The truth shall be thy warrant: Go, since I needs must die,         5 And give the world the lie. Say to the court, it glows   And shines like rotten wood; Say to the church, it shows   What’s good, and doth no good:         10 If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie. Tell potentates, they live   Acting by others’ action; Not loved unless they give,         15   Not strong, but by a faction: If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition,   That manage the estate,         20 Their purpose is ambition,   Their practice only hate: And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell them that brave it most,         25   They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost,   Seek nothing but commending: And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie.         30 Tell zeal it wants devotion;   Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion;   Tell flesh it is but dust: And wish them not reply,         35 For thou must give the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth;   Tell honour how it alters; Tell beauty how she blasteth;   Tell favour how it falters:         40 And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles   In tickle points of niceness; Tell wisdom she entangles         45   Herself in over-wiseness: And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie. Tell physic of her boldness;   Tell skill it is pretension;         50 Tell charity of coldness;   Tell law it is contention: And as they do reply, So give them still the lie. Tell fortune of her blindness;         55   Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindness;   Tell justice of delay; And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie.         60 Tell arts they have no soundness,   But vary by esteeming; Tell schools they want profoundness,   And stand too much on seeming: If arts and schools reply,         65 Give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it’s fled the city;   Tell how the country erreth; Tell, manhood shakes off pity;   Tell, virtue least preferreth:         70 And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I   Commanded thee, done blabbing,— Although to give the lie         75   Deserves no less than stabbing,— Stab at thee he that will, No stab the soul can kill.

Poems I Journey With 20

The Dean of St Paul's, John Donne - early portrait

The ode is an ancient poetic form that dates back to ancient Greece. A simple definition runs thus: a poem in which a person expresses a strong feeling of love or respect for someone or something is an ode. A rather more precise definition would be that it is a lyric poem usually marked by exaltation of feeling and style, varying length of line, and complexity of stanza forms.  A classical ode is structured in three major parts: the strophe, the antistrophe, and the epode. Different forms such as the homostrophic ode and the irregular ode also exist. It is an elaborately structured poem praising or glorifying an event or individual and that describes nature intellectually as well as emotionally.  It was originally accompanied by the music of the lyre in ancient Greece and hence it is a distinct form of the lyric. Tonight I would like to offer the reader an Ode from the pen of the great Anglican Divine, Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, London and accomplished poet John Donne (1573 – 1631).

ODE by John Donne

                       I.

VENGEANCE will sit above our faults; but till
She there do sit,
We see her not, nor them. Thus blind, yet still
We lead her way; and thus, whilst we do ill,
We suffer it.

                      2.

Unhappy he whom youth makes not beware
Of doing ill.
Enough we labour under age, and care;
In number, th' errors of the last place are
The greatest still.

                      3.

Yet we, that should the ill we now begin
As soon repent,
Strange thing! perceive not; our faults are not seen,
But past us; neither felt, but only in
The punishment.

                       4.

But we know ourselves least; mere outward shows
Our minds so store,
That our souls no more than our eyes disclose
But form and colour. Only he who knows
Himself, knows more. 

Brief Commentary and Observations

St Paul's Cathedral, London

John Donne is a very complex and most interesting character.  He was well educated, but came from a recusant Catholic background with an uncle (his mother’s brother) being a Jesuit priest and translator named Jasper Heywood. His mother was a great-niece of the Roman Catholic martyr Thomas More. This tradition of martyrdom would continue among Donne's closer relatives, many of whom were executed or exiled for religious reasons. Needless to say, given this background, the young Donne converted to Anglicanism as anyone of us would if we prized our very lives. 

He travelled on the continent for several years in his early to mid-twenties and learned to speak both Spanish and Italian fluently. Needless to say, as any scholar of the time would be, he also was adept in both Latin and classical Greek.  He served also as a diplomat for some years. Despite his great education and poetic talents, Donne lived in poverty for several years, relying heavily on wealthy friends as patrons. He spent much of the money he inherited during and after his education on womanising, literature, pastimes, and travel. 

In 1601, he secretly married Anne More, with whom he had twelve children, several of whom died either in childbirth or as infants. In 1615, he became an Anglican priest at the behest of the King, James I, although he did not want to take Anglican orders at all. In 1621, he was appointed the Dean of St Paul's Cathedral in London. He also served as a Member of Parliament in 1601 and in 1614. The subjects of Donne's poetry are (i) religious themes, especially the search for what might be termed true religion or the truth in religion, (ii) romantic love, (iii) sexuality – explicit enough in places – and (iv) mortality. He is known as the foremost poet of the group that is called the Metaphysical Poets and is a supreme exponent of the art of the conceit.  The poem I have offered the reader this evening is simply called Ode.

I like this poem as it may be read on two levels.  The obvious or overt level shows us the human being in all his/her flaws, unaware of the level of their sinning before the Almighty God, the Judge of our lives, and, consequently, possessing little or no guilt. The second level, I argue, would not really have been too obvious to readers of Donne’s own time, namely how little the human person actually knows himself or herself. In other words, we moderns can see that such lack of self-knowledge is in fact our lack of awareness of all our unconscious motivations. In this regard, I read the final stanza, which I repeat here, in such a fashion. We could do worse than contemplate the depth in those lines once again:

But we know ourselves least; mere outward shows
Our minds so store,
That our souls no more than our eyes disclose
But form and colour. Only he who knows
Himself, knows more. 

Poems I Journey With 5

There are no fights as bitter as those between members of the one family, and indeed no wars as bloody as those between citizens of the one country. Somehow we learn to hate more easily and more deeply those we are supposed to love the most.  With respect to the poem I am going to discuss in these thoughts today - "Tichborne's Elegy" -  I wish to paint in the historical background here firstly.

In the history of the royal families of England & Scotland there have been many gory intrigues and many bloody plots.  One of those was the Babington plot, which occurred in 1586, whose purpose was the assassination of Queen Elizabeth 1, a Protestant with the intention of replacing her on the English throne with the rescued Mary, Queen of Scots, (aka Queen Mary Stuart of Scotland) her Roman Catholic cousin who had been imprisoned for 18 years since 1568 in England.  Indeed, Mary had been incarcerated at the behest of her cousin Elizabeth 1 who feared for her throne. The discovery of this plot would lead eventually to the execution of Mary Stuart as one of her letters to one of the plotters revealed that she had consented directly to the assassination of Elizabeth 1.

Now, the long-term goal of the Babington plot was the invasion of England by the Spanish forces of King Philip II of Spain and the Catholic League in France and therefrom the restoration of the old religion.  However, Elizabeth's notorious spymaster, one Sir Francis Walsingham discovered this plot, and he deviously used his discovery for the entrapment of Mary with the direct result that she would now forfeit any claims she might have on the English throne. The tragic Mary was beheaded at Fetherington Castle in 1587.  She was only 44 years of age.

The author of the poem I have chosen for today's entry in these pages is one Chidiock Tichborne who was born into a devout Catholic family in Southampton around 1558 and he was destined to become involved in our aforementioned Babington plot.  Like all Catholics, his life was to become increasingly difficult after Elizabeth 1 made the practice of the Roman Catholic Religion illegal, and he and his father, who had already spent time in prison, found themselves under constant surveillance by the Queen's spies.

Our poet author, Chidiock Tichborne joined the conspirators involved in the Babington plot which, as we have stated, sought to assassinate the Queen and supplant her with the Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots.  However, the plot was discovered and the conspirators all executed.  As far as we know Chidiock only wrote three poems, or at least only three of his poems survive the ravages of time.  His famous "Elegy" is by far the best of the three and I quote it in full hereunder.  The unfortunate poet enclosed this poem in a letter he sent to his wife Agnes from the Tower of London on the eve of his execution for treason.  Here is the poem and it is a masterful feat of poetry, replete with metaphors of an intensity that could only be forged in the mind of a talented and sensitive poet on the eve of his execution:

Tychbornes Elegie, written with his owne hand in the Tower before his execution

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of paine,
My Crop of corne is but a field of tares,
And al my good is but vaine hope of gaine.
The day is past, and yet I saw no sunne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard, and yet it was not told,
My fruite is falne [fallen], & yet my leaves are greene:
My youth is spent, and yet I am not old,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seene.
My thred is cut, and yet it is not spunne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death, and found it in my wombe,
I lookt for life, and saw it was a shade:
I trod the earth, and knew it was my Tombe,
And now I die, and now I was but made.
My glasse is full, and now my glasse is runne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

Portrait of Chidiock Tichborne

On reading this poem one is immediately struck by its sheer authenticity and depth, two factors no doubt influenced by a mind concentrated on its imminent demise.  Indeed, the biographical and background information given also adds to the popularity of this much anthologized poem which I remember studying many years ago at college.  The images are literally forged from a wonderfully sensitive mind under the sentence of death.  We are aware that this man is speaking directly to us as he was then also directly speaking to the love of his life, her dear wife Agnes.  Every line contains an antithesis, a polar opposite, a sheer paradox.  These antithetical statements are woven into paradoxes that cut to the heart of the mystery that all human life faces us with - namely its ending in insuperable death. Again, for a moment just reflect on these antitheses in the first stanza:

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of paine,
My Crop of corne is but a field of tares,
And al my good is but vaine hope of gaine.
The day is past, and yet I saw no sunne,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

One can easily list these antithetical words/images in the first stanza thus: youth/cares, joy/paine, corne/tares, good/vain hope, day/no sunne and live/is done and we may continue so to list them rather easily right on through the next two stanzas.  I'll leave it to you, good reader, to do so if you wish.

In short, for this reader, this is a profound poem which plumbs the heights or the depths of our human predicament, the human condition where the theme of our mortality is a central one for all of us.  I have already acknowledged in these poetical reflections that all literature, and consequently and most essentially poetry, is concerned with the basic ultimate concern of death as outlined by Professor Irvin Yalom.  See Poems I Journey With 1: Here.  

There is also an ingenious weaving of tenses together to suggest that time is a very complex entity as in: "And now I live, and now my life is done": In fact the poet repeats this line by three, once in each stanza at the end as a sort of paradoxical chorus that sums up our human predicament - our past and our future are somehow telescoped into the present "now" that is itself so elusive, one "now" that will be cut short by execution for our poet the following day.

If the reader gives voice to this poem by reading it aloud he or she will be greeted by the sheer drama of the declamation.  One becomes a Hamlet or a Macbeth or an Othello or a Lear on the stage of one's own life.  Indeed, one can imagine any one of these tragic heroes giving voice to Chidiock's moving and dramatic words.  We are, as it were, presented with the dance of life with death in thes3 dramatic and moving words.  What more quintessentially human drama could we be granted to behold upon a stage?  Tichborne was only 28 when he wrote these words and "shuffled off his mortal coil" so tragically.  Obviously these words brought the poor man some comfort as he faced his leaving of this painful world.

Queen Elizabeth 1

For sheer mastery of the English language, for poetry of such high and refined emotion, for dexterity of phrase and the forging power of metaphor I know no poet better than the tragic Chidiock Tichborne.  His poem is a masterly composition where time shifts all too quickly and all too mysteriously, and if time could only shift such that we might meet him, I believe we should encounter a wonderfully sensitive individual.

Carol Rumens

Monday 26 November 2012 10.26 GMTLast modified on Tuesday 4 December 201206.23 GMT

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