lunes, 20 de octubre de 2014

Carew and the Cavaliers

From Legouis and Cazamian's History of English Literature (The End of the Renascence, II: Poetry from 1625 to 1660).

1. Long Poems which were Failures.—At the death of James I, in 1625, Spenser's influence was almost exhausted, surviving only in Milton. It was Ben Jonson and especially ohn Donne who now had disciples and imitators. Poets were numerous down to the Restoration, but, except for Milton, they were the poets of the anthologies whose memory lives only in slight lyrics or collections of small poems.1 The ambition to write works on a vast scale had not died out, but the efforts to realize it were failures. The epical ambition which was then common to Europe, and which produced more than one pitifully abortive poem in France, was no more successful in England. Long romances in verse and attempts at classical epics constitute what is dead in the literature of the time; their titles and the names of almost all their authors are forgotten. They have been collected only by the historical zeal of the present day,2 and to name them will sufficiently show how abundant was the production in this unfortunate genre.

They consist of metrical romances, like Patrick Hannay's Sheretine and Mariana (1622), the Leoline and Sydanis (1642) of Sir Francis Kynaston, who had previouly modernized Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde, and W. Chamberlayne's Pharonnida, in six books (1659). There are also mythological narratives; Shackerley Marmion's Cupid and Psyche (1637) and William Bosworth's Arcadius and Sepha (1651): long, religious narratives like Edward Benlowes's Theophila, in nine cantos (1652), and epics like Davenant's Gondibert (1650), which is in quatrains, and Cowley's Davideis (1656), which is classical in manner and has a Hebrew theme.

Invariably poetic qualities and readable passages are scattered here and there in these ambitious works, but on the whole they were stillborn, and have no importance in literary thistory save that a path leads over their graves to Milton's Paradise Lost.

If dead poetry be left on one side, and the attempt be then made to classify the poets of the middle seventeenth century, they are seen to fall into two main groups, separated by the differences which make the history of this troubled period. There are first the secular poets, all in the Royalist ranks and therefore known as Cavaliers, and secondly there are religious poets, subdivided into the Anglicans and the Puritans. The division is social rather than literary, but it is simple and convenient, and corresponds sufficiently to the diversity of inspiration.

2. Thomas Carew (1598?-1639). –The poet who first, before the Civil War, showed what the spirit of the Cavaliers was to be, and first was affected by the combined influence of Jonson and Donne, was Thomas Carew, a gentleman of the court of Charles I who was a reputed wit. He was a courtly and polished love-poet whom his rivals suspected of working long at his elegant verses. The logical good order of the classicists rules his mind even when, in his poems to Celia, he returns to a theme of the Petrarchists. He can isolate a thought, follow it up faithfully and balance its several parts, and many of his light sets of verses have won, in consequence, a place in anthologies. He has little sensibility—he had indeed a reputation for dryness—but his sensual ardour enables him to avoid the coldness of gallantry. Such, in any case, is the character betrayed by his longest poems and his masterpiece, unfortunately no less indecent than the verses of Aretino. It is an invitation to Celia to flout 'the Giant Honour' and enjoy forbidden pleasures without scruple. The paradise he paints to her is one of the most licentious even of those inspired by the Italian Renaissance. His attack on honour recalls Sidney's The Rapture,Astrophel and especially Donne's Elegies. He is also inspired by the speeches of Petronius in the anonymous tragedy Nero (Act IV, sc. vii), but in libertine audacity he outdoes his models.

Carew is connected with Donne by the fine elegy with which he honoured his memory. The poem has more feeling than is customary with Carew and is, moreover, one of the best pieces of criticism written in this period. No one ehas pointed out more accurately than Carew what was new in Donne, his contempt for outworn ornament and his need of personal and virile expression. Yet Donne left few traces upon his style. If Carew has none of the master's flashes of genius, he escapes the worst faults of his style. In his commendatory verses he shows that his thought was vigorous and direct, especially in those to Georges Sandys, who, after translating Ovid, gave up secular poetry and translated the Psalms. Carew confesses that he dare not greet 'the holy place with his unhallowed feet', but that his muse, like 'devout penitents of old', stays 'humbly waiting at the porch,' listening to the sacred strains. Yet he thinks that one day his eyes,

Now hunting glow-worms, may adore the sun,

and that:

My eyes in penitential dew may steep
That brine which they for sensual love did weep.

The poem is beautiful, and so restrained that it seems sincere. It is consistent with Clarendon's account of the poet's edifying death.

His was, however, a death-bed conversion. All his poetry is the work of an amorist, such as Milton despised. He writers 'persuasions' to love, madrigals, complaints and reproaches, addressed to a mistress, lines to his 'inconstant mistress,' who shall be 'damned for ther false apostasy,' to Celia singing, to Celia when he sends her red and white roses:

In the white you may discover
The paleness of a fainting lover;
In the red, the flames still feeding
On my heart with fresh wounds bleeding.

In the famous song, Ask me no more, he finds all the beauties of nature united in his mistress—the rose of June

For in your beauties, orient deep,
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep;

the 'golden atoms of the day' which 'enrich her hair,' the nightingale's song:

For in your sweet dividing throat,
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

The theme is commonplace, but in the harmonious quatrains of this song it is turned with perfect elegance.

Carew's work is slight, much distilled, but some warmth of imagination and a certain fancy temper its coldness. The style and the versification are so polished that Waller and Denham the acknowledged pioneers of the classical schoo, could hardly improve on them.

3. The Cavalier Poets. —Carew is the typical court poet. Sir John Suckling (1609-42) 3 typifies the Cavaliers, their loyalty, dash, petulancy, frivolity, easy morals, and wit. Rich, spendthrift, valiant, a gamester and a gallant, an amateur of the drama who wrote four not unsuccessful plays, and a faithful admirer of Shakespeare, Suckling mocked at the pains which Carew took to polish his verses. He was himself an improviser, one whose work is very unequal but who writers with irresistible swing. It is his light, impertinent tone which characterises him. He recalls Donne when he rallies woman on her capriciousness or himself on his inconstancy; but while he has the master's hyperbole he leaves his metaphysics alone. He discharges his mockery in the form of little, swiftly moving, neatly turned songs, irony sometimse hiding the madrigal, as in Out upon it.  His easy and flippancy are French rather than English, and it has been thought that a soujourn which he made in France before he was twenty influenced his muse. Less slight than the rest of his work is the Balld upon a Wedding in which a farmer describes, in picturesque language, a wedding at which he has been present. Here there are many lively and homely descriptive touches, as well as wit and spirit. Suckling puts new life and freshness into the conventional epithalamium. Not until thomas Moore did any one else show such skill at writing charming verses about nothing. 'Natural, easy Suckling,' as Congreve's Millamant calls him, whose life was short and who versified only as a pastime, had a considerable production. Beneath his apparent frivolity there was, as his poems prove, romantic generosity, and even, as his letter to Herny Jermyn shows, a power of reflecting on politics. His treatise, An Account of Religion by Reason, in which he combats the Socinian heresies, is proof that he also cared for religion. The contrasts in him are characterstic of a time in which libertinage often rubbed shoulders with piety.

Richard Lovelace (1618-58)4 was neither so correct as Carew nor so natural as Suckling. This most handsome Cavalier whose figure fascinated the ladies, this faithful follower of the king who was twice imprisoned and finally ruined for the cause, so that he ended his short life in the most abject poverty, was a very unequal poet. In his Lucasta (1649) the cold, hyperbolical compliemnts of the degenerate sonneteers occur side by side with Donne's obscure extravagance. The lack of art in his work is as apparent as its mannerisms, and almost all of it has been forgotten. But it was his fortune to make two or three songs in which his sense of honour is in manly alliance with his love. It was he who wrote to Althea from prison:

Stone walls do not a prison make,
    Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
    That for an hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,
    And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
    Enjoy such liberty.

It was he who wrote 'to Lucasta on going to the wars':

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

Because of these few short poems, Lovelace has the glory of having expressed the ideal of the Cavalier.

He shares it with Montrose (1612-50), the noble Scottish champion of Charles I, whose brilliant victories were followed by disaster, death, and quartering, if the Royalist hero of Scotland really worter the fine loyalist verses attributed to him.

John Cleveland (1613-58),5 a Royalist like these other poets, who, unlike them, was of humble origin, was very different from them. He was, above all, a satirist, and he enjoyed in his own century a popularity which his vigour and his wit deserved. But his countless slight topical allusions make him difficult to read to-day. He was, moreover, one of Donne's most determined imitators, and conceits abound in his poems. The best known of them is The Rebel Scot, a fiery attack on the nation which had just deliverd Charles I to the Parliament. This satirist, with his rude style, often, whil eurning an epigram, wrote such isolated couplets as Dryden affected, and in spite of his metaphysical strangeness he blazed the track of political satire for that poet. He did not, however, write only satires. He composed love-poetry in which a touch of real nature varies, from time to time, the extravagant gallantry, and he made some curious lyrical essays in which he was one of the first poets to realize the value of the anapaest.

It is tempting to connect Lord Herbert of Cherbury (1583-1648), 6 George Herbert's elder brother, with these Royalist poets. He is, because of his curious Autobiography, better known for his prose than for his verses, which contain a suble quintessence of poetry. His handsome person, his extravagant valour, his passion for duelling, and his refined gallantry made him a representative Cavalier, and his Ode upon a Question moved, whether Love should continue for ever, gives him a high place among the Petrarchists and the disciples of Sir Philip Sidney.

4. Robert Herrick.

1. E. Gosse, Seventeenth Century Studies (1883); B. Wendell, The Seventeenth Century in English Literature (1904).
    Collections of verse: Cavalier and Courtier Lyrists (Canterbury Poets, 1891); G. Saintsbury, Seventeenth Century Lyrists (undated); J. H. Massingham, A Treasury of Seventeenth Century English Verse (1919); H. J. C. Grierson, Metaphysical Lyrics and Poems of the Seventeenth Century (1921).

2. Minor Poets of the Caroline Period, ed. Saintsbury, 3 vols. (Clarendon Press, 1906-21).

3. Poems, Plays, and Other Remains of Sir John Suckling, ed. Hazlitt, 2 vols. (1892); The Works of Sir John Suckling, ed. Thompson (1910).

4. Lucasta, ed. Hazlitt (2nd ed. 1897).

5. Edited by Saintsbury in Minor Poets of the Caroline Period, vol. iii; The Poems of John Cleveland, ed. Berdan (1911).



Una exposición de estampas de teatro japonés que vemos en el Paraninfo de la Universidad de Zaragoza:


The Caroline Poets: Part1 - The Cavalier Poets


Poems by Edmund Waller

From the "Waller Family" website

Edmund Waller (1606-1687)

Edmund Waller, the poet, was born at Coleshill, 3 March 1606 and died at Beaconsfield 21 Oct 1687. He married, first, Anne Banks of London, 5 Jul 1631, and, second, Mary Breeze (or Breaux). He was educated at Eton and King’s College, Cambridge, and was returned a member of Parliament for Amersham before he was 18 years old. In 1625 he was returned for Chipping-Wycombe, and sat for other places in several Parliaments, including the Long Parliament.

Edmund and Sir William Waller, the Parliamentary General, were fifth cousins, one generation removed, and, though Sir William was nine years older, they were, essentially, contemporaries.

After Anne Banks’ death in 1634, Edmund courted Lady Dorothea Sydney, whom he celebrated in his verses under the name "Sacharissa" , and Lady Sophia Murray, whom he distinguished by the name of "Amoret", both without success’.

In Parliament, he at first opposed the Roundheads or liberal party, but retained his place in the Long Parliament openly expressing his royalist sentiments after the Civil War began. He was sent as a Commissioner from Parliament to the King. 

About this time occurred the incident called "Waller’s Plot", which failed. It's nature is obscure, though Edmund made an abject confession of all he knew, including the names of his confederates, including his brother-in-law, Nathaniel Tomkins, who was put to death over it. Edmund was imprisoned for a year, fined 10,000 pounds and exiled.

During this exile, the first book of his poems was published in 1645. Oliver Cromwell rose to power in 1644 and was Lord Protector in 1649, so Edmund’s unfortunate political scheme, occurred during the trying times of the Civil War. In 1653 he obtained permission from Cromwell to return to England and in 1654 he addressed a poem of elaborate praises to the Lord Protector. In 1656 he recommended Cromwell to assume the royal title. 

Edmund again sat in Parliament, at intervals, until the reign of James II (1685-1688). One critic says, "His popularity in Parliament was great, but he did not take pains to understand its business, but only sought to gain applause, being a vain and empty, though a witty man." His poetry was celebrated for elegance and polish at a time when these graces had been largely replaced with moral depravity. Macaulay says, "The verse of Waller still breathed the sentiments which had animated a more chivalrous generation."

Selected poems:


To the King On His Navy (c. 1628)

Where'er thy navy spreads her canvas wings,
Homage to thee, and peace to all she brings;
The French and Spaniard, when thy flags appear,
Forget their hatred, and consent to fear.
So Jove from Ida did both hosts survey.
And when he pleased to thunder, part the fray.
Ships heretofore in seas like fishes sped,
The mightiest still upon the smallest fed;
Thou on the deep imposest nobler laws,
And by that justice hast removed the cause
Of those rude tempests, which for rapine sent,
Too oft, alas, involved the innocent.
Now shall the ocean, as thy Thames, be free
>From both those fates of storms and piracy:
But we most happy, who can fear no force
But winged troops or Pegasean horse.
'Tis not so hard for greedy foes to spoil
Another nation as to touch our soil.
Should nature's self invade the world again,
And o'er the center spread the liquid main,
Thy power were safe, and her destructive hand
Would but enlarge the bounds of thy command;
Thy dreadful fleet would style thee lord of all,
And ride in triumph o'er the drowned ball;
Those towers of oak o'er fertile plains might go,
And visit mountains where they once did grow.

The world's restorer never could endure
That finished Babel should those men secure
Whose pride designed that fabric to have stood
Above the reach of any second flood;
To thee, his chosen, more indulgent, he
Dares trust such power with so much piety.

Upon the Late Storm (c 1628)
And Death of His Highness Ensuing the Same

We must resign! Heaven his great soul does claim
In storms, as loud as his immortal fame;
His dying groans, his last breath, shakes our isle,
And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile.
About his palace their broad roots are tossed
Into the air: So Romulus was lost.
New Rome in such a tempest missed her king,
And from obeying fell to worshipping.
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruined oaks and pines about him spread;
The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear
On his victorious head, lay prostrate there.
Those his last fury from the mountain rent;
Our dying hero from the continent
Ravished whole towns, and forts from Spaniards reft,
As his last legacy to Britain left.
The ocean, which so long our hopes confined,
Could give no limits to his vaster mind;
Our bounds' enlargement was his latest toil,
Nor hath he left us prisoners to our isle.
Under the tropic is our language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath received our yoke.
>From civil broils he did us disengage,
Found nobler objects for our martial rage:
And, with wise conduct, to his country showed
Their ancient way of conquering abroad.
Ungrateful then, if we no tears allow
To him that gave us peace and empire too.
Princes, that feared him, grieve, concerned to see
No pitch of glory from the grave is free.
Nature herself took notice of his death,
And, sighing, swelled the sea with such a breath
That to remotest shores her billows rolled,
The approaching fate of her great ruler told.

That which her slender waist confin'd,
Shall now my joyful temples bind;
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.
It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer,
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move.
A narrow compass, and yet there
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair;
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

Song: [Go lovely rose] (c. 1645)

Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retir'd:
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desir'd,
And not blush so to be admir'd.
Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.


Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain;
Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy;
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use;
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads;
Invok'd to testify the lover's care,
Or form some image of his cruel fair:
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; and now approaching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain;
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arm with bays.

The Dancer

Behold the brand of beauty tossed!
See how the motion does dilate the flame!
Delighted love his spoils does boast,
And triumph in this game.
Fire, to no place confined,
Is both our wonder and our fear;
Moving the mind,
As lightning hurled through air.

High heaven the glory does increase
Of all her shining lamps, this artful way;
The sun in figures, such as these,
Joys with the moon to play.
To the sweet strains they all advance,
Which do result from their own spheres,
As this nymph's dance
Moves with the numbers which she hears.

The Self Banished (c. 1645)

It is not that I love you less
Than when before your feet I lay,
But to prevent the sad increase
Of hopeless love, I keep away.
In vain (alas!) for everything
Which I have known belong to you,
Your form does to my fancy bring,
And makes my old wounds bleed anew
Who in the spring from the new sun
Already has a fever got,
Too late begins those shafts to shun,
Which Ph{oe}bus through his veins has shot.
Too late he would the pain assuage,
And to thick shadows does retire;
About with him he bears the rage,
And in his tainted blood the fire.
But vow'd I have, and never must
Your banish'd servant trouble you;
For if I break, you may distrust
The vow I made to love you, too.

A Panegyric
To my Lord Protector, of the Present Greatness, and Joint Interest, of His Highness, and this Nation

While with a strong and yet a gentle hand,
You bridle faction, and our hearts command,
Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe,
Make us unite, and make us conquer too;

Let partial spirits still aloud complain,
Think themselves injured that they cannot reign,
And own no liberty but where they may
Without control upon their fellows prey.

Above the waves as Neptune showed his face,
To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race,
So has your Highness, raised above the rest,
Storms of ambition, tossing us, repressed.

Your drooping country, torn with civil hate,
Restored by you, is made a glorious state;
The seat of empire, where the Irish come,
And the unwilling Scotch, to fetch their doom.

The sea's our own; and now all nations greet,
With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet;
Your power extends as far as winds can blow,
Or swelling sails upon the globe may go.

Heaven, (that has placed this island to give law,
To balance Europe, and her states to awe)
In this conjunction does on Britain smile;
The greatest leader, and the greatest isle!

Whether this portion of the world were rent,
By the rude ocean, from the continent;
Or thus created; it was sure designed
To be the sacred refuge of mankind.

Hither the oppressed shall henceforth resort,
Justice to crave, and succour, at your court;
And then your Highness, not for ours alone,
But for the world's protector shall be known.

Fame, swifter than your winged navy, flies
Through every land that near the ocean lies,
Sounding your name, and telling dreadful news
To all that piracy and rapine use.

With such a chief the meanest nation blessed,
Might hope to lift her head above the rest;
What may be thought impossible to do
For us, embraced by the sea and you?

Lords of the world's great waste, the ocean, we
Whole forests send to reign upon the sea,
And every coast may trouble, or relieve;
But none can visit us without your leave.

Angels and we have this prerogative,
That none can at our happy seat arrive;
While we descend at pleasure, to invade
The bad with vengeance, and the good to aid.

Our little world, the image of the great,
Like that, amidst the boundless ocean set,
Of her own growth has all that Nature craves;
And all that's rare, as tribute from the waves.

As Egypt does not on the clouds rely,
But to her Nile owes more than to the sky;
So what our earth, and what our heaven, denies,
Our ever constant friend, the sea, supplies.

The taste of hot Arabia's spice we know,
Free from the scorching sun that makes it grow;
Without the worm, in Persian silks we shine;
And, without planting, drink of every vine.

To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs;
Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims;
Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow;
We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.

Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds;
Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds;
Rome, though her eagle through the world had flown,
Could never make this island all her own.

Here the Third Edward, and the Black Prince, too,
France-conquering Henry flourished, and now you;
For whom we stayed, as did the Grecian state,
Till Alexander came to urge their fate.

When for more worlds the Macedonian cried,
He wist not Thetis in her lap did hide
Another yet; a world reserved for you,
To make more great than that he did subdue.

He safely might old troops to battle lead,
Against the unwarlike-Persian, and the Mede,
Whose hasty flight did, from the bloodless field,
More spoil than honour to the victor yield.

A race unconquered, by their clime made bold,
The Caledonians, armed with want and cold,
Have, by a fate indulgent to your fame,
Been from all ages kept for you to tame.

Whom the old Roman wall so ill confined,
With a new chain of garrisons you bind;
Here foreign gold no more shall make them come;
Our English iron holds them fast at home.

They, that henceforth must be content to know
No warmer region, than their hills of snow,
May blame the sun, but must extol your grace,
Which in our senate has allowed them place.

Preferred by conquest, happily o'erthrown,
Falling they rise, to be with us made one;
So kind dictators made, when they came home,
Their vanquished foes free citizens of Rome.

Like favour find the Irish, with like fate,
Advanced to be a portion of our state;
While by your valour and your courteous mind,
Nations, divided by the sea, are joined.

Holland, to gain your friendship, is content
To be our outguard on the continent;
She from her fellow-provinces would go,
Rather than hazard to have you her foe.

In our late fight, when cannons did diffuse,
Preventing posts, the terror and the news,
Our neighbour princes trembled at their roar;
But our conjunction makes them tremble more.

Your never-failing sword made war to cease;
And now you heal us with the arts of peace;
Our minds with bounty and with awe engage,
Invite affection, and restrain our rage.

Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won,
Than in restoring such as are undone;
Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear,
But man alone can, whom he conquers, spare.

To pardon willing, and to punish loath,
You strike with one hand, but you heal with both;
Lifting up all that prostrate lie, you grieve
You cannot make the dead again to live.

When fate, or error. had our age misled,
And o'er these nations such confusion spread,
The only cure, which could from Heaven come down,
Was so much power and clemency in one!

One! whose extraction from an ancient line
Gives hope again that well-born men may shine;
The meanest in your nature, mild and good,
The noble rest secured in your blood.

Oft have we wondered how you hid in peace
A mind proportioned to such things as these;
How such a ruling spirit you could restrain,
And practise first over yourself to reign.

Your private life did a just pattern give,
How fathers, husbands, pious sons should live;
Born to command, your princely virtues slept,
Like humble David's, while the flock he kept.

But when your troubled country called you forth,
Your flaming courage, and your matchless worth,
Dazzling the eyes of all that did pretend,
To fierce contention gave a prosperous end.

Still as you rise, the state, exalted too,
Finds no distemper while 'tis changed by you;
Changed like the world's great scene! when, without noise,
The rising sun night's vulgar light destroys.

Had you, some ages past, this race of glory
Run, with amazement we should read your story;
But living virtue, all achievements past,
Meets envy still, to grapple with at last.

This Cæsar found; and that ungrateful age,
With losing him fell back to blood and rage;
Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke,
But cut the bond of union with that stroke.

That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars
Gave a dim light to violence, and wars,
To such a tempest as now threatens all,
Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall.

If Rome's great senate could not wield that sword,
Which of the conquered world had made them lord,
What hope had ours, while yet their power was new,
To rule victorious armies, but by you?

You! that had taught them to subdue their foes,
Could order teach, and their high spirits compose;
To every duty could their minds engage,
Provoke their courage, and command their rage.

So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane,
And angry grows, if he that first took pain
To tame his youth approach the haughty beast,
He bends to him, but frights away the rest.

As the vexed world, to find repose, at last
Itself into Augustus' arms did cast;
So England now does, with like toil oppressed,
Her weary head upon your bosom rest.

Then let the Muses, with such notes as these,
Instruct us what belongs unto our peace;
Your battles they hereafter shall indite,
And draw the image of our Mars in fight;

Tell of towns stormed, or armies overrun,
And mighty kingdoms by your conduct won;
How, while you thundered, clouds of dust did choke
Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse,
And every conqueror creates a muse.
Here, in low strains, your milder deeds we sing;
But there, my lord; we'll bays and olive bring

To crown your head; while you in triumph ride
O'er vanquished nations, and the sea beside;
While all your neighbour-princes unto you,
Like Joseph's sheaves, pay reverence, and bow.

To the King
Upon His Majesty's Happy Return

The rising sun complies with our weak sight,
First gilds the clouds, then shows his globe of light
At such a distance from our eyes, as though
He knew what harm his hasty beams would do.

But your full majesty at once breaks forth
In the meridian of your reign. Your worth,
Your youth, and all the splendour of your state,
(Wrapped up, till now, in clouds of adverse fate!)
With such a flood of light invade our eyes,
And our spread hearts with so great joy surprise,
That if your grace incline that we should live,
You must not, sir! too hastily forgive.
Our guilt preserves us from the excess of joy,
Which scatters spirits, and would life destroy.
All are obnoxious! and this faulty land,
Like fainting Esther, does before you stand,
Watching your sceptre. The revolted sea
Trembles to think she did your foes obey.

Great Britain, like blind Polypheme, of late,
In a wild rage, became the scorn and hate
Of her proud neighbours, who began to think
She, with the weight of her own force, would sink.
But you are come, and all their hopes are vain;
This giant isle has got her eye again.
Now she might spare the ocean, and oppose
Your conduct to the fiercest of her foes.
Naked, the Graces guarded you from all
Dangers abroad; and now your thunder shall.
Princes that saw you, different passions prove,
For now they dread the object of their love;
Nor without envy can behold his height,
Whose conversation was their late delight.
So Semele, contented with the rape
Of Jove disguised in a mortal shape,
When she beheld his hands with lightning filled,
And his bright rays, was with amazement killed.

And though it be our sorrow, and our crime,
To have accepted life so long a time
Without you here, yet does this absence gain
No small advantage to your present reign;
For, having viewed the persons and the things,
The councils, state, and strength of Europe's kings,
You know your work; ambition to restrain,
And set them bounds, as Heaven does to the main.
We have you now with ruling wisdom fraught,
Not such as books, but such as practice, taught.
So the lost sun, while least by us enjoyed,
Is the whole night for our concern employed;
He ripens spices, fruits, and precious gums,
Which from remotest regions hither comes.

This seat of yours (from the other world removed)
Had Archimedes known, he might have proved
His engine's force fixed here. Your power and skill
Make the world's motion wait upon your will.

Much suffering monarch! the first English born
That has the crown of these three nations worn!
How has your patience, with the barbarous rage
Of your own soil, contended half an age?
Till (your tried virtue, and your sacred word,
At last preventing your unwilling sword)
Armies and fleets which kept you out so long,
Owned their great sovereign, and redressed his wrong.
When straight the people, by no force compelled,
Nor longer from their inclination held,
Break forth at once, like powder set on fire,
And, with a noble rage, their King required;
So the injured sea, which from her wonted course,
To gain some acres, avarice did force,
If the new banks, neglected once, decay,
No longer will from her old channel stay;
Raging, the late got land she overflows,
And all that's built upon't, to ruin goes.

Offenders now, the chiefest, do begin
To strive for grace, and expiate their sin.
All winds blow fair, that did the world embroil;
Your vipers treacle yield, and scorpions oil.

If then such praise the Macedonian got,
For having rudely cut the Gordian knot,
What glory's due to him that could divide
Such ravelled interests; has the knot untied,
And without stroke so smooth a passage made,
Where craft and malice such impeachments laid?

But while we praise you, you ascribe it all
To His high hand, which threw the untouched wall
Of self-demolished Jericho so low;
His angel 'twas that did before you go,
Tamed savage hearts, and made affections yield,
Like ears of corn when wind salutes the field.

Thus patience crowned, like Jobs's, your trouble ends,
Having your foes to pardon, and your friends;
For, though your courage were so firm a rock,
What private virtue could endure the shock?
Like your Great Master, you the storm withstood,
And pitied those who love with frailty showed.

Rude Indians, torturing all the royal race,
Him with the throne and dear-bought sceptre grace
That suffers best. What region could be found,
Where your herioc head had not been crowned?

The next experience of your mighty mind
Is how you combat fortune, now she's kind.
And this way, too, you are victorious found;
She flatters with the same success she frowned.
While to yourself severe, to others kind,
With power unbounded, and a will confined,
Of this vast empire you possess the care,

The softer part falls to the people's share.
Safety, and equal government, are things
Which subjects make as happy as their kings.

Faith, law, and piety, (that banished train!)
Justice and truth, with you return again.
The city's trade, and country's easy life,
Once more shall flourish without fraud or strife.
Your reign no less assures the ploughman's peace,
Than the warm sun advances his increase;
And does the shepherds as securely keep
>From all their fears, as they preserve their sheep.

But, above all, the Muse-inspired train
Triumph, and raise their drooping heads again!
Kind Heaven at once has, in your person, sent
Their sacred judge, their guard, and argument.

Of the Last Verses in the Book

When we for age could neither read nor write,
The subject made us able to indite.
The soul, with nobler resolutions deckt,
The body stooping, does herself erect:
No mortal parts are requisite to raise
Her, that unbodied can her Maker praise.
The seas are quiet, when the winds give o'er,
So calm are we, when passions are no more:
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness, which age descries.
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made;
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become
As they draw near to their eternal home:
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Bibliografía sobre Sigmund Freud

Bibliografía de y sobre Sigmund Freud—en relación a la crítica literaria mayormente:

Barco incendiado en Beluso

Barco incendiado en Beluso

domingo, 19 de octubre de 2014

En el principio era la Palabra

Aquí nos citan, en rumano:

Mamulea, Mona. "La început a fost povestea: Despre functia cognitiva a naratiunii în mitologie si stiinta." In Simpozionul National 'Constantin Noica': Editia a IV-a: "La Început era cuvântul." ["In the Beginning Was the Word"]. Bucarest: Editura Academiai Romane, 2013.   35-41

En Biescas oyendo a la Ronda de Boltaña

En el Cognition & the Arts eJournal

El barrio de la casa de las mansardas azules

El barrio de la casa de las mansardas azules

sábado, 18 de octubre de 2014

CFP: Research in the Humanities

Ctrl-Z: New Media Philosophy

The editors invite submissions to a forthcoming special issue of Ctrl-Z: New Media Philosophy on the question of ‘research’ in the humanities today. What counts as research; what doesn’t; and who decides? 

Does the traditional distinction between critical and creative work still hold? Is creative work, or any form of non-traditional academic work (i.e. whatever doesn’t conform to a notion of the standard academic essay), quantifiable and measurable according to an idea of research modelled on a certain conception of science? 

And who or what is humanities research for? What are its most appropriate or effective means of dissemination, and what kinds of effects might be expected of it once—if—it reaches its proposed destination?

The editors have begun to address these questions in earlier issues—see Briggs & Lucy, ‘Art as Research?’, for example—but there are many other possible responses.

Ctrl-Z welcomes contributions in a variety of forms, including:

Essays between 3,000 and 6,000 words
Reviews (books, films, exhibitions, performances, etc.), up to 2,000 words
Audio-visual texts
Short fiction/creative nonfiction between 3,000 and 6,000 words

Contributors are encouraged to incorporate images in their work, and the journal favours multidisciplinary approaches.

The issue is scheduled for publication in 2015, and the deadline for submissions is 31 December 2014For the journal’s preferred style of presentation, see previous issues.

Email submissions to Robert Briggs <>.

Defensa de mi tesis sobre Beckett

Aquí puede verse:

_____. "Defensa de la Tesis Doctoral 'El relato en la trilogía de Beckett Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable." Universidad de Zaragoza, 1988. Online edition (2004):

_____. "Defensa de la Tesis Doctoral 'El relato en la trilogía de Beckett Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable." 25 March 2014.*

_____. "Defensa de la Tesis Doctoral 'El relato en la trilogía de Beckett Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable." ResearchGate 18 Oct. 2014.
DOI: 10.13140/2.1.4826.3680


Bibliografía sobre el realismo

—Una de ellas, sobre estética realista, procedente de mi Bibliografía de Teoría Literaria, Crítica y Filología. También tengo otras sobre novela realista, etc.


Aguantando hasta última hora

Aguantando hasta última hora

viernes, 17 de octubre de 2014


Doy por finalizado este sitio web, THE STORY IN ALL STORIES: Cosmology, Evolution, (Big) History and Representation, ante la dificultad creciente de manejo de la plataforma Storify. Continuaré tratando estas cuestiones en las secciones correspondientes de mi blog, en Blogger mientras aguante—que a fin de cuentas viene siendo el sistema de publicación en red más fiable y flexible para propósitos varios.

Lo mismo voy a hacer con la otra historia que abrí recientemente en Storify, El Gran Teatro del Mundo, dedicada a la teatralidad de la vida y del teatro, y apenas empezada. Pero una cosa es editar varios blogs, que a eso sí que llego—otra es pasarme el día viendo la bolita de colores girar. La vida entera es demasiado corta para eso, así que sintiéndolo mucho dejo el sitio por imposible, y nos veremos aquí con los medios de a bordo.

Sigo en cambio editando de momento este blog temático que abrí en ScoopIt, Retrospection: esta otra plataforma no me da problemas, pero sin previo pago sólo me deja llevar un blog. Así que seguimos entretanto en Blogger, y que nos dure.

Satan rewritten as the Good Guy

There's a complete video course on John Milton at Yale, by John Rogers, at Yale Courses. This is the last video, on Samson Agonistes.

Estos lloran, y después maman

II Seminario HERAF

Ya ha salido el programa del II seminario del Grupo de investigación sobre Hermenéutica y Antropología Fenomenológica (HERAF). Este segundo seminario versa sobre "Corporalidad, Temporalidad y Espacialidad", y yo hablaré sobre la complejidad del tiempo humano en G. H. Mead.

Acaba de publicarse un libro basado en el primer seminario terminado este año, Individuo y espacio público, editado por Juan Velázquez (Berlín: Logos Verlag, 2014).

Individuo y espacio público

Aparece en Alemania, o aquí, este libro del grupo HERAF, un volumen colectivo con un capítulo mío,

"4. El dividuo social: roles, marcos interaccionales y (nuevos) medios." En Individuo y espacio público. Ed. Juan Velázquez.  Berlín: Logos Verlag, 2014. 99-116.

Individuo y espacio público

Y ya está en marcha el segundo seminario HERAF, sobre cuerpo, espacio y temporalidad.

Chicas en el agua

Chicas en el agua

miércoles, 15 de octubre de 2014



Estamos aquí, según se mire, a las alturas de finales de julio.

The Notion of Semiosphere

Otra manera de decirlo, quizá, es que la semiosfera es la realidad en la que vivimos, entendida como realidad virtual—realidad aumentada o semióticamente constituida. Junto con todos los diversos códigos semióticos y estrategias de interpretación que nos permiten navegar por ella.

Entrando en la Trilogía

Estoy subiendo a la SSRN, por capítulos, el libro Samuel Beckett y la narración reflexiva. Es el primero que publiqué, en 1992, basado en la tesis doctoral de 1988. Aquí va de momento el primer tercio, y lo demás irá siguiendo.

Introducción a 'Samuel Beckett y la Narración Reflexiva':

Conceptos básicos de narratología:

El status narrativo en la Trilogía:

Entrando en la Trilogía: la narración en 'Molloy':

Movimientos narrativos:

Bajo los muchos puentes

Bajo los muchos puentes

Mi fotoblog

Mi fotoblog
se puede ver haciendo clic en la foto ésta de Termineitor. Y hay más enlaces a cosas mías al pie de esta página.