Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803 - 1849)

KeskusteluThe Chapel of the Abyss

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Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803 - 1849)

Tämä viestiketju on "uinuva" —viimeisin viesti on vanhempi kuin 90 päivää. Ryhmä "virkoaa", kun lähetät vastauksen.

Muokkaaja: maaliskuu 6, 2009, 10:03 am

Forgive me for the lack of data under this heading, but I have not read much of Beddoes yet. I do know he was a curious individual and that he was somewhat subject to emotional turbulence (high even by the English Romantic poetry's standards). He seemed fascinated with blood, death and the occult - hence his inclusion here.

A few links to online texts and bio/bibliographical information:

maaliskuu 6, 2009, 12:45 pm

As when the moon and shadows' strife,
On some rebellious night,
Looks a pale statue into life,
And gives his watching form the action of their light,—
So stilly strode the awakened one,
And with the voice of stone,
Which troubled caverns screech,
Cursing the tempest's maniac might,
He uttered human speech.
"Tremble, living ones, and hear;
By the name of death and fear,
By lightning, earthquake, fire and war,
And him whose snakes and hounds they are,
From whose judgment-seat I come,
Listen, crouch, be dumb.
My soul is drowned beneath a flood
Of conscience, red with Sabra's blood;
And, from yon blue infinity,
Doomed and tortured I am sent
To confess the deed and fly:
Wail not for me,—yourselves repent:
Eternity is punishment;
Listen, crouch, and die."
With that word his body fell,
As dust upon the storm,—
Flash-like darkened was his form;
While through their souls in horror rang
The dragon-shout, the thunderous clang
Of the closing gates of hell.

OK, I like him - and yeah, phantomwooer has quite a number of verses (and just a couple perverses.)

syyskuu 9, 2009, 11:33 am

toukokuu 22, 2017, 6:05 pm

Romantic Circles: An introduction to The Brides' Tragedy:

Muokkaaja: helmikuu 13, 2019, 8:59 pm

A tonic for the glooms (Or, the glass is half-full - of hemlock):

"... I utter shadows of words, like unto an ancient ghost, arisen out of hoary centuries where none can speak his language."


The Phantom Wooer

A ghost, that loved a lady fair,
Ever in the starry air
Of midnight at her pillow stood;
And, with a sweetness skies above
The luring words of human love,
Her soul the phantom wooed.
Sweet and sweet is their poisoned note,
The little snakes of silver throat,
In mossy skulls that nest and lie,
Ever singing "die, oh! die."

Young soul, put off your flesh, and come
With me into the quiet tomb,
Our bed is lovely, dark, and sweet;
The earth will swing us, as she goes,
Beneath our coverlid of snows,
And the warm leaden sheet.
Dear and dear is their poisoned note,
The little snakes' of silver throat,
In mossy skulls that nest and lie,
Ever singing "die, oh! die."

A Dirge

To-day is a thought, a fear is to-morrow,
And yesterday is our sin and our sorrow;
And life is a death,
Where the body’s the tomb,
And the pale sweet breath
Is buried alive in its hideous gloom.
Then waste no tear,
For we are the dead; the living are here,
In the stealing earth, and the heavy bier.
Death lives but an instant, and is but a sigh,
And his son is unnamed immortality,
Whose being is thine. Dear ghost, so to die
Is to live,—and life is a worthless lie.—
Then we weep for ourselves, and wish thee good bye.

Lord Alcohol

Who tames the lion now?
Who smoothes Jove’s wrinkles now?
Who is the reckless wight
That in the horrid middle
Of the deserted night
Doth play upon man’s brain,
As on a wanton fiddle,
The mad and magic strain,
The reeling, tripping sound,
To which the world goes round?
Sing heigh! ho! diddle!
And then say—
Love, quotha, Love? nay, nay!
It is a spirit fine
Of ale or ancient wine,
Lord Alcohol, the drunken fay,
Lord Alcohol alway!


Who maketh the pipe-clay man
Think all that nature can?
Who dares the gods to flout,
Lay fate beneath the table,
And maketh him stammer out
A thousand monstrous things,
For history a fable,
Dish-clouts for kings?
And sends the world along
Singing a ribald song
Of heigho! Babel?
Who, I pray—
Love, quotha, Love? nay, nay!
It is a spirit fine
Of ale or ancient wine,
Lord Alcohol, the drunken fay,
Lord Alcohol alway.

helmikuu 13, 2019, 8:58 pm

To Night

So thou art come again, old black-winged night,
Like an huge bird, between us and the sun,
Hiding with out-stretched form the genial light;
And still beneath thine icy bosom's dun
And cloudy plumage hatching fog-breathed blight
And embryo storms and crabbéd frosts, that shun
Day's warm caress. The owls from ivied loop
Are shrieking homage, as thou towerest high;
Like sable crow pausing in eager stoop
On the dim world thou gluttest thy clouded eye,
Silently waiting latest time's fell whoop,
When thou shalt quit thine eyrie in the sky,
To pounce upon the world with eager claw,
And tomb time, death, and substance in thy maw.

helmikuu 14, 2019, 10:23 am

The Oviparous Tailor

Wee, wee tailor,
Nobody was paler
Than wee, wee tailor;
And nobody was thinner.
Hast thou mutton-chops for dinner,
My small-beer sinner,
My starveling rat,—but haler,—
Wee, wee tailor?

Below his starving garret
Lived an old witch and a parrot,—
Wee, wee tailor,—
Cross, horrid and uncivil,
For her grandsire was the Devil,
Or a chimney-sweeper evil;
She was sooty, too, but paler,—
Wee, wee tailor.

Her sooty hen laid stale eggs,
And then came with his splay legs,—
Wee, wee tailor,
And stole those eggs for dinner;
Then would old witch begin her
Damnations on the sinner,—
“May the thief lay eggs,—but staler;”
Wee, wee tailor.

Wee, wee tailor,
Witch watched him like a jailor.
Wee, wee tailor
Did all his little luck spill.
Tho’ he swallowed many a muck’s pill,
Yet his mouth grew like a duck’s bill,
Crowed like a hen,—but maler,—
Wee, wee tailor.

Near him did cursèd doom stick,
As he perched upon a broomstick,—
Wee, wee tailor.
It lightened, rained, and thundered,
And all the doctors wondered
When he laid about a hundred
Gallinaceous eggs,—but staler,—
Wee, wee tailor.
A hundred eggs laid daily;
No marvel he looked palely,—
Wee, wee tailor.

Witch let folks in to see some
Poach’d tailor’s eggs; to please ’em
He must cackle on his besom,
Till Fowl-death did prevail o’er
Wee, wee tailor.

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