Lyrical Ballads, with a Few Other Poems

<br />Small volumes of verse often start literary revolutions, and this little book published in 1798 is perhaps the most revolutionary of all, It not only brought England into the Romantic Movement, but also simplified English poetic diction, right up to the present day. <br /><br />In 1800, Wordsworth would add the famous preface which defined poetry as "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" originating in "great emotion recollected in tranquility," but this influential definition provided a more sophisticated rationale for what was a simple experiment by two young poets. They used every day speech to create the most forceful poetic expressions possible by 1) telling realistic stories of humble English people, often in their own voices (Wordsworth) and 2) creating fantastic tales in the plain though archaic language of the the old English ballad (Coleridge). By so doing, they hoped to invigorate the pastoral, dignify the gothic, and create something new as well. <br /><br />Wordsworth performs his task ably, endowing his simple people with full humanity, evoking our pity on their behalf. Occasionally, his poems are too long--"The Idiot Boy" comes immediately to mind--but, even at his "words-words" redundant worst, he gives--for the first time, I believe--poor country people a dignified human voice, thus preparing the way for Hardy and Steinbeck and many writers to come. <br /><br />This first edition consists of nineteen poems by Wordsworth and four by Coleridge. This isn't as imbalanced as it may seem, for one of Coleridge's four poems is the impressive--and lengthy--"Rime of the Ancient Mariner." In this imitation ballad, Coleridge takes Chatterton's experiment in antiquarian forgery and transforms it into great literature. His archaic diction seems vivid and new, and allows his contemporary Romantic theme--the reverence for nature in all her wild variety--to speak with the authority of the ages.<br /><br />"Mariner" and "Tintern Abbey" are undoubtedly the two greatest poems in this collection, but each and every poem is worth your time. If on occasion--particularly in Wordsworth--a phrase may strike you as trite and sentimental, remember that Wordsworth was the one who "made it new." The triteness, the sentimentality came after.

<b>Who wants a revolution?</b><br><br>Well Wordsworth and Coleridge certainly did. Their writing existed in the intellectual aftermath of the French revolution; thus, they tried to radicalise it and revolutionise it. With <i>Lyrical ballads</i> they, undoubtedly, changed the destiny of English literature. Granted, that’s a huge sweeping statement to make but, nevertheless, it is a true one. <br><br>No longer would poetry be the lofty language of the elites, a means for the bourgeoisie to demonstrate their intellect; it would now be the language of the common man: it would exist in a natural form, simple, basic even, so that that everybody could understand it and appreciate its beauty. Whist the two were not the first to start writing in such a way, Blake came much earlier on with his <i>Songs of Innocence and Experience</i>, though they were the first to actually set down what they were trying to do, to explain it and provide a critique of what they were actually doing rather than just doing it. <br><br>This work is brave and experimental and it would help to create a new class of poetry. Poetry, above all things, should have a purpose; it should aim to present human emotion and experience in a clear and considerate way. It’s not about who has the best diction or control over metrical forms: it’s about whom can portray life and human nature with the most honesty, at least, according to the preface Wordsworth added to the second edition. It’s really worth considering whist reading how many of these goals to two actually achieved.<br><br> Compare this work to something written by Shakespeare, Pope or Milton and you will clearly see the difference in complexity. The style of this poetry is far more accessible and easier to understand, but, that being said, would you have agreed if you were a common man in the early nineteenth century? Possibly not. The educated would have appreciated what was happening here, but the uneducated would not have even been able to read it never mind afford a copy. And that’s why they are “Lyrical Ballads.” Again, like Blake’s work, many of these poems were meant to be read aloud and as such would have been easy to memorise and understand upon hearing them; thus, in a way, the two poets achieved their goals. <br><br><b>Coleridge’s Nightingale </b><br><br><i>Lyrical ballads</i> is undeniably one sided. Wordsworth wrote most of the poems in here, though Coleridge contributed, arguably, one of the best poems written in the English language: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. I didn’t want to talk about that here though, I’ve already reviewed it separately so here’s the next best one he included:<br><br><u> <b>The Nightingale</b> </u><br><b> <i>And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,<br>'Most musical, most melancholy' bird!<br>A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!<br>In Nature there is nothing melancholy.</i> </b><br> <img src="https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1456658501i/18262928.jpg" width="400" height="250" alt="description" class="gr-hostedUserImg" loading="lazy"><br><br>I like it so much because it is so deeply personal. Just like Wordsworth, Coleridge explicitly voices his opinion on the beauty of nature and life; he also mocks those “venerable” poets who try to emulate these ideas but fail to do so; they are inexperienced and don’t speak with a voice that is one with nature. They write from the deplorable ball room, and spend their lives in theatres; yet, they attempt to write poetry about nature. Coleridge was one of the Lakers, a poet who wrote in the Lake District from a voice of first-hand experience, so he was a little bit of an expert. I could fell the sarcasm and annoyance oozing out of his words, but also a sense of literary superiority. Coleridge clearly felt like his voice was prominent in these matters:<br><br><i>My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt<br>A different lore: we may not thus profane<br>Nature's sweet voices, always full of love<br>And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale<br>That crowds and hurries, and precipitates<br>With fast thick warble his delicious notes,<br>As he were fearful that an April night<br>Would be too short for him to utter forth<br>His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul<br>Of all its music!</i><br><br>You could call these words arrogance, but I think his ego is deserved. And, if you haven’t already guessed, the Nightingale is clearly Coleridge. Well, he and the other early romantic poets; they make up the flock. I love the symbolism here; he suggests because he was one with nature, he could express it perfectly in his poems. He and his friends could provoke each other’s songs and make them sweeter in the process. It’s a quaint image, and perhaps alludes to how he and Wordsworth improved each other’s art. <br><br><b>Wordsworth’s Wonderers</b><br><br>Wordsworth’s poems are not quite as varied as Coleridge’s. After reading many the lines between each become blurred as he often repeats similar themes and ideas. Sometimes he takes an old poem, and uses it to make a new one by expanding upon the ideas and depicting it in a more artful way. He would do this often, and here “Old man Travelling” felt like a very early version of “The Old Cumberland Beggar.”<br><br>Both poems depict an aged wonderer, someone who exits in nature and is vitalised by it. He roams through the landscape seemingly unaffected by the troubles of the world and mortality. But that is a lie. Under the surface, as Wordsworth reveals, is a constant preoccupation with death. It will never escape us not matter how far we may wonder. The two exist together and as such behind the surface of the wonderers is knowledge of their eventual demise or the demise of their loved ones:<br><br><b> <u>Old man Travelling</u> </b><br><br><i> “The little hedge-row birds,<br>That peck along the road, regard him not.<br>He travels on, and in his face, his step,<br>His gait, is one expression; every limb,<br>His look and bending figure, all bespeak<br>A man who does not move with pain, but moves<br>With thought—He is insensibly subdued<br>To settled quiet: he is one by whom<br>All effort seems forgotten, one to whom<br>Long patience has such mild composure given,<br>That patience now doth seem a thing, of which<br>He hath no need. He is by nature led<br>To peace so perfect, that the young behold<br>With envy, what the old man hardly feels.<br>—I asked him whither he was bound, and what<br>The object of his journey; he replied<br>"Sir! I am going many miles to take<br>A last leave of my son, a mariner,<br>Who from a sea-fight has been brought to Falmouth,<br>And there is dying in an hospital."</i><br><br> <img src="https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1508911927i/24265969.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="description" class="gr-hostedUserImg" loading="lazy"> <br><br>The old man’s reply ushers in a sudden change of tone; it’s almost shocking and abrupt, but read the poem again and you will see the subtlety. The poem is simple, more so than Coleridge’s, but is also extremely effective at what it does. <br><br>These two men changed poetry forever with this; they helped to make popular a model that would eventually be adapted by later generations. This poetry is a true pleasure to read.

Happy birthday, William Wordsworh, April 7.<br /><br />The World Is Too Much With Us<br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />The world is too much with us; late and soon,<br />Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—<br />Little we see in Nature that is ours;<br />We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!<br />This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;<br />The winds that will be howling at all hours,<br />And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;<br />For this, for everything, we are out of tune;<br />It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be<br />A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;<br />So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,<br />Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;<br />Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;<br />Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

#20for2020 I am counting this as a complete book of poems by a single author as there are only 2 or 3 poems in this book which were not written by William Wordsworth. <br /><br />Confession 1: I was very intimidated by this book. I felt like I should read it in preparation for my trip to Ambleside in April but I thought it was going to be a slog. It was not even close to a slog. It was entirely delightful. <br /><br />Confession 2: I like my poetry lyrical and that is exactly what these poems are. They rhyme, they flow, and they feel good on the lips. <br /><br />I loved all the references in the poems to the Lake District. As with Wordsworth I now have the Lake District in my mind's eye for the coming years ahead. I loved many of these poems but this volume includes one of my all-time favorite poems Lucy or She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways...<br /><br /><br />She dwelt among the untrodden ways <br />Beside the springs of Dove, <br />A Maid whom there were none to praise <br />And very few to love: <br /><br />A violet by a mossy stone <br />Half hidden from the eye! <br />—Fair as a star, when only one <br />Is shining in the sky. <br /><br />She lived unknown, and few could know <br />When Lucy ceased to be; <br />But she is in her grave, and, oh, <br />The difference to me!

I feel like an asshole, at this point, for not being able to "get" Wordsworth. Every couple of years I read Wordsworth again and there's some very bright, very compassionate, very distinguished-type person who makes beautiful, eloquent arguments in these poems' favour. But I still really just couldn't give less of a shit. I don't know. While I respect Wordsworth, there's a strange personal-type bias I have against the guy. It's a bit more like "I really wouldn't invite this dude to a party at my place." He's a bit dull. Byron, on the other hand. Coleridge. Keats. Mary Shelley probably the most distinguished guest, but only if she left ol' Perce at home. She would provide the sane and sensible, but thoroughly fucked up and entertaining counterpoint to Byron's wanton molestation of other guests, to Keats' mumbling about the beauty of my old 'Oriental' bookcase or whatever, to Coleridge all junked out on the couch. <br /><br />I'm starting on <i>The Prelude</i> again, though, and it's pretty great. I don't even know why I didn't like it a couple years ago. So things might be changing, after all. <br /><br />I think I've now accomplished my goal of writing the least insightful review of <i>Lyrical Ballads</i> known to humankind. But there it is.

What started out as an expetiment for Wordsworth and Coleridge, became a major factor in bringing forth the English Romantic Movement in literature.<br /><br />Even though they have employed the use of vernacular language, the poetry is so rhyming, rhythmical and beautiful. There are plenty of poems, some a love letter to nature, some stories of the common people. It contains some of their most famous poems, including Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner". <br /><br />Overall, it is an absolutely delightful read.

Of course these are wonderful. If only he'd died a little younger, like a good lyric poet . . .

northern excellence. coleridge is alright too.

Wordsworth and Coleridge had one of those fortuitous friendships that prove invaluable for many writers, bouncing ideas off of each other - with Coleridge, already famous, encouraging Wordsworth’s lesser known talent. They wrote this collection together in 1798; a couple of years later, Wordsworth added a “Preface” which includes some of the most memorable lines in literary criticism: “poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.”<br /><br />Though he liked rhythmic meter, Wordsworth did not believe in the use of elevated “poetic diction,” preferring instead the everyday language of ordinary people which he thought infused poetry with flesh and blood. He argued that, with the exception of meter, there was no fundamental difference between verse and prose when prose is written well. He greatly disliked the increasing speed of the industrial age, worrying that people would lose their ability to be excited by very little (I suspect he really would have hated our addiction to entertainment, but been pleased by GR and the democratization of reading).<br /> <br />Funny enough, my favorite lines of the collection turn the reader away from reading altogether. I would go back to them only to be spun directly around. They insist I put down the poem, close my book, look and listen – within and without – and receive my wisdom in idle passiveness. <br /><i><br />“And bring no book, for this one day <br />We'll give to idleness.”<br /><br />“Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, <br />Or surely you'll grow double.”<br /><br />“The eye it cannot chuse but see, <br />We cannot bid the ear be still; <br />Our bodies feel, where'er they be, <br />Against, or with our will. <br />Nor less I deem that there are powers, <br />Which of themselves our minds impress, <br />That we can feed this mind of ours, <br />In a wise passiveness. <br />Think you, mid all this mighty sum <br />Of things for ever speaking,<br />That nothing of itself will come, <br />But we must still be seeking?”</i>

I honestly don't know how to rate this. I've just spent an entire semester talking about this book, so I know these poems quite well. That being said, this is not something I would ever pick up just for fun. I don't particularly like poetry, but I have developed a certain appreciation for this collection.