Analysis of Address To The Scholars Of The Village School Of ----
William Wordsworth 1770 (Wordsworth House) – 1850 (Cumberland)
I come, ye little noisy Crew,
Not long your pastime to prevent;
I heard the blessing which to you
Our common Friend and Father sent.
I kissed his cheek before he died;
And when his breath was fled,
I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand:--it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall
Like his till they are dead.
By night or day blow foul or fair,
Ne'er will the best of all your train
Play with the locks of his white hair,
Or stand between his knees again.
Here did he sit confined for hours;
But he could see the woods and plains,
Could hear the wind and mark the showers
Come streaming down the streaming panes.
Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound
He rests a prisoner of the ground.
He loved the breathing air,
He loved the sun, but if it rise
Or set, to him where now he lies,
Brings not a moment's care.
Alas! what idle words; but take
The Dirge which for our Master's sake
And yours, love prompted me to make.
The rhymes so homely in attire
With learned ears may ill agree,
But chanted by your Orphan Quire
Will make a touching melody.
Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone;
Thou Angler, by the silent flood;
And mourn when thou art all alone,
Thou Woodman, in the distant wood!
Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy
Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum;
And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy!
Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb.
Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide
Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth,
As he before had sanctified
Thy infancy with heavenly truth.
Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay,
Bold settlers on some foreign shore,
Give, when your thoughts are turned this way,
A sigh to him whom we deplore.
For us who here in funeral strain
With one accord our voices raise,
Let sorrow overcharged with pain
Be lost in thankfulness and praise.
And when our hearts shall feel a sting
From ill we meet or good we miss,
May touches of his memory bring
Fond healing, like a mother's kiss.
BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS AFTER
LONG time his pulse hath ceased to beat
But benefits, his gift, we trace--
Expressed in every eye we meet
Round this dear Vale, his native place.
To stately Hall and Cottage rude
Flowed from his life what still they hold,
Light pleasures, every day, renewed;
And blessings half a century old.
Oh true of heart, of spirit gay,
Thy faults, where not already gone
From memory, prolong their stay
For charity's sweet sake alone.
Such solace find we for our loss;
And what beyond this thought we crave
Comes in the promise from the Cross,
Shining upon thy happy grave.
Scheme | ABABCDCDEEDFGFXHIHIJJFKKFLLLMNXN OXOX PQPQ CRBR STST GUGU VWVW M XYXY Z1 Z1 SXSO 2 3 2 3 |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11110101 1111101 11010111 101010101 11110111 011111 11110111 111111 11110111 11111101 111111 11111111 11011111 11011111 11011101 111101110 11110101 110101010 11010101 11011111 110100101 110101 11011111 11111111 110101 01110111 011110101 01110111 011100010 1111101 11011101 11010100 11011111 11010101 01111101 11000101 11110101 11110101 01111101 11010101 11011101 1111111 110111 110011001 1111101 11011101 11111111 01111101 111101001 110110101 11010111 110101 011011101 11111111 110111001 11010101 1011011110 11111111 11001111 010100111 11111101 11010101 11111111 110100101 010101001 11111101 11110101 11000111 11001101 110111101 01011111 10010101 10011101 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 2,598 |
Words | 481 |
Sentences | 22 |
Stanzas | 12 |
Stanza Lengths | 32, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 1, 4, 4, 4, 4 |
Lines Amount | 73 |
Letters per line (avg) | 28 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 168 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 40 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 14, 2023
- 2:25 min read
- 162 Views
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