Т.В. Артеменко, Е.В. Кривощекова, Е.В. Кравченко, Н.Е. Николаева - Reader in Language and Culture (1098538), страница 11
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Among his most remembered works are Evangeline (1847),TheSongOfHiawatha(1855)andTheCourtshipofMilesStandish(1858).Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born on February 27, 1807, inPortland, Maine. His father, Stephen Longfellow, was a Portland lawyerand congressman, and mother Zilpah, was a descendant of John Aldenof the Mayflower. Longfellow was fond of reading and at thirteen hewrote his first poem, "The Battle of Lovell's Pond," which appeared inthe Portland Gazette.Longfellow's translation of Horace earned him a scholarship forfurther studies. After graduating in 1825 he traveled in Italy, France andSpain from 1826 to 1829, and returned to the United States to work as aprofessor and librarian in Bodwoin.
He translated for his students aFrench grammar, and edited a collection of French proverbs and a smallSpanish reader. In 1831 he married Mary Storer Potter, and made withher another journey to Europe, where he studied Swedish, Danish,Finnish, and the Dutch language and literature. On this trip he fell underthe influence of German Romanticism. Longfellow's wife died at66Rotterdam in 1835.In 1839 he published the romantic novel Hyperion and a collectionof poems Voices Of The Night, which became very popular. In 1840 hewrote "The Skeleton in Armor" and The Spanish Student, a drama infive acts.
In 1836 Longfellow began teaching in Harvard, takinglodgings at the historic Craigie House, where General Washington andhis wife had lived. He resigned from his post in 1854 and publishednext year his best-known narrative poem, The Song of Hiawatha, whichgained immediate success. His second Frances died tragically in 1861by burning - her dress caught fire from a lighted match. Longfellowsettled in Cambridge, where he remained for the rest of his life.Longfellow's later poetry reflects his interest in establishing anAmerican mythology. Among his other works are Tales Of A WaysideInn (1863), a translation of Dante's The Divine Comedy (1865-67) andChristus: A Mystery (1872), a trilogy dealing with Christianity from itsbeginnings.The poet's 70th birthday in 1877 was celebrated around thecountry. Longfellow died in Cambridge on March 24, 1882. In Londonhis marble image is seen in Westminster Abbey, in the Poet's Corner.The Rainy DayThe day is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,But at every gust the dead leaves fall,And the day is dark and dreary.My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,67But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,And the days are dark and dreary.Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall,Some days must be dark and dreary.Edgar PoeEdgar Poe was born on 19 January 1809 in Boston, Massachusetts, the sonof actors Elizabeth Arnold Hopkins (1787-1811) and David Poe (1784-1810).
Hehad a brother named William Henry (1807-1831) and sister Rosalie (1811-1874).After the death of his parents Edgar was taken in by Frances (d.1829) and JohnAllan (d.1834), a wealthy merchant in Richmond, Virginia.Young Edgar traveled with the Allans to England in 1815 and attendedschool in Chelsea.
In 1820 he was back in Richmond where he attended theUniversity of Virginia and studied Latin and poetry and also loved to swim and act.While in school he became estranged from his foster father after accumulatinggambling debts. Unable to pay them or support himself, Poe left school andenlisted in the United States Army where he served for two years. He had beenwriting poetry for some time and in 1827 “Dreams”—Oh! that my young life werea lasting dream! first appeared in the Baltimore North American, the same year hisfirst book Tamerlane and Other Poems was published, at his own expense.When Poe’s foster mother died in 1829 her deathbed wish was honoured byEdgar and stepfather John reconciling, though it was brief. Poe enlisted in the WestPoint Military Academy but was dismissed a year later.
In 1829 his second bookAl Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Minor Poems was published. The same year Poems(1831) was published Poe moved to Baltimore to live with his aunt Maria Clemm,68mother of Virginia Eliza Clemm (1822-1847) who would become his wife at theage of thirteen. His brother Henry was also living in the Clemm household but hedied of tuberculosis soon after Edgar moved in. In 1833, the Baltimore SaturdayVisiter published some of his poems and he won a contest in it for his story “MSfound in a Bottle”.
In 1835 he became editor and contributor of the SouthernLiterary Messenger. Though not without his detractors and troubles withemployers, it was the start of his career as respected critic and essayist. Otherpublications which he contributed to were Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine (1839–1840), Graham’s Magazine (1841–1842), Evening Mirror, and Godey’s Lady’sBook.After Virginia and Edgar married in Richmond in 1836 they moved to NewYork City.
Poe’s only completed novel The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym waspublished in 1838. The story starts as an adventure for a young Nantucketstowaway on a whaling ship but soon turns into a chilling tale of mutiny, murder,and cannibalism.Poe’s contributions to magazines were published as a collection in Tales ofthe Grotesque and Arabesque (1840) which included “The Duc de L'Omelette”,“Bon-Bon” and “King Pest”. What some consider to be the first detective story,“The Murders in the Rue Morgue” was published in 1841;Poe’s collection of poetry The Raven and Other Poems (1845) which gainedhim attention at home and abroad includes the wildly successful “The Raven” and“Eulalie” and “To Helen”;Lo, in yon brilliant window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand,The agate lamp within thy hand,Ah! Psyche, from the regions whichAre Holy Land!Poe continued to write poetry, critical essays and short stories including“Ulalume”, “Eureka” and “The Cask of Amontillado” (1846);It must be understood, that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato69cause to doubt my good will.
I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, andhe did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.Now living in their last place of residence, a cottage in the Fordham sectionof the Bronx in New York City, Virginia died in 1847. Poe turned to alcohol morefrequently and was purportedly displaying increasingly erratic behavior. A yearlater he became engaged to his teenage sweetheart from Richmond, ElmiraRoyster.
In 1849 he embarked on a tour of poetry readings and lecturing, hoping toraise funds so he could start his magazine The Stylus.There are conflicting accounts surrounding the last days of Edgar Allan Poeand the cause of his death. Some say he died from alcoholism, some claim he wasmurdered, and various diseases have also been attributed. Most say he was foundunconscious in the street and admitted to the Washington College Hospital inBaltimore, Maryland. He died soon after, on 7 October 1849, and was buriedunceremoniously in an unmarked grave in the Old Westminster Burying Ground ofBaltimore. On this original site now stands a stone with a c with a carving of araven and the inscription;In a dedication ceremony in 1875, Poe’s remains were reinterred with hisaunt Maria Clemm’s in the Poe Memorial Grave which stands in the cemetery’scorner at Fayette and Greene Streets.
A bas-relief bust of Poe adorns the marbleand granite monument which is simply inscribed with the birth and death dates ofPoe (although his birthdate is wrong), Maria, and Virginia who, in 1885, wasreinterred with her husband and mother. Letters from Henry WadsworthLongfellow and Lord Alfred Tennyson were read, and Walt Whitman attended.The mysterious Poe Toaster visits Poe’s grave on his birthdays and leaves apartially filled bottle of cognac and three roses.All that we see or seemThe Raven70Once upon.
a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak andweary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten loreWhile I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there camea tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber doorOnly this and nothing more."Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon thefloor.Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels nameLenoreNameless here for evermore.And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,,"Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber doorSome late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is nothing more.”Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamberdoor,That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide thedoor:71Darkness there and nothing more.Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dreambefore;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,"Lenore?"This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,"Lenore!"Merely this and nothing more.Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before."Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my windowlattice;Let, me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery exploreLet, my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;'Tis the wind and nothing more!"Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt andflutter,In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped orstayed he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamberdoorPerched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber doorPerched, and sat, and nothing more.Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,72By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sureno craven,Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the NightlyshoreTell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonianshore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse soplainly,Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber doorBird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as "Nevermore."But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpoor.Nothing further then he uttered-not a feather then befluttered Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flownbefore –On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."Then the bird said, "Nevermore."Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful DisasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burdenbore Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore73Of I Never- nevermore."'But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bustand door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yoreWhat this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous birdof yoreMeant in croaking "Nevermore."This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,She shall press, ah, nevermore!Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseencenserSwung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angelshe hath sent theeRespite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lostLenore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.""Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird ordevil! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here74ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchantedOn this home by Horror haunted-tell me truly, I imploreIs there-is there balm in Gilead?-tell me-tell me, 1implore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.""Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird ordevil!By that Heaven that bends above us-by that God we bothadoreTell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels nameLenoreClasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels nameLenore.""Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,upstarting"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonianshore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hathspoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from ol'f my duurr"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittintOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that, is75dreaming,And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow oil the flour;And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted-nevermore!Annabel LeeIt was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name of Annabel Lee;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThat to love and be loved by me.She was a child and I was a child,In this kingdom by the sea,But we loved with a love that was more than loveI and my Annabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs of HeavenCoveted her and me.And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud by nightChilling my Annabel Lee;So that her highborn kinsmen cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchreIn this kingdom by the sea.76The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,Went envying her and me:Yes!-that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea)That the wind came out of the cloud chillingAnd killing my Annabel Lee.But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than weOf many far wiser than weAnd neither the angels in Heaven aboveNor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from thesoulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee:For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,In her sepulchre there by the seaIn her tomb by the side of the sea.Emily DickensonEmily Dickinson was born into one of Amherst, Massachusetts’ mostprominent families on 10 December 1830.
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