Ode to a Grecian Urn (by John Keats)

 

This might be Keats' most famous poem,

and you can find it in most anthologies

of English poetry:

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,

      Thou foster child of silence and slow

time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

      A flowery tale more sweetly than our

rhyme:

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about

thy shape

      Of deities or mortals, or of both,

            In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What

maidens loath?

      What mad pursuit? What struggle to

escape?

            What pipes and timbrels? What

wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those

unheard

      Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes,

play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more

endeared,

      Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst

not leave

      Thy song, nor ever, can those trees

be bare;

            Bold Lover, never, never canst

thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal – yet, do

not grieve;

       She cannot fade, though thou

hast not thy bliss,

            Forever wilt thou love, and she

be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! That cannot

shed

       Your leaves, not ever bid the Spring

adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

       Forever piping songs forever new;

More happy love! More happy, happy

love!

      Forever warm and still be to enjoyed,

          Forever panting, and forever

young;

All breathing human passion far above,

      That leaves a heart high-sorrowful

and cloyed,

          A burning forehead, and a

parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice:

      To what green altar, O mysterious

priest,

Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the

skies,

     And all her silken flanks with

garlands dressed?

What little town by river or sea shore,

     Or mountain-built with peaceful

citadel,

          Is emptied of this folk, this

pious morn?

And, little town, thy streets for

evermore

     Will silent be; and not a soul to

tell

         Why thou are desolate, can

e’er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! With brede

    Of marble men and maidens

overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden

weed;

    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out

of thought

As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!

     When old age shall this generation

waste,

           Thou shalt remain, in midst of

other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom

thou say’st,

     ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’ – that is

all

           Ye know on earth, and all ye need

to know.

The poem with the stressed

syllables underlined:

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,

      Thou foster child of silence and slow

time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

      A flowery tale more sweetly than our

rhyme:

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about

thy shape

      Of deities or mortals, or of both,

            In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What

maidens loth?

      What mad pursuit? What struggle to

escape?

            What pipes and timbrels? What

wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those

unheard

      Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes,

play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more

endeared,

      Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst

not leave

      Thy song, nor ever, can those trees

be bare;

            Bold Lover, never, never canst

thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal – yet, do

not grieve;

       She cannot fade, though thou

hast not thy bliss,

            Forever wilt thou love, and she

be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! That cannot

shed

       Your leaves, not ever bid the Spring

adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

       Forever piping songs forever new;

More happy love! More happy, happy

love!

      Forever warm and still be to enjoyed,

          Forever panting, and forever

young;

All breathing human passion far above,

      That leaves a heart high-sorrowful

and cloyed,

          A burning forehead, and a

parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice:

      To what green altar, O mysterious

priest,

Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the

skies,

     And all her silken flanks with

garlands dressed?

What little town by river or sea shore,

     Or mountain-built with peaceful

citadel,

          Is emptied of this folk, this

pious morn?

And, little town, thy streets for

evermore

     Will silent be; and not a soul to

tell

         Why thou art desolate, can

e’er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! With brede

    Of marble men and maidens

overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden

weed;

    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out

of thought

As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!

     When old age shall this generation

waste,

           Thou shalt remain, in midst of

other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom

thou say’st,

     ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’ – that is

all

           Ye know on earth, and all ye need

to know.

Analysis:

This poem is a good example of how

rhythm can improve a poem. Trying to

read a poem like this like prose would

be hell. The subject of the poem is not

that interesting: the speaker sees an

ancient Grecian urn and imagines the

sort of lost world that created it and

clearly wishes he was in it. It goes on

for a bit too long with the idea, but

reading it with rhythm really makes

to reading less painful. His excitement

seems a bit too much.

Keats for a long time, with Byron

and Shelley, were very much respected

as poems in their time and afterwards.

Byron and Shelley being the wildmen,

and Keats the more sensitive.

© C.A. MacLennan 2024

You can see me reading poems at:

Poetry & Folklore - YouTube

I will post a video of me reading this poem soon

The Canadian Boat Song

Listen to me as when you heard our fathers

    Sing long ago the song of other shores,

Listen to me, and then in chorus gather

    All your deep voices as ye pull your oars–

       Fair those broad meads, those hoary

woods are grand,

       But we are exiles from our native land.

From the lone shieling on the misty island,

    Mountains divide us and a waste of seas;

Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is

Highland,

    And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.

We ne’er shall tread the fairy-haunted

valley,

    Where ’twixt the dark hills creeps the

small clear stream,

In arms around the patriarch’s banner rally,

    Nor see the moon on royal tombstones

gleam.

When the bold kindred in the times long

vanished,

    Conquered the soil and fortified the

keep,

No seer foretold the children would be

banished,

    That a degenerate lord might boast his

sheep.

Come foreign raid, let discord burst in

slaughter–

    Oh! Then for clansmen’s true and keen

claymore;

The hearts that would have given their

blood like water,

    Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic’s roar.

         Fair those broad meads, those hoary

woods are grand,

         But we are exiles from our native land.

The poem with the stressed

syllables underlined:

Listen to me as when you heard our fathers

    Sing long ago the song of other shores,

Listen to me, and then in chorus gather

    All your deep voices as ye pull your oars–

       Fair those broad meads, those hoary

woods are grand,

       But we are exiles from our native land.

From the lone shieling on the misty island,

    Mountains divide us and a waste of seas;

Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is

Highland,

    And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.

We ne’er shall tread the fairy-haunted

valley,

    Where ’twixt the dark hills creeps the

small clear stream,

In arms around the patriarch’s banner rally,

    Nor see the moon on royal tombstones

gleam.

When the bold kindred in the times long

vanished,

    Conquered the soil and fortified the

keep,

No seer foretold the children would be

banished,

    That a degenerate lord might boast his

sheep.

Come foreign raid, let discord burst in

slaughter–

    Oh! Then for clansmen’s true and keen

claymore;

The hearts that would have given their

blood like water,

    Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic’s roar.

         Fair those broad meads, those hoary

woods are grand,

         But we are exiles from our native land.

Analysis:

I have heard the phrase “The blood is

strong, the heart is Highland” before in

connection with Canadian links to Scot-

land, but I never found the poem it came

from until recently. I think it is rather

good. It is obviously a composed English

piece, it is not anything translated from

Gaelic. Traditional Gaelic songs are usual-

ly not so focused, they are more like blues

songs, that refer disjointedly to people and

events. Gaels, like all traditional people,

had their working songs: songs that were

sung to past the time when doing some

repetitive action like churning or rowing.

That sort of song seems to be what the

title is referring to, but they are never as

flowery in their language as this. 

          The poet certainly seems to have

some knowledge of Gaelic culture and

rudimentary knowledge of their language.

The “children” referred to is the “clan”.

The Gaelic word “Clann” means children,

but can refer to the Highland tribe. The

“patriarch” mentioned is the chief of the

clan, the symbolic father of the tribe or

"children". The “fairy-haunted” valleys

mentioned refers to the belief in fairies

in Gaelic Scotland, which was far was

common and accepted than modern

English-speakers imagine. No Gael 

would even bring up the subject of fairies

so casually, it reflects the view of an

outsider. “Hoary” in the poem seems

to mean “ancient” or “gloomy”. There

was an influential Gaelic poem of that

era entitled: “The Gloomy Forest”

concerning Canada. The great number

of unstressed syllables is remarkable and

seem designed to give to poem a pro-

nounced lilt. The word "patriarch" is the

most difficult word to pronounce with

the right stress on the last syllable, and

requires the poem to be practiced before

performing.

        I suppose, this poem would be seen

as sentimental by the previous generation,

being as there used to be some many

mawkish Irish and Scottish songs around

in which immigrants expressed their

longing for their motherland. To me it

hits different, because it is the only song

I know, for whatever faults it has, that

expresses the Scottish-Canadian relation

to Scotland. With the mention of "heart"

and "blood" it makes that argument that

we are as biologically Scottish as any-

one in Scotland, and instead of former

Scots, we should be considered Scots

in exile, that being a Scot is an inter-

national identity. I think this would

be of advantage to the Scottish people

and the Gaelic language and culture.

Parts of Scottish culture have been

preserved in Canada (as they have

been in the past) after they have died

out in Scotland, and this diaspora could

prove itself helpful again in the future

as a place of refuge if Scotland is under

threat in the future.

© C.A. MacLennan 2024

You can see videos of me reading

poems at:

Poetry & Folklore - YouTube

I will put this poem to music and sing it there.