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The Fireside Poets

Some of the best-known poets of this period have been classed he "Fireseide Poets," so named probably because of the congeniality  and gentle persuasiveness of their finest verse.  
        These poets: Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier, and Holmes
        All from New England, they celebrated the virtues of home, family, and democracy.  In their best verse, they display a simple diction, a courageous love of freedom, and a keen eye for natural beauties of heir eastern locale.  Writings of the long-lived Fireside Poets, like these poets own lives, spanned the century.  Works such as Snowbound and "The Chambered Nautilus," which were written after the National Period, have been included in this unit since they reflect the  spirit of the era. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was a commanding figure in the cultural life of nineteenth-century America. Born in Portland, Maine, in 1807, he became a national literary figure by the 1850s, and a world- famous personality by the time of his death in 1882.

He was a traveler, a linguist, and a romantic who identified with the great traditions of European literature and thought. At the same time, he was rooted in American life and history, which charged his imagination with untried themes and made him ambitious for success.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: A Maine Historical Society Web Site. Maine Historical Society. Web. 04 Dec. 2011. <http://www.hwlongfellow.org/>.

Chronology

 
  • 1807:  born in Portland, Maine
  • 1825:  graduated fourth out of thirty-eight from Bowdoin College
  • 1826-1829:  He lived in Europe (France, Germany, Italy, and Spain) and studied languages in preparation for his work at Bowdoin, where he would soon hold one of the few "professorships of modern languages" in the country (Parker 628).
  • 1829-1835:  professor of Modern Languages at Bowdoin
  • 1831:  married Mary Storer Potter
  • 1835:  He accepted a position at Harvard as Professorship of Modern Languages and Belles-Lettres.  He prepared for Harvard by studying in Scandinavia and Germany during this year and into 1836.  Outre-Mer was also published and his first wife Mary Longfellow died in Rotterdam.
  • 1839:  Hyperion and Voices of the Night
  • 1841:  Ballads and Other Poems and The Children of the Lord's Supper (translated from Tegner)
  • 1842:  Poems on Slavery, spent many months in Germany at Marienberg on the Rhine (loved the water) where he formed a lasting friendship with the German poet, Ferdinand Freiligrath.
  • 1843:  Married Francis Elizabeth (Fanny) Appleton and received as a wedding present the mansion in Cambridge, Craigie House.  Enjoyed an "idyllic" and "elegant" life (Parker 629).  Published The Spanish Student.
  • 1847:  Evangeline, A Tale of Acadie
  • 1849:  Kavanagh:  A Tale.  His father dies.
  • 1850:  The Seaside and the Fireside
  • 1851:  The Golden Legend.  His mother dies.
  • 1854:  Resigned his position as Harvard professorship.
  • 1859:  Wrote The Children's Hour.*
  • 1861:  Tragic death of Fanny Appleton Longfellow while "sealing up" her daughter's hair: A spark or hot wax fell on Fanny's summer dress, and a deadly fire engulfed her.  Longfellow was resting in a room next to where she was and awoke terrified. He attempted to put out the smothering flames.  Yet Fanny was severely burned and died during the night.   Longfellow, too, was also burned in his attempts to save his wife.  He began to live a "somewhat secluded life" (Scudder xiii).  He translated Dante's Divine Comedy.
  • 1868-1869:  Returned to Europe for his fourth and last time with members of his family.  While in Europe he received many academic honors, including honorary doctoral degree from Cambridge and Oxford.
  • 1880:  His seventy-fifth birthday, celebrated throughout the nation.
  • 1882:  In the Harbor.  Died in Cambridge on the twenty-fourth of March.
  • 1884:  His bust was uncovered at Westminster Abbey on Poets' Corner.

Rich, Melissa. "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow." The University of North Carolina at Pembroke. Web. 04 Dec. 2011. 
        <http://www.uncp.edu/home/canada/work/canam/longfell.htm>.

"A Psalm of Life"

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)                   
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN
                    SAID TO THE PSALMIST    

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
        Life is but an empty dream ! —
    For the soul is dead that slumbers,
        And things are not what they seem.    

Life is real !   Life is earnest!
        And the grave is not its goal ;
    Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
        Was not spoken of the soul.    

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
        Is our destined end or way ;
    But to act, that each to-morrow
        Find us farther than to-day.    

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
        And our hearts, though stout and brave,
    Still, like muffled drums, are beating
        Funeral marches to the grave.    

In the world's broad field of battle,
        In the bivouac of Life,
    Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
        Be a hero in the strife !    

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !
        Let the dead Past bury its dead !
    Act,— act in the living Present !
        Heart within, and God o'erhead !    

Lives of great men all remind us
        We can make our lives sublime,
    And, departing, leave behind us
        Footprints on the sands of time ;    

Footprints, that perhaps another,
        Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
    A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
        Seeing, shall take heart again.    

Let us, then, be up and doing,
        With a heart for any fate ;
    Still achieving, still pursuing,
        Learn to labor and to wait.

An Article on "A Psalm of Life," by: Tom Ato

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow begins his poem "A Psalm of Life" with the same exuberance and enthusiasm that continues through most of the poem. He begs in the first stanza to be told "not in mournful numbers" about life. He states here that life doesn't abruptly end when one dies; rather, it extends into another after life. Longfellow values this dream of the afterlife immensely and seems to say that life can only be lived truly if one believes that the soul will continue to live long after the body dies. The second stanza continues with the same belief in afterlife that is present in the first. Longfellow states this clearly when he writes, "And the grave is not its goal." Meaning that, life doesn't end for people simply because they die; there is always something more to be hopeful and optimistic for. Longfellow begins discussing how humans must live their lives in constant anticipation for the next day under the belief that it will be better than each day before it: "But to act that each to-morrow / Find us farther than to-day."

In the subsequent stanza, Longfellow asserts that there is never an infinite amount of time to live, but art that is created during one's life can be preserved indefinitely and live on long after its creator dies. In the following stanzas, Longfellow likens living in the world to fighting on a huge field of battle.

He believes that people should lead heroic and courageous lives and not sit idle and remain ineffectual while the world rapidly changes around them: "Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!" His use of the word "strife" is especially interesting, since it clearly acknowledges that life is inherently difficult, is a constant struggle, and will never be easy. Longfellow then encourages everyone to have faith and trust the lord and not to rely on an unknown future to be stable and supportive.

He advises people to seize the moments they have before them and act while thinking about their present situations. Longfellow continues his poem by citing the lives of great and important men who were able to lead incredible lives and leave their marks. He views these men as role models for people who have yet to live their lives; Longfellow encourages his readers to leave their own "footprints on the sands of time" and become important.

The next stanza, the second to last in the poem, continues with this same point. It describes how successful people in the past have their lives copied, while those who failed serve as examples of ways of life to avoid. The final lines of the poem echo the beginning ones and offer perhaps the most important advice in a poem that is chocked full of it. Longfellow encourages all to work and try their hardest to make their lives great and accomplish as much as they can.

Longfellow conveys his message the same way he did in the rest of the poem: by speaking directly to the reader and providing his reasoning for believing in something more, in something better. Longfellow ensures his followers that the rewards for what they achieve will come eventually-if not in this lifetime, then, certainly, in the next.

Ato, Tom. "An Analysis of Longfellow's A Psalm of Life." Yahoo! Voices - 
        Voices.yahoo.com
. Web. 04 Dec. 2011. 
        <http://voices.yahoo.com/an-analysis-longfellows-psalm-life-
        672303.html
>.

"The Children's Hour"

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupation,
That is known as the children's hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes,
They are plotting and planning together,
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me,
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all?
I have you fast in my fortress
And will not let you depart,
But put you down in the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!


Analysis of "The Children's Hour"

"The Children's Hour" is a very touching and heart-warming poem.  Longfellow's persona is much like Longfellow himself.   The three children mentioned in lines 11 and 12 are the names of Longfellow's daughters. The poem describes how the father and poet reserves time each day to spend with his children (lines 1-4).  He describes in an exciting way his children sneaking up on him, ready to play.  He uses vivid detail, from their "little feet" (ln. 6), their whispers (ln. 13), their "merry eyes" (ln.14), to their attack of love and affection.  Longfellow creates a conceit by comparing his children's and his love to a raid of affection.  He is bombarded with hugs and kisses (ln. 25-26).  The persona plans and executes a counterattack.  It is not an attack of harsh words nor demands to be left alone; rather, he captures the children in the tower of his heart.  In his heart they will remain safe and loved forever.  He vows to love them for eternity, "forever and a day," until his death, when the "walls shall crumble to ruin" (ln. 37-40).

Oliver Wendell Holmes

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"The Chambered Nautilus"

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sail the unshadowed main,--
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed,--
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn;
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

By Oliver Wendall Holmes (1809-94).
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"The Ballad of the Oysterman"

by: Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side,
His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim,
Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.  

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid,
Upon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in the shade;
He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say,
"I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."  

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he,
"I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see;
I read it in a story-book, that, for to kiss his dear,
Leander swam the Hellespont,--and I will swim this here."  

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,
And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;
Oh there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,-
- But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!  

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--"Oh, what was that, my daughter?"
"'T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water."
"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?"
"It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a-swimming past."  

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--"Now bring me my harpoon!
I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix that fellow soon."
Down fell the pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb,
Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like seaweed on a clam.  

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,
And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned;
But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,
And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.
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Studying a Ballad

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Ballad Definition: A narrative poem (a poem that tells a story) that was originally composed to be sung or recited.

Elements to look for:
1. Conversation
2. Plot

ballads.ppt
File Size: 41 kb
File Type: ppt
Download File

John Greenleaf Whitier

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"Snowbound"

by John Greenleaf Whittier The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
    A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
    The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east: we heard the roar
Of Ocean on his wintry shore,
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
Meanwhile we did your nightly chores,--
Brought in the wood from out of doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows;
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows;
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,
The cock his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent.

Unwarmed by any sunset light
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag, wavering to and fro
Crossed and recrossed the wingèd snow:
And ere the early bed-time came
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.

        *

As night drew on, and, from the crest
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank
From sight beneath the smothering bank,
We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back,--
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout back-stick;
The knotty forestick laid apart,
And filled between with curious art
The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom;
While radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.
The crane and pendent trammels showed,
The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed;
While childish fancy, prompt to tell
The meaning of the miracle,
Whispered the old rhyme: "Under the tree,
When fire outdoors burns merrily,
There the witches are making tea."
The moon above the eastern wood
Shone at its full; the hill-range stood
Transfigured in the silver flood,
Its blown snows flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
Took shadow, or the somber green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
Against the whiteness at their back.
For such a world and such a night
Most fitting that unwarming light,
Which only seemed where'er it fell
To make the coldness visible.

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Analysis of "Snowbound"

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The Following article by Aidan Sven is an analysis of "Snowbound:"


"Poetry analysis: Snow-Bound, by John Greenleaf"

WhittierJohn Greenleaf Whittier, an active writer against slavery in his time, wrote a Classic poem that we still enjoy today. His best known poem is called “Snowbound: A Winter Idyl”. Snowbound is a long poem depicting the power, and yet the beauty of nature. It also gives a slight insight to the culture and activities of the time period.

The speaker in “Snowbound” is not a character in the story, but rather the narrator is telling the story from a third-person perspective. He is narrating casually what he sees, and what is happening during the snowstorm. It is important to remember that this was written in the early 1800s, where weatherproof houses and excellent heating did not exist, so the snowstorm was a much more powerful enemy than it would be today. The tone of the poem is distinct. The narrator is drawing a beautiful picture of the snowstorm, rather than an image of horror despite the fact that the characters suffered from it. The tension was obviously of human against nature. More specifically, the family against the snowstorm. The conflict continues until the very end, when the man arrives home at last, sheltered from the snowstorm.

The word choice can be described as none other than “poetic”. It is not a formal poem, but is neither conversational. It tells the story of the snowstorm from a nonpartisan perspective. The word choice is unique. Occasionally, seemingly at random, a line breaks the pattern of end rhyming, then is picked back up in the next line. This makes the “odd” lines stand out more, and these lines seem to have more significance to them. There is a steady rhythm in the poem. It follows a meter rather than a syllable pattern, though.

The poem has a great deal of imagery throughout the entire thing. Metaphors are used constantly, although similes are scarce. Figurative images play the most important role in the story, because it seems as though a new image is used every other line. The form of the poem is constant, but it is also relaxed. Lines are rhymed in pairs, with an occasional random break in the rhyming scheme. The stanzas are also relaxed in the sense that there is no definite length of each one. The stanzas vary in length, but they are generally fairly long. In conclusion, this poem tells a unique and classic story in a beautiful way, making it known as an American Classic.


Sven, Aidan. "Poetry Analysis: Snow-Bound, by John Greenleaf Whittier -
    by Aidan Sven - Helium." Helium - Where Knowledge Rules. 28 Dec.
    2010. Web. 05 Dec. 2011. <http://www.helium.com/items/2025416-
    poetry-analysis-snowbound-by-john-greenleaf-whittier
>.

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