work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
3378,Physiognomy,"Searching ""mind"" and ""mirror"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-10-10 00:00:00 UTC,"But to the theme, now laid aside too long,
The baleful burthen of this honest song,
Though all her former functions are no more,
She rules the circle which she served before.
If mothers--none know why--before her quake;
If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake;
If early habits--those false links, which bind
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind--
Have given her power too deeply to instil
The angry essence of her deadly will;
If like a snake she steal within your walls,
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls;
If like a viper to the heart she wind,
And leave the venom there she did not find;
What marvel that this hag of hatred works
Eternal evil latent as she lurks,
To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells?
Skilled by a touch to deepen Scandal's tints
With all the kind mendacity of hints,
While mingling truth with falsehood--sneers with smiles--
A thread of candour with a web of wiles;
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-hardened scheming;
A lip of lies; a face formed to conceal,
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel:
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown,--
A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone.
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud,
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale--
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace
Congenial colours in that soul or face)--
Look on her features! and behold her mind
As in a mirror of itself defined:
Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged--
There is no trait which might not be enlarged:
Yet true to ""Nature's journeymen,"" who made
This monster when their mistress left off trade--
This female dog-star of her little sky,
Where all beneath her influence droop or die.",,8656,"","""Look on her features! and behold her mind / As in a mirror of itself defined.""","",2011-03-28 03:27:19 UTC,""
6162,"","Searching ""soul"" and ""mirror"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-10-23 00:00:00 UTC,"'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew--
It even were doubtful if their victim knew.
There is a war, a chaos of the mind,
When all its elements convulsed, combined
Lie dark and jarring with perturbéd force,
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse--
That juggling fiend, who never spake before,
But cries ""I warned thee!"" when the deed is o'er.
Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent,
May writhe--rebel--the weak alone repent!
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels,
And, to itself, all--all that self reveals,--
No single passion, and no ruling thought
That leaves the rest, as once, unseen, unsought,
But the wild prospect when the Soul reviews,
All rushing through their thousand avenues--
Ambition's dreams expiring, Love's regret,
Endangered Glory, Life itself beset;
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate;
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven
Too quickly on to guess if Hell or Heaven;
Deeds--thoughts--and words, perhaps remembered not
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot;
Things light or lovely in their acted time,
But now to stern Reflection each a crime;
The withering sense of Evil unrevealed,
Not cankering less because the more concealed;
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start,
That opening sepulchre, the naked heart
Bares with its buried woes--till Pride awake,
To snatch the mirror from the soul, and break.
Aye, Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all--
All--all--before--beyond--the deadliest fall.
Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays,
The only hypocrite deserving praise:
Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies;
But he who looks on Death--and silent dies:
So, steeled by pondering o'er his far career,
He half-way meets Him should He menace near!",,16241,"","""There is a war, a chaos of the mind, / When all its elements convulsed, combined / Lie dark and jarring with perturbéd force, / And gnashing with impenitent Remorse""","",2009-09-14 19:46:08 UTC,Stanza X
6162,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),2005-10-23 00:00:00 UTC,"'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew--
It even were doubtful if their victim knew.
There is a war, a chaos of the mind,
When all its elements convulsed, combined
Lie dark and jarring with perturbéd force,
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse--
That juggling fiend, who never spake before,
But cries ""I warned thee!"" when the deed is o'er.
Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent,
May writhe--rebel--the weak alone repent!
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels,
And, to itself, all--all that self reveals,--
No single passion, and no ruling thought
That leaves the rest, as once, unseen, unsought,
But the wild prospect when the Soul reviews,
All rushing through their thousand avenues--
Ambition's dreams expiring, Love's regret,
Endangered Glory, Life itself beset;
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate;
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven
Too quickly on to guess if Hell or Heaven;
Deeds--thoughts--and words, perhaps remembered not
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot;
Things light or lovely in their acted time,
But now to stern Reflection each a crime;
The withering sense of Evil unrevealed,
Not cankering less because the more concealed;
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start,
That opening sepulchre, the naked heart
Bares with its buried woes--till Pride awake,
To snatch the mirror from the soul, and break.
Aye, Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all--
All--all--before--beyond--the deadliest fall.
Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays,
The only hypocrite deserving praise:
Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies;
But he who looks on Death--and silent dies:
So, steeled by pondering o'er his far career,
He half-way meets Him should He menace near!",,16242,•I've included twice: Mirror and Sepuchre,"""All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, / That opening sepulchre, the naked heart / Bares with its buried woes--till Pride awake, / To snatch the mirror from the soul, and break.""","",2009-09-14 19:46:09 UTC,Stanza X
6162,Ruling Passion,Searching in HDIS (Poetry),2005-10-23 00:00:00 UTC,"'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew--
It even were doubtful if their victim knew.
There is a war, a chaos of the mind,
When all its elements convulsed, combined
Lie dark and jarring with perturbéd force,
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse--
That juggling fiend, who never spake before,
But cries ""I warned thee!"" when the deed is o'er.
Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent,
May writhe--rebel--the weak alone repent!
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels,
And, to itself, all--all that self reveals,--
No single passion, and no ruling thought
That leaves the rest, as once, unseen, unsought,
But the wild prospect when the Soul reviews,
All rushing through their thousand avenues--
Ambition's dreams expiring, Love's regret,
Endangered Glory, Life itself beset;
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate;
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven
Too quickly on to guess if Hell or Heaven;
Deeds--thoughts--and words, perhaps remembered not
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot;
Things light or lovely in their acted time,
But now to stern Reflection each a crime;
The withering sense of Evil unrevealed,
Not cankering less because the more concealed;
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start,
That opening sepulchre, the naked heart
Bares with its buried woes--till Pride awake,
To snatch the mirror from the soul, and break.
Aye, Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all--
All--all--before--beyond--the deadliest fall.
Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays,
The only hypocrite deserving praise:
Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies;
But he who looks on Death--and silent dies:
So, steeled by pondering o'er his far career,
He half-way meets Him should He menace near!",,16244,•I've included twice: Rule of Thought and Avenue.,"""No single passion, and no ruling thought / That leaves the rest, as once, unseen, unsought, / But the wild prospect when the Soul reviews, / All rushing through their thousand avenues""","",2013-11-02 15:22:31 UTC,Stanza X
6456,"",Reading in Perkins. Text taken from HDIS (Poetry),2008-05-27 00:00:00 UTC,"In my youth's summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
O'er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life,--where not a flower appears.
(p. 864, ll. 19-27)",2008-05-27,17149,"","""In my youth's summer I did sing of One, / The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind.""","",2013-06-04 17:12:26 UTC,Stanza 3
6456,"",Reading in Perkins. Text taken from HDIS.,2008-05-27 00:00:00 UTC,"In my youth's summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
O'er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life,--where not a flower appears.
(p. 864, ll. 19-27)",2008-05-27,17150,"INTEREST. Extremely complicated metaphor. A ""furrow"" is an agricultural image, a term for a wrinkle, a sea route, or any track. Byron seems to blend all of these senses in these lines. ","""[I]n that Tale I find / The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, / Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind.""","",2009-09-14 19:49:13 UTC,Stanza 3
6456,"",Reading in Perkins. Text taken from HDIS.,2008-05-27 00:00:00 UTC,"Since my young days of passion--joy, or pain--
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string--
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing:
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling;
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness--so it fling
Forgetfulness around me--it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.
(p. 864, ll. 28-36)",2008-05-27,17151,"","""Since my young days of passion--joy, or pain-- / Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string-- / And both may jar.""","",2009-09-14 19:49:13 UTC,Stanza 4
6456,"",Reading in Perkins. Text taken from HDIS.,2008-05-27 00:00:00 UTC,"He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him--nor below
Can Love or Sorrow, Fame, Ambition, Strife,
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance--he can tell
Why Thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpaired, though old, in the Soul's haunted cell.
(p. 864, ll. 37-45)",2008-05-27,17152,"","""[H]e can tell / Why Thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife / With airy images, and shapes which dwell / Still unimpaired, though old, in the Soul's haunted cell.""","",2009-09-14 19:49:13 UTC,Stanza 5
6636,"",Searching Frank Jenners Wilstach's A Dictionary of Similes.,2009-12-20 03:14:17 UTC,"The Mind, that broods o’er guilty woes
Is like the Scorpion girt by fire;
In circle narrowing as it glows,
The flame around their captive close,
Till inly searched by thousand throes,
And maddening in her ire,
One sad and sole relief she knows –
The sting she nourished for her foes,
Whose venom never yet was vain,
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain,
And darts into her desperate brain:
So do the dark in soul expire,
Or live like Scorpion girt by fire;
So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven,
Unfit for earth, undoomed for heaven,
Darkness above, despair beneath,
Around it flame, within it death?
",,17588,Ed SDM,"""The Mind, that broods o’er guilty woes / Is like the Scorpion girt by fire""","",2009-12-20 03:16:15 UTC,""
7405,"","Reading M.H. Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp: Romantic Theory and the Critical Tradition (London: Oxford UP, 1953), 49.",2013-06-06 19:50:03 UTC,"I by no means rank poetry or poets high in the scale of intellect. This may look like affectation, but it is my real opinion. It is the lava of the imagination whose eruptions prevents an earthquake. They say poets never or rarely go mad. Cowper and Collins are instances to the contrary (but Cowper was no poet). It is, however, to be remarked that they rarely do, but are generally so near it that I cannot help thinking rhyme is so far useful in anticipating and preventing the disorder. I prefer the talents of action--of war, of the senate, of even of science,--to all the speculations of those mere dreamers of another existence (I don't mean religiously but fancifully) and spectators of this apathy. Disgust and perhaps incapacity have rendered me now a mere spectator; but I have occasionally mixed in the active and tumultuous departments of existence, and on these alone my recollection rests with any satisfaction, though not the best parts of it.",,20455,"","""I by no means rank poetry or poets high in the scale of intellect. This may look like affectation, but it is my real opinion. It is the lava of the imagination whose eruptions prevents an earthquake.""","",2013-06-06 19:50:03 UTC,""