Poem #2

This is Shakespeare's epilogue from The Tempest.  The 'EngLit-lot' would have us believe that any notion of this being Shakespeare's farewell is simple sentimentality.  Well, it won't be the first time the 'EngLit-lot' have been wrong, as the late A. L. Rowse never tired of pointing out.  For me it is impossible to believe that a man of Shakespeare's acute sensitivity was unaware that the flame was dying, and that with The Tempest, he had finally written himself out, or at least, that he had written all that was meaningfull to him.  Of course, as with so much of his writing, it can be taken at many levels; the plea of an actor for applause, the release of an actor from his role-playing, the acknowledgement by Prospero that his magic was gone, but who can read the last seven and a half lines and not imagine that ironic sense of loss as the writer's poetic and philosophical spirit finally wanes.  I am not much given to sentimentality, but it always makes me swallow hard and blink a lot when I read it:

Now my charms are all o'thrown,

And what strength I have's mine own,

Which is most faint: Now, 'tis true,

I must be here confined by you,

Or sent to Naples.  Let me not,

Since I have my dukedom got,

And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell

In this bare island by your spell;

But release me from my bands

With the help of your good hands:

Gentle breath of yours my sails

Must fill, or else my project fails,

Which was to please.  Now I want

Spirits to enforce, Art to enchant;

And my ending is despair,

Unless I be relieved by prayer,

Which pierces so, that it assaults

Mercy itself, and frees all faults.

     As you from crimes would pardoned be,

     Let your indulgence set me free.

Comments

[Val]

Great posting, David. I have read all of them and I especially liked this one.

[David Duff]

Thanks, Val, I appreciate your support.