Analysis of The Invitation: To Tom Hughes
Come away with me, Tom,
Term and talk are done;
My poor lads are reaping,
Busy every one.
Curates mind the parish,
Sweepers mind the court;
We'll away to Snowdon
For our ten days' sport;
Fish the August evening
Till the eve is past,
Whoop like boys, at pounders
Fairly played and grassed.
When they cease to dimple,
Lunge, and swerve, and leap,
Then up over Siabod,
Choose our nest, and sleep.
Up a thousand feet, Tom,
Round the lion's head,
Find soft stones to leeward
And make up our bed.
Eat our bread and bacon,
Smoke the pipe of peace,
And, ere we be drowsy,
Give our boots a grease.
Homer's heroes did so,
Why not such as we?
What are sheets and servants?
Superfluity!
Pray for wives and children
Safe in slumber curled,
Then to chat till midnight
O'er this babbling world-
Of the workmen's college,
Of the price of grain,
Of the tree of knowledge,
Of the chance of rain;
If Sir A. goes Romeward,
If Miss B. sings true,
If the fleet comes homeward,
If the mare will do,-
Anything and everything-
Up there in the sky
Angels understand us,
And no 'saints' are by.
Down, and bathe at day-dawn,
Tramp from lake to lake,
Washing brain and heart clean
Every step we take.
Leave to Robert Browning
Beggars, fleas, and vines;
Leave to mournful Ruskin
Popish Apennines,
Dirty Stones of Venice
And his Gas-lamps Seven-
We've the stones of Snowdon
And the lamps of heaven.
Where's the mighty credit
In admiring Alps?
Any goose sees 'glory'
In their 'snowy scalps.'
Leave such signs and wonders
For the dullard brain,
As aesthetic brandy,
Opium and cayenne.
Give me Bramshill common
(St. John's harriers by),
Or the vale of Windsor,
England's golden eye.
Show me life and progress,
Beauty, health, and man;
Houses fair, trim gardens,
Turn where'er I can.
Or, if bored with 'High Art,'
And such popish stuff,
One's poor ear need airing,
Snowdon's high enough.
While we find God's signet
Fresh on English ground,
Why go gallivanting
With the nations round?
Though we try no ventures
Desperate or strange;
Feed on commonplaces
In a narrow range;
Never sought for Franklin
Round the frozen Capes;
Even, with Macdougall, {295}
Bagged our brace of apes;
Never had our chance, Tom,
In that black Redan;
Can't avenge poor Brereton
Out in Sakarran;
Tho' we earn our bread, Tom,
By the dirty pen,
What we can we will be,
Honest Englishmen.
Do the work that's nearest,
Though it's dull at whiles,
Helping, when we meet them,
Lame dogs over stiles;
See in every hedgerow
Marks of angels' feet,
Epics in each pebble
Underneath our feet;
Once a year, like schoolboys,
Robin-Hooding go,
Leaving fops and fogies
A thousand feet below.
Eversley, August 1856.
Scheme | ABCBXDBDCEFEGHDHAIJIBKLKMLXDBNXNXOXODPJPCQRQXSXSCXTFRBBBXULUFOLVBQXQXWXWXXCXXYCYFZFZT1 G1 ABBBAVLB2 3 X3 P4 G4 XMFM 2 |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 101111 10111 111110 101001 11010 10101 101110 110111 101010 10111 111110 10101 111110 10101 11101 110101 101011 10101 111110 011101 1101010 10111 011110 110101 101011 11111 111010 1 111010 10101 11111 1011001 101010 10111 101110 10111 11011 11111 101110 10111 10010 11001 10011 01111 101111 11111 101011 100111 111010 10101 111010 11 101110 011110 101110 001110 101010 00101 101110 01101 111010 1011 101010 10001 11110 1111 101110 10101 11101 10101 101110 11011 111111 0111 111110 1101 111110 11101 111 10101 111110 1011 111 00101 101110 10101 101010 110111 1011011 0111 10111 101 1111011 10101 111111 1010 101110 11111 101111 11101 101001 11101 100110 01101 10111 1011 10101 010101 110 |
Closest metre | Iambic trimeter |
Characters | 2,535 |
Words | 470 |
Sentences | 25 |
Stanzas | 2 |
Stanza Lengths | 108, 1 |
Lines Amount | 109 |
Letters per line (avg) | 19 |
Words per line (avg) | 4 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 1,015 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 233 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on May 03, 2023
- 2:25 min read
- 150 Views
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"The Invitation: To Tom Hughes" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 14 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/5284/the-invitation%3A-to-tom-hughes>.
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