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Foreign Lands

Foreign Lands
Up into the cherry tree
Who should climb but little me?
I held the trunk with both my hands
And looked abroad in foreign lands.
I saw the next door garden lie,
Adorned with flowers, before my eye,
And many pleasant places more
That I had never seen before.
I saw the dimpling river pass
And be the sky's blue looking-glass;
The dusty roads go up and down
With people tramping in to town.
If I could find a higher tree
Farther and farther I should see,
To where the grown-up river slips
Into the sea among the ships,
To where the road on either hand
Lead onward into fairy land,
Where all the children dine at five,
And all the playthings come alive.
1,549

For Richmond's Garden Wall

For Richmond's Garden Wall
WHEN Thomas set this tablet here,
Time laughed at the vain chanticleer;
And ere the moss had dimmed the stone,
Time had defaced that garrison.
Now I in turn keep watch and ward
In my red house, in my walled yard
Of sunflowers, sitting here at ease
With friends and my bright canvases.
But hark, and you may hear quite plain
Time's chuckled laughter in the lane.
312

Fixed Is The Doom

Fixed Is The Doom
FIXED is the doom; and to the last of years
Teacher and taught, friend, lover, parent, child,
Each walks, though near, yet separate; each beholds
His dear ones shine beyond him like the stars.
We also, love, forever dwell apart;
With cries approach, with cries behold the gulph,
The Unvaulted; as two great eagles that do wheel in air
Above a mountain, and with screams confer,
Far heard athwart the cedars.
Yet the years
Shall bring us ever nearer; day by day
Endearing, week by week, till death at last
Dissolve that long divorce. By faith we love,
Not knowledge; and by faith, though far removed,
Dwell as in perfect nearness, heart to heart.
We but excuse
Those things we merely are; and to our souls
A brave deception cherish.
So from unhappy war a man returns
Unfearing, or the seaman from the deep;
So from cool night and woodlands to a feast
May someone enter, and still breathe of dews,
And in her eyes still wear the dusky night.
385

Farewell to the Farm

Farewell to the Farm
The coach is at the door at last;
The eager children, mounting fast
And kissing hands, in chorus sing:
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!
To house and garden, field and lawn,
The meadow-gates we swang upon,
To pump and stable, tree and swing,
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!
And fare you well for evermore,
O ladder at the hayloft door,
O hayloft where the cobwebs cling,
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!
Crack goes the whip, and off we go;
The trees and houses smaller grow;
Last, round the woody turn we sing:
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!
358

Fairy Bread

Fairy Bread
Come up here, O dusty feet!
Here is fairy ready to eat.
Here in my retiring room,
Children ,you may dine
On the golden smell of broom
And the shade of pine;
And when you have eaten well,
Fairy stories hear and tell.
421

Envoy For A Child's Garden Of Verses

Envoy For "A Child's Garden Of Verses"
WHETHER upon the garden seat
You lounge with your uplifted feet
Under the May's whole Heaven of blue;
Or whether on the sofa you,
No grown up person being by,
Do some soft corner occupy;
Take you this volume in your hands
And enter into other lands,
For lo! (as children feign) suppose
You, hunting in the garden rows,
Or in the lumbered attic, or
The cellar - a nail-studded door
And dark, descending stairway found
That led to kingdoms underground:
There standing, you should hear with ease
Strange birds a-singing, or the trees
Swing in big robber woods, or bells
On many fairy citadels:
There passing through (a step or so -
Neither mamma nor nurse need know!)
From your nice nurseries you would pass,
Like Alice through the Looking-Glass
Or Gerda following Little Ray,
To wondrous countries far away.
Well, and just so this volume can
Transport each little maid or man
Presto from where they live away
Where other children used to play.
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see if you but look
Through the windows of this book
Another child far, far away
And in another garden play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is still on his play-business bent.
He does not hear, he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away;
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.
352

Escape at Bedtime

Escape at Bedtime
The lights from the parlour and kitchen shone out
Through the blinds and the windows and bars;
And high overhead and all moving about,
There were thousands of millions of stars.
There ne'er were such thousands of leaves on a tree,
Nor of people in church or the Park,
As the crowds of the stars that looked down upon me,
And that glittered and winked in the dark.
The Dog, and the Plough, and the Hunter, and all,
And the star of the sailor, and Mars,
These shown in the sky, and the pail by the wall
Would be half full of water and stars.
They saw me at last, and they chased me with cries,
And they soon had me packed into bed;
But the glory kept shining and bright in my eyes,
And the stars going round in my head.
449

Dedication

Dedication
MY first gift and my last, to you
I dedicate this fascicle of songs -
The only wealth I have:
Just as they are, to you.
I speak the truth in soberness, and say
I had rather bring a light to your clear eyes,
Had rather hear you praise
This bosomful of songs
Than that the whole, hard world with one consent,
In one continuous chorus of applause
Poured forth for me and mine
The homage of ripe praise.
I write the finis here against my love,
This is my love's last epitaph and tomb.
Here the road forks, and I
Go my way, far from yours.
399

Duddingstone

Duddingstone
WITH caws and chirrupings, the woods
In this thin sun rejoice.
The Psalm seems but the little kirk
That sings with its own voice.
The cloud-rifts share their amber light
With the surface of the mere -
I think the very stones are glad
To feel each other near.
Once more my whole heart leaps and swells
And gushes o'er with glee;
The fingers of the sun and shade
Touch music stops in me.
Now fancy paints that bygone day
When you were here, my fair -
The whole lake rang with rapid skates
In the windless winter air.
You leaned to me, I leaned to you,
Our course was smooth as flight -
We steered - a heel-touch to the left,
A heel-touch to the right.
We swung our way through flying men,
Your hand lay fast in mine:
We saw the shifting crowd dispart,
The level ice-reach shine.
I swear by yon swan-travelled lake,
By yon calm hill above,
I swear had we been drowned that day
We had been drowned in love.
319

De Hortis Julii Martialis

De Hortis Julii Martialis
MY Martial owns a garden, famed to please,
Beyond the glades of the Hesperides;
Along Janiculum lies the chosen block
Where the cool grottos trench the hanging rock.
The moderate summit, something plain and bare,
Tastes overhead of a serener air;
And while the clouds besiege the vales below,
Keeps the clear heaven and doth with sunshine glow.
To the June stars that circle in the skies
The dainty roofs of that tall villa rise.
Hence do the seven imperial hills appear;
And you may view the whole of Rome from here;
Beyond, the Alban and the Tuscan hills;
And the cool groves and the cool falling rills,
Rubre Fidenae, and with virgin blood
Anointed once Perenna's orchard wood.
Thence the Flaminian, the Salarian way,
Stretch far broad below the dome of day;
And lo! the traveller toiling towards his home;
And all unheard, the chariot speeds to Rome!
For here no whisper of the wheels; and tho'
The Mulvian Bridge, above the Tiber's flow,
Hangs all in sight, and down the sacred stream
The sliding barges vanish like a dream,
The seaman's shrilling pipe not enters here,
Nor the rude cries of porters on the pier.
And if so rare the house, how rarer far
The welcome and the weal that therein are!
So free the access, the doors so widely thrown,
You half imagine all to be your own.
411

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Identification and basic context

Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson was a prolific Scottish writer. He is celebrated for his novels, novellas, poems, and travel writings. His most famous works include "Treasure Island," "Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde," and "Kidnapped." Stevenson's writing often delves into the complexities of human nature, the allure of adventure, and the darker aspects of the psyche. His contributions span various genres, leaving a lasting impact on literature.

Childhood and education

Born into a family of prominent civil engineers, Stevenson's early life was marked by a frail constitution and frequent illnesses, including respiratory problems. Despite his physical challenges, he received a rigorous education. He attended the University of Edinburgh, initially studying engineering and then law, though his passion for writing led him to pursue literature. His childhood was filled with stories and a vivid imagination, which would later fuel his creative endeavors. He was exposed to a wide range of literature and intellectual discussions within his family and social circles.

Literary trajectory

Stevenson's literary career began to gain momentum in the 1870s. His early works included essays and travelogues, such as "An Inland Voyage" and "Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes." He gained significant recognition with the publication of "Treasure Island" in 1883, followed by "Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" in 1886. His output was prolific, encompassing novels, short stories, poetry, and essays. His work evolved over time, moving from travel writing and essays to powerful fictional narratives that explored moral and psychological themes. He also contributed to various periodicals and collaborated on plays.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Stevenson's major works include "Treasure Island" (1883), "Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" (1886), "Kidnapped" (1886), and "The Master of Ballantrae" (1889). His dominant themes often revolve around adventure, morality, the duality of human nature, the supernatural, and the exotic. His style is characterized by clarity, vivid imagery, and a strong narrative drive. He masterfully employed storytelling techniques, creating memorable characters and compelling plots. His poetic works, such as "A Child's Garden of Verses," showcase a different, more lyrical and imaginative side. He was adept at creating suspense and exploring psychological depths within his characters. His language is precise and evocative, contributing to the immersive quality of his stories. While often associated with adventure fiction, his works also carry profound philosophical and moral undertones.

Cultural and historical context

Stevenson lived during the Victorian era, a period of significant social, industrial, and intellectual change in Britain. His work often reflects the era's fascination with exploration, empire, and the contrasting forces of progress and tradition. He was part of a literary scene that included contemporaries like George Meredith and Andrew Lang. His adventurous spirit and extensive travels also positioned him as a chronicler of different cultures and landscapes, engaging with the burgeoning interest in anthropology and geography of his time. His exploration of the darker side of human nature and societal hypocrisy can be seen as a commentary on the complexities of Victorian society.

Personal life

Stevenson's personal life was marked by his ongoing struggles with ill health, which significantly influenced his writing and his choice of residence. He married Fanny Vandegrift Osbourne, an American woman he met in France. Their relationship was a source of support and inspiration for him. His travels, often undertaken in search of a healthier climate, led him to live in various parts of the world, including the United States, Samoa, and the South Pacific. These experiences deeply enriched his understanding of different cultures and provided settings for his later works. He maintained friendships with other writers and artists, though his health often limited his social engagements.

Recognition and reception

During his lifetime, Stevenson achieved considerable fame and critical acclaim, particularly for his adventure novels. He was recognized as a significant literary voice of his generation. Posthumously, his reputation continued to grow, cementing his status as a classic author. His works have been widely translated and have remained consistently in print, appealing to both young and adult readers. While some critics have focused on his adventure elements, others have delved into the deeper psychological and philosophical aspects of his writing.

Influences and legacy

Stevenson was influenced by a range of authors, including Sir Walter Scott, Charles Dickens, and Edgar Allan Poe. His own work, in turn, has had a profound influence on countless writers, particularly in the genres of adventure, gothic, and children's literature. His innovative narrative techniques and explorations of character have left an indelible mark on storytelling. "Treasure Island" remains a cornerstone of adventure fiction, and "Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" has become a cultural touchstone for exploring themes of duality. His legacy endures through his enduring popularity and his continued presence in educational curricula and popular culture.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Stevenson's works are often analyzed for their exploration of moral dilemmas, the conflict between civilization and savagery, and the nature of identity. The duality presented in "Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" has been interpreted in various ways, from psychoanalytic perspectives to broader social commentary on repression and freedom. Critics often examine his use of symbolism, his engagement with themes of the uncanny, and his ability to create gripping narratives that also provoke thought. His exploration of the exotic and the 'other' in works like "The Beach of Falesá" also invites critical discussion regarding colonialism and cultural representation.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Stevenson was known for his distinctive appearance, often wearing a velvet jacket and a jaunty hat. He had a lifelong fascination with the macabre and the supernatural, which informed much of his fiction. His intense desire to write and create, despite his chronic ill health, is a testament to his determination. He was also a keen observer of human nature and social customs, which he captured vividly in his writings. His nomadic lifestyle, dictated by his health, allowed him to experience a wide array of environments and cultures, shaping his unique perspective.

Death and memory

Robert Louis Stevenson died of a cerebral hemorrhage in 1894. He was buried on Mount Vaea in Samoa, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. His tomb is marked by an inscription of his own poem, "Requiem." His death was mourned by many, and his legacy has been preserved through his enduring literary works, which continue to be read, studied, and adapted worldwide.