Rembrandt’s The Anatomy Lesson Of Dr Nicolaes Tulp (1632)

Given all the standard genres of painting open to an artist in 17th century Amsterdam – landscape, portraiture, still life, history, religious – you could be forgiven for assuming that the subject of today’s blog, Rembrandt’s The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Nicolaes Tulp, was something of a one-off. It has a seemingly very specific and niche subject: that of an anatomy lesson involving the dissection of a cadaver! In fact, though, at the time of Rembrandt’s work in 1632, there was already a strong tradition of Dutch “guild portraiture” (group portraits commissioned by a professional association such as the Guild of Surgeons) and many of these involved dissection scenes, so Rembrandt’s subject was far from unique for the time.

This was the Dutch Golden Age. Compared to most other countries of 17th century Europe, the Netherlands was positively progressive in its model of government. Since the formation of the Dutch republic in 1581, the Netherlands had experienced the emergence of a national and cultural identity, and both religious freedom and open trade were highly valued. With a burgeoning economy and the rise of the middle classes, it was a place where Dutch scientists – and Dutch artists – were able to experiment without fear of papal censure. Guild portraiture was therefore an expression of Dutch progressivism.

The practice of dissection, prior to the Dutch republic, had been morally questionable: in fact, the Church had officially condemned it, and even post-republic it was still a grey area. However, it was recognised that dissection was part and parcel of scientific advancement, and so Amsterdam’s now-Protestant city council sanctioned the practice on the condition that only the corpses of criminals were used. Anatomic dissections soon became highly popular public events, lasting for several days (and for that reason carried out in the winter, to retard the decay of the cadavers) and generating a substantial income from paying observers.

Artists were thus commissioned to capture the scene and guild members would have paid a pretty sum to be featured in it. What differentiates this painting from all the others was the fact that this was Rembrandt, the most gifted and prolific artist of his age, and typically he undertook to reject the traditional composition of Dutch guild portraiture and instead he adopted a more visceral style. Rembrandt puts the corpse at the centre of the scene and portrays it in full length, in Christ-like repose. It turns a group vanitas portrait into a quite dramatic and arresting image.

The corpse, incidentally, was one Adriaan Adriaanszoon, who was convicted for armed robbery and sentenced to death by hanging (which occurred on the very morning of the dissection). Perhaps not the most illustrious reason to be captured on canvas for posterity, but hey ho!

Fred Astaire’s Revolving Room Dance Sequence in Royal Wedding (1951)

The rotating movie set is a great example of how moviemakers can create cinema magic. An ordinary stage is suspended within a steel gimbal, like a box wedged into a washing machine drum, and then amazing effects can be achieved, whereby actors can be shown to appear to defy gravity. This has been useful for horror movie makers (Jeff Goldblum lurking on the ceiling in The Fly; JoBeth Williams being paranormally rolled up the wall to the ceiling in Poltergeist; Amanda Wyss in the dream sequence from Nightmare on Elm Street…) and the technique was also impressively employed by Stanley Kubrik in a remarkable scene from sci-fi classic 2001: A Space Odyssey. In this scene, a crew member is shown running around the hub of the spacecraft, its rotation providing artificial gravity for his exercise; in reality, he is essentially running on the spot with the entire set rotating beneath his feet. Here’s a brief clip:

Back in 1951, however, director Stanley Donen used the technique to superb effect in musical comedy, in the MGM movie Royal Wedding, which showcased the talents of the suave Fred Astaire. Astaire had already retired once, back in 1946, before being lured back into the movie business to replace the injured Gene Kelly in Easter Parade (1948). Royal Wedding is set in London at the time of the wedding of Princess Elizabeth and Philip Mountbatten, and features songs by Burton Lane and Alan Jay Lerner; however, it was of course the dance routines that make it stand out.

In one of his solos, You’re All the World to Me, Astaire dances on the walls and ceilings of his room (long before Lionel Richie scored a hit with that concept!). The idea had actually occurred to Astaire himself, years before, so it must have been particularly rewarding for him to perfect this clever illusion. Let’s check out the scene both as seen by the movie audience, alongside the “how it’s done” version.

Max Ehrmann’s Desiderata (1927)

I remember, when I was young, my grandma having this enigmatic prose poem on her wall. For some reason I never actually asked her about it; I was merely aware of it and its strangely sagacious words. Beginning strikingly with “Go placidly amid the noise and the haste…”, and continuing with a series of sage aphorisms, I assumed it to be of unknown authorship, and of ancient, perhaps biblical, origin. It was titled Desiderata, which did little to dispel the idea of antiquity.

Time moved on and the piece became half-forgotten. Many years later, however, during a family stay in Haworth, and browsing in an art shop, I came across these words again, and remarked: “My gosh, I know this poem, it used to be on my grandma’s wall!”. My beautiful and thoughtful daughter, Freya, must have quietly noted and internalised my enthusiasm, because when Father’s Day came around, I unwrapped a present from her to find the words of Desiderata carefully, painstakingly written out, as shown below.

As you can see, unlike my grandma’s Desiderata, Freya’s version supplied a name and date: Max Ehrmann and 1927, so I did a little research. Max Ehrmann was an American writer and poet, of German descent, living and working in his home town of Terre Haute, Indiana, when he wrote Desiderata (Latin for “things to be desired”). It turns out that the poem wasn’t even published during Ehrmann’s lifetime; his widow published it in The Poems of Max Ehrmann in 1948. Even then it remained largely unknown, and probably would have stayed that way had it not become the subject of a lawsuit in the seventies, after it had been printed in a magazine without permission. It was deemed by the court to have had its copyright forfeited and to be in the public domain, and this gave it the impetus to be printed in poster form and distributed widely as a set of inspirational dictums; the words connected favourably with people and ended up, as in my grandma’s case, on their walls.

So my assumption of its antiquity was way off the mark, but it seems that I wasn’t the only one to mistake its provenance: in the fifties, the rector of St Paul’s Church in Baltimore, Maryland, used the poem in a collection of devotional materials, that he headed “Old St Paul’s Church, Baltimore AC 1692” (meaning that the church had been founded in 1692). As the material was handed from one friend to another, the authorship became clouded, and a later publisher would interpret this notation as meaning that the poem itself had been found in Old St Paul’s Church, dated 1692.

This confusion no doubt added to the charm and appeal of the poem, and the words were ripe, I suppose, for the inheritors of the “make peace, not war” sensibility of the 1960s. In any event, its message is timeless and its words worthy of examination to this day, particularly at the dawn of a new year when, inundated with bad and divisive news, we might focus on the final stanza and remind ourselves that “With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.”

Now, read on…

Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann

Christina Rossetti’s In The Bleak Midwinter (1872)

Given the season, it’s fair to assume that at some point soon you will be hearing a rendering of Christina Rossetti’s In The Bleak Midwinter. For me, it was last Sunday evening, at our local church’s Christmas carol concert, and of all the carols we know and love (or at least tolerate despite the overkill of decades’ worth of repetition), this is one I can truly get behind, due in no small measure to Gustav Holst’s fitting musical setting.

Rossetti’s poem was first published (as A Christmas Carol) in the January 1872 issue of American literary periodical, Scribner’s Monthly (thus just missing Christmas, ironically), and it presents her unique version of the nativity story. It was set to music in 1906 by Gustav Holst (the composer of The Planets suite), and again by Harold Darke in 1911. Darke’s version has become a staple of the BBC’s Carols From King’s programme, which airs each year on Christmas day, but it’s Holst’s that brings the poem to life for me.

Here is the famous first stanza of the poem:

In the bleak midwinter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone:
Snow had fallen, snow on snow
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter,
Long ago.

Rossetti sets the pre-Nativity scene unequivocally: she piles on the snow (on snow, on snow) and the very sparseness of the language builds on the sense of bleakness introduced in the first line. We get it: it was a bleak landscape (surprisingly, given that the area is sub-tropical and snow only ever falls on the Golan Heights, but let’s not nitpick).

As the poem continues, we are introduced to the familiar juxtaposition of divine power being cast in the humbling circumstances of the lowly stable, with its shepherds and wise men, oxen and asses, cherubim and seraphim. It is a simple celebration of the Christian faith, a winter warmer of an ending to thaw out the bleak snows of the first lines. But it is also a celebration of motherly love, of the mother being the only one able to care for and love her child, despite the presence of heavenly hosts.

But only his mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the beloved
With a kiss

Rossetti’s poem is rightly remembered anew each Christmas, in part because of its simple language and message. With Holst’s tune, a candlelit church, and a congregation of bescarfed carollers, it’s guaranteed to get a late bloomer into the Christmas spirit. Here’s a wonderful rendition by the choir of Kings College, Cambridge…Merry Christmas!

In the bleak midwinter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone:
Snow had fallen, snow on snow
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter,
Long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When he comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty
Jesus Christ.

Enough for him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk,
And a mangerful of hay:
Enough for him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air –
But only his mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man
I would do my part;
Yet what I can, I give him –
Give my heart.

Christina Rossetti

Johannes Brahms’s Hungarian Dance no. 5 in G-minor (1869)

According to influential conductor Hans von Bülow, the German composer Johannes Brahms was one of the “three Bs” of musical composition along with Johann Sebastian Bach and Ludwig van Beethoven (an accolade that Brahms himself would probably have rejected given his personal veneration for both those composers). He was a virtuoso pianist and a prolific composer of symphonies, chamber music, piano, organ and choral works throughout the second half of the 19th century. However, it’s his early experiences leading to his series of Hungarian dances that interest us here.

By the middle of the 19th Century, scores of Hungarian immigrants and refugees from throughout the Austro-Hungarian Empire were flooding into Austria – mostly to Vienna, but also to many other towns including Brahms’s hometown of Hamburg. As a young musician at the beginning of his musical career, Brahms had to play light piano music at taverns to make money. He would also occasionally get hired as an accompanist for a touring musician, and on one evening he had the good fortune to meet one of Hungary’s great touring violinists, Eduard Reményi. Brahms thus learned gypsy music in the intimate musical company of the greatest gypsy violinist of the time.

Forever after cherishing gypsy music, Brahms would go on to publish two sets of Hungarian Dances for two pianos, 21 pieces in all. To this day, however, Hungarian Dance No. 5 is probably the most beloved of his Dances. And rightly so, with its enchanting first theme in a minor key, evoking the swagger and gravitas of a mustachioed Slav lover. The first orchestration of No. 5 was not done by Brahms himself but by Martin Schmeling, but it was this orchestration of Brahms’s transformation of gypsy music that helped it become one of the most treasured pieces in Western music’s repertoire. Enjoy this suitably rousing version, appropriately enough by the Hungarian Philharmonic Orchestra.

 

Johannes Brahms

John Milton’s Paradise Lost (1667)

I’m fascinated by the concept of epic poetry, a literary genre originating in the mists of pre-literate societies, when bards of the time would compose and memorise traditional stories, and pass them on from performer to performer and performer to audience. The classic epic poems that come down to us from ancient history include the Epic of Gilgamesh (composed anywhere between 2500 and 1300 BC), Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey (8th century BC), the Mahabarata (5th century BC), and Virgil’s Aeneid (c.20 BC)…whilst from later medieval and early Renaissance years, we have the Old English Beowulf, the German Nibelungenlied, the French Song of Roland, Dante’s Divine Comedy, Spenser’s Faerie Queene, and John Milton’s Paradise Lost. All of them massively significant in the history of world literature.

What these epic narrative poems have in common is great length (the Iliad contains over 15,000 verse lines; the Mahabarata a whopping 200,000!), featuring vast settings and grand, sweeping themes, usually featuring a hero who participates in a quest or journey, performs great deeds, and generally embodies the ideal traits and moral values of the nation or culture from which the epic emanates. They also have in common the constraint of poetic meter, originally to help the bard recall the lines – in ancient Greek and Latin epic poetry it was dactylic hexameter that lent itself to the languages (dum-di-di dum-di-di); in Renaissance England, iambic pentameter (di-dum di-dum), beloved of Shakespeare of course.

John Milton’s Paradise Lost may not have an obvious hero (given that his “heroes”, in his two main narrative arcs, are Satan and Adam and Eve), but there’s no doubting the grand theme: Milton tackles the epic saga of the Fall of Man, the temptation of Adam and Eve by the fallen angel Satan and their expulsion from the Garden of Eden. Written across 10,000 lines of blank verse in iambic pentameter, Milton starts in media res (another characteristic of the epic, meaning in the midst of the plot with the background story being recounted later) with Satan and the other rebel angels defeated and banished to Hell.

The piece is a monumental and remarkable achievement, particularly given that by the late 1650s, when he started writing Paradise Lost, Milton had become blind and had to dictate the entire work to amanuenses. Milton saw himself as the intellectual heir of Homer, Virgil, and Dante, and sought to create a work of art which fully represented the most basic tenets of the Protestant faith. Like all epic poetry, with its length and archaic language, it’s a slog to read through (and I’m not recommending it), but there’s no doubting its influence down the ages.

Here are the opening lines where Milton lays out his intentions (to “justify the ways of God to men”):

Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
Sing heavenly muse, that on the secret top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire
That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed,
In the beginning how the heavens and earth
Rose out of chaos: Or if Sion hill
Delight thee more, and Siloa’s brook that flowed
Fast by the oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.
And chiefly thou Oh spirit, that dost prefer
Before all temples the upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for thou knowest; thou from the first
Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread
Dove-like satst brooding on the vast abyss
And mad’st it pregnant: What in me is dark
Illumine, what is low raise and support;
That to the heighth of this great argument
I may assert eternal providence,
And justify the ways of God to men.

 

 

John Milton

The Dave Brubeck Quartet’s Take Five (1959)

There were two main sub-genres of jazz to emerge in post-war America, morphing out of the big band swing era that had dominated in the 1930s and 1940s: they were bebop and cool jazz. Now, whereas bebop was “hot,” i.e. loud, exciting, and loose, cool jazz was “cool,” i.e. soft, more reserved, and controlled. In bebop, the emphasis was on improvisation; in cool jazz, the emphasis was on arrangement. Bebop was East Coast, nightclub-oriented; cool jazz was West Coast and took jazz out to the college campuses. For bebop, think Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, and Thelonious Monk; for cool jazz, think early Miles Davis, Chet Baker and Dave Brubeck.

Dave Brubeck was one of the most active and popular musicians in the jazz world from the late 1940s forwards. Having served in Patton’s army in Europe during the Second World War, he enrolled at Mills College in Oakland, California to study composition with French composer, Darius Milhaud. It was Milhaud who encouraged him to pursue a career in jazz and to incorporate jazz elements into his compositions, and this cross-genre experimentation with like-minded Mills students led to the formation of the Dave Brubeck Octet in 1947.

It was, however, the smaller incarnation formed in 1951 that would become the “classic” Brubeck outfit – the Dave Brubeck Quartet – featuring Brubeck on the piano, the legendary Joe Morello on drums, Eugene Wright on bass, and long-time Brubeck collaborator Paul Desmond on alto sax. In 1959 they released the album Time Out, featuring the song that would become a jazz standard and the biggest-selling jazz single ever, Take Five. Written by Paul Desmond, Take Five rapidly became Brubeck’s best-known, and signature, tune, famous for its distinctive, catchy sax melody and use of the unusual 5/4 time from which its name is derived. It’s been used in countless movies and television soundtracks, so if you think you don’t know it, I’m pretty sure you will!

Here’s a wonderful recording of the quartet playing Take Five live in Belgium in 1964. Enjoy these master musicians on top of their game…it’s cool, man!

Édouard Manet’s A Bar at the Folies-Bergère (1882)

Édouard Manet is thought of as a leading light of the Impressionists, but actually, although he was associated with them and was admired by Monet and Renoir, he never actually exhibited at any of the Impressionist Exhibitions in Paris. He was more of a precursor to the new era of artistic impressionism, and still had a foot planted firmly in realism. His early work was, however, controversial, and he scandalised critics and public alike, most notably with Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe and Olympia (both 1863), but even these were modelled on old classical masterpieces: Giorgione’s Pastoral Concert (1509) and Titian’s Venus of Urbino (1538) respectively. Let’s have a quick look and see if you can spot, in the mind of a nineteenth century purist, the elements of Manet’s work that transformed elegant classicism into lewd modernism:

However, the subject of this blog is actually the Manet that is arguably the most recognisable…the celebrated A Bar at the Folies-Bergère. The Folies Bergère was the most famous of Paris’s café-concert halls and was noted at this time for its new-fangled electric lights. We see the frontal image of a barmaid looking out at us from behind her counter, and behind her a huge mirror in which we see reflected the back of the barmaid along with the scene that she herself is observing. There are the members of the audience, watching the show, and indeed an element of the show itself: the legs of the trapeze artist which appear in the very top-left corner of the picture.

The woman behind the bar was actually a real person, known as Suzon, who worked at the Folies Bergère during the early 1880s, and whom Manet painted in his studio. The gentleman at the bar was Manet’s neighbour. The bottles, fruit and vase of flowers arranged on the counter are replicated with all the precision of a still life painting, and interesting to note – for such a French-feeling painting – the bottles of British beer: yes, Bass Pale Ale of all things! The loose British connection is maintained: this famous painting is held not in Paris but at the Courtauld Gallery, London.

Édouard Manet

Giacomo Puccini’s Madama Butterfly (1904)

Last year my family and I went to see Puccini’s Madama Butterfly performed at the Royal Opera House. I should mention I suppose that it was the live streaming we attended, at Leeds’s Cottage Road Cinema, rather than the actual event, lest you think your blogger can actually afford to ponce about in the capital, with family in tow, and attend operas at £175 a ticket. Anyway, attend the live streaming we did, and a comfortable and relatively uncostly affair it was.

Operas are not exactly unknown for their exploration of tragic themes, but you would be hard pressed to find a more perfect example of tragedy as expressed in music than Puccini’s masterpiece. Indeed, it was a personal favourite of the composer himself who described it as ‘the most felt and most expressive opera that I have conceived’. This production was directed by Antonio Pappano (who first appeared on my radar in 2015 when I caught his excellent TV series about opera singers, Classical Voices) and featured Albanian soprano Ermonela Jaho in the starring role.

Madama Butterfly is set in Japan at the start of the twentieth century, and tells the tale of the teenage geisha Cio-Cio San (“Butterfly”) and her doomed marriage to Pinkerton, an American naval lieutenant. To Pinkerton, the marriage is one of convenience and shortly after the wedding he leaves Japan. Three years later, Butterfly is still waiting for him, and despite her maid Suzuki endeavouring to convince her that Pinkerton is not coming back, Butterfly won’t listen…and just that dogged belief alone, against all rationale, is enough to break your heart. We know only too well, as does Suzuki, that he’s not coming back.

Actually Pinkerton does come back, but not to Butterfly. Instead, he is – cruel blow! – with his new American wife, and from this point on, Puccini focuses ever deeper on the heartache that culminates in Butterfly committing suicide.

I have selected the electrifying Un bel dì vedremo (One fine day we’ll see) to showcase Ermonela Jaho’s (and Puccini’s) formidable artistic skill. Jaho, as Butterfly, delivers this ravishing and pathos-filled solo from a deep well of emotion. As she steadfastly sings of her belief that Pinkerton will return to her, we can hardly watch, knowing that tragedy awaits! It’s a great performance…

 

 

Ermonela Jaho

Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Ozymandias (1818)

I first heard the classic phrase from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s famous sonnet – “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair” – during one of Stuart Hall’s typically overblown football commentaries in the seventies, somehow managing to tie Shelley’s sublime lines to a gritty encounter between Everton and Spurs. The real deal, I found out later, concerns the fates of history, the ravages of time and the folly of hubris, rather than what was in fact a fifth consecutive nil-nil draw at Goodison Park (hence Hall was employing a certain degree of irony).

Percy Bysshe Shelley first published his sonnet in a January 1818 issue of The Examiner, a periodical that happened to be a champion of the young Romantic poets like Shelley, Keats and Byron. Shelley had written the poem in friendly competition with his friend and fellow poet Horace Smith. The two had spent Christmas 1817 together along with Shelley’s wife, Mary, when a sonnet-writing contest broke out, the subject being an Ancient Greek text which cited the inscription on a massive Ancient Egyptian statue:

“King of Kings Ozymandias am I. If any want to know how great I am and where I lie, let him outdo me in my work.”

So both Shelley and Smith wrote a poem called Ozymandias and in fact Smith’s poem was also published in The Examiner, a few weeks after Shelley’s sonnet. Both poems explore the themes I mentioned above and how the legacies of kings are fated to decay into oblivion.

In antiquity, Ozymandias was a Greek name for the Egyptian pharaoh Ramesses II. Shelley began writing his poem in 1817, soon after the announcement of the British Museum’s acquisition of a large fragment of a statue of Ramesses II from the 13th century BC. The 7.25-ton fragment of the statue’s head and torso was expected to arrive in London in 1818 and it’s a fair inference to assume that Shelley and Smith were inspired by this. So here’s Shelley’s famous poem, followed, should you wish to compare, by Horace Smith’s less well-known offering.

Incidentally, you will perhaps have twigged that this wasn’t the only time that an evening with the Shelleys spent concocting literary challenges would lead to a famous literary work: the previous winter, a similar evening spent discussing ghost stories led to Mary Shelley writing Frankenstein.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

And Horace Smith’s poem…

In Egypt’s sandy silence, all alone,
Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
The only shadow that the Desert knows:-
‘I am great OZYMANDIAS,’ saith the stone,
‘The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
‘The wonders of my hand.’- The City’s gone,-
Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose
The site of this forgotten Babylon.
We wonder,-and some Hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when thro’ the wilderness
Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,
He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

 

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