Atra Cura
Before I lost my five poor wits,I mind me of a Romish clerk,Who sang how Care, the phantom dark,Beside the belted horseman sits.Methought I saw the grisly spriteJump up but now behind my Knight.
And though he gallop as he may,I mark that cursed monster blackStill sits behind his honor's back,Tight squeezing of his heart alway.Like two black Templars sit they there,Beside one crupper, Knight and Care.
No knight am I with pennoned spear,To prance upon a bold destrere:I will not have black Care prevailUpon my long-eared charger's tail,For lo, I am a witless fool,And laugh at Grief and ride a mule.
Words in this poem
- romish a.
- Belonging or relating to Rome, or to the Roman Catholic Church; -- frequently used in a disparaging sense; as, the Romish church; the Romish religion, ritual, or ceremonies.
- clerk n.
- A clergyman or ecclesiastic. [Either OF. clerc, fr. L. clericus a priest, or AS. clerc, cleric, clerk, priest, fr. L. clericus, fr. Gr. Clergy.]
- sprite n.
- A spirit; a soul; a shade; also, an apparition. See Spright. [OE. sprit, F. esprit, fr. L. spiritus. See Spirit, and cf. Sprightly.]
- cursed a.
- Deserving a curse; execrable; hateful; detestable; abominable.
- squeezing n.
- The act of pressing; compression; oppression.
- crupper n.
- The buttocks or rump of a horse. [F. croupi, fr. croupe. See Croup the rump of a horse.]
- witless a.
- Destitute of wit or understanding; wanting thought; hence, indiscreet; not under the guidance of judgment.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Atra Cura is in the public domain. This text is taken from Ballads, Project Gutenberg ebook #2732; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: William Makepeace Thackeray, Atra Cura, in Ballads (1849–1855), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #2732, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/thackeray-ballads/atra-cura.html, id L10386.
Form and metre
Atra Cura is 18 lines in 3 stanzas of 6 lines each. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 90%). 97% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.0 syllables. 1 line ends on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 17% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 A--ABB witsA · clerk · dark · sitsA · spriteB · knightB
- 2 -AA-BB may · blackA · backA · alway · thereB · careB
- 3 --AABB spear · destrere · prevailA · tailA · foolB · muleB
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Before I lost my five poor wits, | 8 | ········ |
| I mind me of a Romish clerk, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Who sang how Care, the phantom dark, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Beside the belted horseman sits. | 8 | ˘/·/˘/˘· |
| Methought I saw the grisly sprite | 8 | ˘/···/˘· |
| Jump up but now behind my Knight. | 8 | ········ |
| And though he gallop as he may, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| I mark that cursed monster black | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| Still sits behind his honor's back, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Tight squeezing of his heart alway. | 8 | ·/˘···/˘ |
| Like two black Templars sit they there, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Beside one crupper, Knight and Care. | 8 | ˘/·/˘··· |
| No knight am I with pennoned spear, | 8 | ········ |
| To prance upon a bold destrere: | 8 | ········ |
| I will not have black Care prevail | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Upon my long-eared charger's tail, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| For lo, I am a witless fool, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| And laugh at Grief and ride a mule. | 8 | ········ |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.