Read the Passages to Answer the Accompanying Questions on the Exam. DO NOT WRITE on THIS SHEET!

Read the passages to answer the accompanying questions on the exam. DO NOT WRITE ON THIS SHEET!

From Scene III of Antigone

Ode III from Antigone

CHORUS. Love, unconquerable

Waster of rich men, keeper

Of warm lights and all-night vigil

In the soft face of a girl:

Sea-wanderer, forest visitor!5

Even the pure Immortals cannot escape you,

And mortal man, in his one day’s dusk,

Trembles before your glory.

Surely you swerve upon ruin

The just man’s consenting heart,10

As here you have made bright anger

Strike between father and son—

And none has conquered but love!

A girl’s glance working the will of Heaven:

Pleasure to her alone who mocks us,15

Merciless Aphrodite.

Ozymandias

I met a traveler 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 sculpture 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.

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Wind Tapped Like a Tired Man

By Emily Dickinson(1830 – 1886)

The wind tapped like a tired man,
And like a host, "Come in,"
I boldly answered; entered then
My residence within
A rapid, footless guest,
To offer whom a chair
Were as impossible as hand
A sofa to the air.
No bone had he to bind him,
His speech was like the push
Of numerous humming-birds at once
From a superior bush.
His countenance a billow,
His fingers, if he pass,
Let go a music, as of tunes
Blown tremulous in glass.
He visited, still flitting;
Then, like a timid man,
Again he tapped--'t was flurriedly--
And I became alone.

Not My Best Side

by U. A. Fanthorpe

IIII

Not my best side, I’m afraidI have diplomas in Dragon

The artist didn’t give me a chance toManagement and Virgin Reclamation.

Pose properly, and as you can see,My horse is the latest model, with

Poor chap, he had this obsession withAutomatic transmission and built-in

Triangles, so he left off two of myObsolescence. My spear is custom-built,

Feet. I didn’t comment at the timeAnd my prototype armour

(What, after all, are two feetStill on the secret list. You can’t

To a monster?) but afterwardsDo better than me at the moment.

I was sorry for the bad publicity.I’m qualified and equipped to the

Why, I said to myself, should my conquerorEyebrow. So why be difficult?

Be so ostentatiously beardless, and rideDon’t you want to be killed and/or rescued

A horse with a deformed neck and square hoofs?In the most contemporary way? Don’t

Why should my victim be soYou want to carry out the roles

Unattractive as to be inedible, That sociology and myth designed for you?

And why should she have me literallyDon’t you realize that, by being choosy,

On a string? I don’t mind dyingYou are endangering job prospects

Ritually, since I always rise again, In the spear- and horse-building industries?

But I should have liked a little more bloodWhat, in any case, does it matter what

To show they were taking me seriously.You want? You’re in my way.

II

It’s hard for a girl to be sure if

She wants to be rescued. I mean, I quite

Took to the dragon. It’s nice to be

Liked, if you know what I mean. He was

So nicely physical, with his claws

And lovely green skin, and that sexy tail,

And the way he looked at me . . . .

So when this boy turned up, wearing machinery,

On a really dangerous horse, to be honest

I didn’t much fancy him. I mean,

What was he like underneath the hardware?

He might have acne, blackheads, or even

Bad breath for all I could tell, but the dragon—

Well, you could see all of him

At a glance. Still, what could I do?

The dragon got himself beaten by the boy,

And a girl’s got to think of her future.

Passage from The Indian’s Night Promises to be Dark by Chief Seattle

Day and night cannot dwell together. The red man has ever fled the approach of the white man, as the changing mists on the mountain side flee before the blazing morning sun.

However, your proposition seems a just one, and I think that my folks will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them, and we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the great white chief seem to be the voice of nature speaking to my people out of the thick darkness that is fast gathering around them like a dense fog floating inward from a midnight sea.

It matters but little where we pass the remainder of our days. They are not many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. No bright star hovers about the horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Some grim Nemesis of our race is on the red man's trail, and wherever he goes he will still hear the sure approaching footsteps of the fell destroyer and prepare to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter. A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of all the mighty hosts that once filled this broad land or that now roam in fragmentary bands through these vast solitudes will remain to weep over the tombs of a people once as powerful and as hopeful as your own.

But why should we repine?[1] Why should I murmur at the fate of my people? Tribes are made up of individuals and are no better than they. Men come and go like the waves of the sea. A tear, a tamanawus,[2] a dirge, and they are gone from our longing eyes forever. Even the white man, whose God walked and talked with him, as friend to friend, is not exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers, after all. We shall see.

We will ponder your proposition, and when we have decided we will tell you. But should we accept it, I here and now make this the first condition: That we will not be denied the privilege, without molestation, of visiting at will the graves of our ancestors and friends. Every part of this country is sacred to my people. Every hill-side, every valley, every plain and grove has been hallowed by some fond memory or some sad experience of my tribe.

Even the rocks that seem to lie dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent seashore in solemn grandeur thrill with memories of past events connected with the fate of my people, and the very dust under your feet responds more lovingly to our footsteps than to yours, because it is the ashes of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch, for the soil is rich with the life of our kindred.

The sable braves, and fond mothers, and glad-hearted maidens, and the little children who lived and rejoiced here, and whose very names are now forgotten, still love these solitudes, and their deep fastnesses at eventide grow shadowy with the presence of dusky spirits.[3] And when the last red man shall have perished from the earth and his memory among white men shall have become a myth, these shores shall swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children shall think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway or in the silence of the woods they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night, when the streets of your cities and villages shall be silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled and still love this beautiful land. The white man will never be alone. Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not altogether powerless.

[1]repine: to be discontent or to complain; to yearn for something

[2]tamanawus: a ceremony in which a guardian spirit is summoned, often when death is near

[3]their deep fastness. . . dusky spirits: in the evening, secret places are visited by the souls of the dead