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Second Editions, in white parchment covers, A POETRY OP EXILES >- scarlet-printed, on thick, rough-edced, hand- *«■»*"» w fiAiiiBR, r fnadf paper, square 2omo. Price is. each. A POETRY OF EXILES,; (Second Series). [In the Press. EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE. Second Edition. Uniform with the two last named, but thrice as thick. Price 4s. A SUMMER CHRISTMAS: A Story of Station Life in Australia. In green clotli boards. Price 6s. IN CORNWALL AND ACROSS THE SEA. A thick Octavo Volunx , in scarlet and white binding. Printed on thick, rough-edged, hand- made paper. Price 6s. SEIZED BY A SHADOW : A Novel with a Ghost Story. Written under the pseudonym of Rose Mitllion. In fancy paper covers. Price is. THE SPANISH ARMADA : A Ballad of 1588. Second Edition. Uni- form with Australian Lyrics, but in old Dutch paper ciwers. Price 6d. And Published by IVALTER S.COTT &' CO. AUSTRALIAN BALLADS AND RHYMi;S in the 'Canterbury Poets' Series. Price is. A CENTURY OF AUSTRALIAN SONO in the ' Windsor Poets ' Series. Price 3s. 6d. And, Uniform with this Volume, AUSTRALIA lo Master-Poets SONOH — Tim Song of n Heathen . . I Love her (Jentle Forehead '' lk>y(md the Uranehes of the Pine " . "The Woods that bring the Sunset near" " Oh L«>ve is not n Summer Mood " Song Only Once PAQB 120 122 123 124 129 131 137 140 142 142 145 148 152 154 154 1.^.6 157 158 169 161 163 164 165 165 166 167 168 169 171 172 173 173 174 174 175 175 176 CONTENTS. Xlll PAGE SONNKTS — " My Love for Thee doth March like Armed Men " .176 The Dark Room . . . . . . . .176 On the Life-Mask of Abraham Limiolii . . .177 Love's Jealousy . . . . . . . .178 The Celestial Passion 178 The Evening Star 179 The Sonnet ... 1 79 Keats ISO Father and Child 180 "Call me not Dead" 181 John Boyle O'Reilly (1844-1890)— JacqueminotH . . . . . . . .181 The Celebes 182 A Savage .183 Love'.s Secret 183 Distance ......... 184 Uncle Ned's Tale 184 Western Australia ....... 193 Dying in Harness . . . . . . . .194 J. H. Boner (1845)— " We Walked among the Whispering Pines " . The Light'ood Fire Maurice TnoMrsoN (1844) — The Death of the White Heron .... Ceres ......... Diana ......... * An Exile 197 193 190 202 203 204 Will Carleton (184r))— The First Settler's Story KnoAR Fawcett (1847)— Imix^rfection . The Punishment . The Meeting . To an Oriole . Tlie Mo«)n in the City Decoration Day Fiat Justitia . Gold . Still Water . Matttor anck The Banner of the Jew . A Masque of Venice Julie Mathilde Lippmann (1864)- A Song of the Road Time PAGE 416 417 418 418 419 420 421 421 421 422 422 424 425 426 427 427 428 429 430 431 432 432 433 Louise Chandler Moulton— A i ainted Fan The House of Death How Long .... We liay us Down to Sleep " If there were Dreams to Sell " When Day was Done At End Heart ! Sad Heart : A Rondel Wife to Husband . TKc Venus of Burne Jones 434 435 436 438 439 440 441 442 442 443 444 445 445 445 446 -im XX CONTENTS. PACK The Last Good-Bye 447 After Death 447 The Cup of Death 448 HicJacet 448 A Cry 449 Nora Perry — After the Ball . . . . Tying her Bonnet under her Chin . The Romance of a Rose Abraham Lincoln's Christmas Gift , Riding Down . . . . Cressid ...... 449 451 453 455 456 457 i Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward (1844)— All the Rivers 459 On the Bridge of Sighs 460 Afterward 460 Galatea 461 Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt (1836) — There was a Rose 463 In Doubt 464 Broken Promise 464 The Watch of a Swan 464 The Witch in the Glass 465 Comfort through a Window 465 Making Peace 466 Margaret Junkin Preston— A Blemished Offering 467 A Belle of Praeneste 468 Persephone 470 The First Thanksgiving Day 471 Edna Dean Proctor — Easter Morning 473 El Madhi to the Tribes of the Soudan . . . .476 The Brooklyn Bridge 478 Heroes 480 Amelie Rives (1863)- Orief and Faith A Sonnet . 481 483 CONTENTS. XXI TAGK Harriet Prescott Spofford (1835) — Magdalen 484 Agatha's Sorig ........ 485 The Lonely Grave 486 Oak Hill 488 An Old Song 488 Goldsmith's Whistle 489 Celia Thaxter (1836)— The Only Foe 494 Song 495 A Tryst 495 Slunibei- Song 498 Schumann's Sonata in A Minor 498 Edith Matilda Thomas (1854) — The Quiet Pilgrim .'500 Exiles 501 Frost 501 Mary Ashley Townsend (1836) — Down the Bayou ........ 502 How Much do you Love Me ...... 505 Ella Wheeler Wilcox — Solitude 506 Answered ......... 507 Midsummer ......... 508 The Lost Garden 509 The Story 511 Advice .......... 511 My Ships 512 Will 513 Winter Rain 514 Life 514 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. William Wilfred Campbell (I860)— Keziah 519 A Lake Memory 521 Three Things 521 Manitou • . . . 522 Georoe Frederick Cameron — By the Fountain 523 The Way of the World 526 i I Vi I xxii CONTENTS. PAOB Shelley 626 True Love and Tried 527 What Matters It ? 528 Our Poets 529 Death 530 On Life's Sea 532 Relics 534 Bliss Carman (1861)— Stir 535 Death in April ........ 535 A Windflower 542 A. H, Chandler — The Death-Song of Chi-wee-moo 542 Isabella Valancy Crawford — The Canoe 543 Hereward K. Cockin — Epitaph on an Early Settler 546 John Hunter Duvar (1830) — From Enamorado . . . . . . . .548 Son J? from Enamorado . . . . . . .549 'fwilight Song (from De Robcrval) ..... 549 Brown of England's Lay ...... 550 The Eev. Arthur Wentworth Hamilton Eaton — L'Ordre de Bon Temps ....... 551 The Legend of Gloo.-icap ...... 552 The Resettlement of Acadia ...... 554 At Grandmother's ........ 557 The Voyage of Sleep 559 The Whaling Town 560 Flood Tide 561 Love-Letters . ........ 561 Sometime ......... 562 Louis Frechette — . "Saint-Malo" . . 563 " Le Drapeau Anglais " . . . . . . . 564 "La Decouverte da Mississippi" ..... 566 James Hannay — A Ballad of Port Royal 570 Sophie M. Hensley — Triumph 572 There is no God 572 CONTENTS. xxiii Matthew Richey Knight — Dream and Deed . . . . . . . ' . 573 A Song of Failure 573 Archibald Lampman (1861) — Heat 575 Between the Rapids . . . . . . .577 One Day 579 The Weaver 579 Comfort 580 Outlook 581 Knowledge ......... 581 The Railway Station 582 William Douw Lighthall — National !('ymn , . . 582 Canada uub Last 583 Homer 585 Arthur John Lockhart — Guilt in Solitude 586 Frost-Work 589 Burton W. Lockhart— Song 589 Life's Noblest Heights 590 Agnes Maule Machar — Drifting among the Thousand Islands .... 590 The Whip-poor-will 591 Two Visions . . . ... . . .592 In the Studio 593 William M'Lennan — «' The Pines "—Mount Royal 595 Charles Mair (1840)— From " The Tecumseh " 595 Mary Morgan [Gowan Lea] — " In Apprehension, so Like a God ! " . . . . 598 Charles Pelham Mulvaney (1835) — From Far 599 South Africa Remembered at Niagara, Canada . . 600 Some One Comes COO .^Pjic^ecs; TTsmeitKm I XXIV CONTENTS. John Eeade (1837) — Antigone British Canada to Mr Louis H. Frechette Pictures of Memory Dominion Day In my Heart . . . - . Professor Chari.es George Djjolas Roberts - Collect for Dominica Day Canada , Khartoum The Pipe; of Pan . The Isleh : An Ode . Salt .... Severance. Actaeon . PAGE 601 602 602 605 607 608 609 610 611 613 614 615 615 Elizabeth Gostuycke Roberts — A Secret Song .... The Rev. F. G. Scott (18G1)— Time Knowledjfe 621 622 622 British War Song Estrangement . Phillips Stewart (18G3)- Fope Alone At Sea . Barry Straton— The Robin's Madrigal From The Building of the Bridge .... Arthur Weir (ISfil)— L'Ordro thi Bon Temps At Baiitbow L»ke ....... In Absence AlTKNDiX I. — A Study of Sidney Lanier by Mrs Laurence Turnbidl Appendix IL — Pruaident Galea uu Sidnc y Lanier .... 624 624 625 626 627 627 628 629 6:31 632 635 645 III TO THE READER.* The literary men of England and the United States are one people, with the same tastes and a reciprocal feeling of affection. No English author can be in- sensible to the efforts of American authors and the leading American publishing houses to persuade their Government to join the international copy- right league, and there is no more appreciative audience than the American. With the works of English authors, rising as well as risen, our cousins are laudably familiar. But the compliment has not been returned, and this book is an attempt to make English readers know something more of the bright young poets whose names they see in the great international magazines — Tlie Oentury and llavper's. I have confined myself to writing of the younger poets, for tv/o reasons. The British Public is as conversant as it is ever likely to be with the poems of Longfellow, Bryant, Poe, Emerson, Whitti(T, Holmes, and Lowell, and it would therefore have been a great pity to use up th(i larger amount of space which must have been allotted to them to preserve proportion, while, on the other hand, it would have '»een very impertinent to have in- cluded them without an exhaustive study of their works, in order to contribute something fresh about * This introdiiction is an cxjiansion of my two articloH wliicli ftpltparod in tho New York huhprndcnt vi Junu I'ith and Juimj lUth, 18U0. XXVI TO THE READER. % ^\ w them — not to mention the dog-in-the-mangering about copyrights. Nor has there, as far as I know, been any at- tempt made in England to put before the PubHc a work dealing only with the contemporary part of Ainerican poetry. Before going further, it would perhaps be as well to define "Younger American Poets." The ante-bellum poets, those whose fame was already secure before the War, naturally did not fall into this limitation. But the War itself seemed hardly a satisfactory line of demarcation. However, while considering this question, I happened to notice that Paul Hamilton Hayne, whom I have accordingly made the patriarch of this work, was born on the 1st of January 1830. And as the book was going to press at the end of 1889, this gave me an exact period of sixty years. As it seemed, also, that no colfection of " Younger American Poets " would be complete without those who were judged in their lifetime among the most likely to furnish successors to the Lcmgfellow group — " H. H.," Sidney Lanier, Emma Lazarus, Edward Rowland Sill, and the poets of the South, Paul Hayne and Fathi^r Ryan, I deci iHli asaBE xxxvm TO THE READER. '!« ' T'lat once let the herd at its breath take fright, Nothing on earth can stop the flight ; And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, Who falls in front of their mad stampede ! • ••••• •• Was that thunder ? I grasped the cord Of my swift mustang without a word. I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind. Away 1 on a hot chase down the wind ! But never was fox-hunt half so hard, And never was steed so little spared. For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared ^ In Texas, down by the Eio Grande. The mustang flew, and we urged him on ; There was one chance left, and you have but one : Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse ; Crouch under his carcase, and take your chance ; And if the steers in their frantic course Don't batter you both to pieces at once. You may thank your star ; if not, good-bye To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh. And the open air and the open sky. In Texas, down by the Rio Grande ! The cattle gained on us, and just as I felt For my old six-shooter behind in my belt, Down came the mustang, and down came we. Clinging togetlicr, and — what was the rest '\ A body that spread itself on my breast. Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, Two lips that hard on my lips were prest; Then came thunder in my ears, As over us surged the sea of steers. Blows that beat blood into my eyes, And when I could rise — Lasca was dead ! I gouged out a grnvo a few feet deep. And there in earth's arms I laid her to sleep ; And there she is lying, and no one knows. And the summer shines and the winter snows; For many a day the flowers have spread A pall of netals over her head ; And the little grey hawk hangs al«»H in the air. And the sly coyote trots here and there, TO THE READER. XXXIX And the black snake f'lides and glitters and slides Into a rift in a cotton ,70od tree; And the buzzard sails on, And comes and i? gone, Stately and still like a ship at sea ; An 1 I wonder why I do not care For the things that are like the things that were. Does half my heart lie buried there In Texas, down by the Rio Grande ? Frank Desprez. In support of my estimate of the cherry-stone- carvers I quote the satire of Dr William Hayes Ward, a great scholar, and one of the editors of the ImJ ('pendent, at once the principal religious journal of the United States, and that which attaches more importance to literary contributions than any regular nc^wspapf^i*, with perhaps a single excep- tion : — But who are these ? A company of youth Upon a tessellod pavement in a court. Under a marble statue of a niupo. Strew hot-house flowers before a mimic fount Drawn from a faucet in a rockery. With mutual admiration they repeat Their bric-a-brackery of rococo verse, Their versicles and icicles of song ! What know ye, verse wrights of the Poet's art ? Wliat noble passio;^ or v u it holy heat Is stirred to frenzy when your eyes admire The peacock feathers »»ti o, frescoed wall, Or painted posies on a lady's fan i Are these thine only ba/ds, young age, whose eyes Are blind to Heaven and heart of nmn ; whose blood Is water, and not wine ; unskiiltd in notes Of liberty, and iicly love of land, And -an, and all tiii»ig8 beautiful ; deep skilled To luish wit in nioasiired f»'et, t > wind V wenry labyrinth of laboured rin mes, 11*1*' 1 y r And cipher verses on au abacus i h I ■ '; ! i 1 rifi • 1 1 ft i i xf TO THE HEADER. Are these thy poets, age of trusts and rings, Of stolen wealth and Senate rsillionaires ? These who have only seen the chiselled Muse, And never felt her life ? Why, tell me — but Ye know not — did the tuneful Nine attend Great Phoebus, god of the all-kindling sun ? Ye never learned at Thespian festival How bubbling Hippocrene answered the foot Of Pegasus, nor how the Delian god, Apollo, god of poets and the lyre. Father of healing, speaker of oracles, Strangled the Python and the Sniinthian plague. Nor would ye care to see him come again With lyre and knife to flay the Marsyan sham 1 Ye elde" seers surviving, grey with love Of fellow man, and beauty's sanctities, Delay your flight. Browning and Tennyson, Lowell and Whittier, till these ears shall hear Some higher note that might call back our dead, And teach us to despise mechanic bards Expert to solder silver filigree. To carve out verse to order and for pay. Product and purchase of the magazine.* While Stedman, in his Poets of America, remarks that the brilliant young men who would have been poets were all writing novels, and, judging from their prose, such men as G. W. Cable and Frank Ibtockton would have been fully armed if they had leapt into the arena of poetry. It has been soid that America will never produce a national poet till she produces one inspired by the axe. In this class of poetry no younger American has higher claims than John James Piatt He is essentially the farmer-pott — he who has been most successful in capturing the spirit of Beauty in the clearing, the furrow, and the liarvest field. There is a fine simplicity in Piatt's Illinois • V, Frum "The luvucatiuD," uubliihod iu tho JnUcpctultnt of May 10, 1888. TO THE READER, xli and Ohio poems, as dignified and interesting as it is simple. Speaking of Piatt reminds me of his colleague in his first volume of poems, who has since, in another line, risen to a pinnacle in both nations — William Dean Howells. I think Howells, as a poet, has received scanty justice. Few of the younger poets have so much of the Longfellow quality, though he treats a more fa?ailiar class of subjects. The subjects he chooses are interesting, and he treats them with a great deal of poetical grace and musicality, as well as the qualities for which his novels are famous. Two of the best lyrics in this book are by poets v^-ery little known, except through the columns of the Century Magazine, Will Wallace Harney and Henry Ames Blood. And even David Gray, author of one or two of the finest American sonnets, and a poem on Sir John Franklyn, that might be as popular in England as Sir Francis Hasting Doyle's "Private of the Buffs," when it becomes known there, is only familiar to certain circles. Another gap in the poetical brotherhood has occuri?'! since I began — that fair, rare spirit, Henry Bernard Carpenter, authoj.' of the strange, woi 'J poem "A Trio for Twelfth Night," which bt ,r . tSf fc tamp of spontaneous generation by poetic fienz} IS distinctly as the " Ancient Mariner ; " r.utJior £i.;i J of the " Liber Amoris," a mystical poem which is a failure as a whole, but pregnant with noble passages and rich touclies. The " Liber Amoris" is like one of the great fifteenth century pictures, ill-digested, lacking in unity to our modern id«ui':, but with hero a little episode, there a magni- fi • \t suit of armour (sometimes even smith's work (. f T'M and jewels let into the canvas), now a tree, xlii TO THE READER. now a flower, now a champing horse exquisitely done, not to mention the castle in the background, upon which fancy has run wild. Englishmen will remember him as the Unitarian brother of the Bishop of Ripon, Dr Boyd Carpenter. Another luxuriant genius is Cincinnatus Hiner Miller, better known by his nom de p/itme of Joaquin Miller. Few of the younger poets have been :read so much as Miller, who is as well known in England and Australia as in America. And rightly, for MiUer, at anyrate, is distinctly American, and has brok * ^'.h ground. He has been called the Poet of th^j orras, and he difters from Bret Harte by the int. jduction of the horse on to his stage. Harte leans more to the Anglo-Saxon side of Western life with its miners, Miller more to the Spanish side with its vaqueros. His poetry is richer than most American poetry. It seems as if the voluptuous South, with its gor- geous colouring and Italian opera mode of life, had been burnt into most of the pottery v/hich comes from his wheel. And many of his pieces are lovely — not fine porceloin, he is too careless or clumsy for that, but like Japanese earthenware — remarkable this piece for bold beauty of form, this for an efi'ective dash of colour, a third for an admirable little rdievo, or a romance animating the whole. Miller can tell a good story, and can write a ringing line, but ho cannot gallop gracefully for long to- gether, or tui'n out perfect workmanship. However, many worlvmana poetic Uiip to see perish before "The Ship in the Desert" or the opening part of "The Rhymo of the Great River." ^ Miller's merits and liis faults may bo well illus- 'i 'III TO THE READER. xliii itely mnd, 1 arian inter, iiner \e, of have I nown And rican, called I Bret to his n side to the V 3oetry. )s gor- te, had ■*3 comes lovely isy for rkable . for an lirable whole. i 1 injrin^' ng to- i wever, y a bit ike to or the Great J t I illus- trated by comparing "Kit Carson's Ride" with " Lasca," a poem on the same theme. From California to Chicago is a long way, and Chicago long lay under the stigma of, Gallio- like, " caring for none of these things "; but there is quite a literary movement there now, at the head of which stands that charming writer Eugene Field. Near contemporaries with Field are Charles De Kay, Arlo Bates, and George Parsons Lathrop. De Kay is a man to whom one looks for a great poem, a man who has done much and seen much, with a wonderful variety both of erudition and physical accomplishments. Essentially a strong man, full of vitality and combativeness. His special weakness is that he trains his cannon over the heads of ordinary mortals. He takes it for granted that they will understand his allusions as well ns he does. I never studied a poem of De Kay's without being repaid for the study. His poems are full of suggestiveness, and a kind of philosophy. But the fact remains that they require study, that they are not to be read by him who runs. This, I take it, is a distinct defect. Have a profound meaning in your poems if you like, but have a surface meaning also. It is not every reader who finds leisure or pleasure to tish. De Kay seems to me to write like an overworked man, wlio pours forth poems which he feels to be full of meat, but which he has not the time to distil into clear essence. It is a choice between limiting Ills output, keeping it in the secrecy of his study till lie has th»" opportunity for distilling, which never comes, or keepnig dumb — all equally distasteful to a strong and ardent nature. But it is to such natures, in a happy interval of leisure, that one looks for a great work. '4 ■ i 1 ; 1 , r ; t ' ' 1 xliv TO THE READER. Arlo Bates, T'ho has made quite a mark as a novelist, is a man with a strong personality, in con- versation almost as cynical as his novels, but a good lover and a good hater. His impressive sonnets are an index to the real earnestness of the man. Lathrop is the best war poet among all the younger poets on the Northern side, picturesque, impassioned, pathetic. In his "Gettysburg Ode" he soars to the heights of eloquence. To my mind, the finest work produced among the very young men is J. E. Nesmith's " Monadnoc," the bulk of which I have given. He has written in the style attempted by the pseudo-Nature school, but his work bears the impress of genuine communing with Naturt, and thorough gestation and finish. I do not know the age of Daniel Dawson of Phila- delphia, buh y fc^vo seen some very strong poetry by him. There are poets who should have appeared in this volume, and whom I should have been only too glad to include, such as the third of the Californian triumvirate, Charles Warren Stoddard, whose quality was recognised many years ago by Long- fellow in his Poems of Places, and the Southern War poet, James Ryder Randall, whose " Maryland, my Maryland" was one of the most celebrated songs of the War. But nothing has been inserted in this volume without the permission of both author and publisher, and I did not leceive replies from these gentlemen until too late to include specimens from their poems. I have heard much, also, of G. E. Woodberry's " North Shore Watch," but have never been able to see a copy ns it was privately printed, and the author away from America. There is yet one more little knot whom I should ill i ' ill A. I xlvi .r(? THE /DEADER. Eeynell Eodd. Egbert Louis Stevenson. Austin Dobson. Mary Downing. Eobert, Lord Lytton. Eobert Buchanan. George Barlow Walter C. Smith. Harriet E. Hamilton-King. Mathilde Blinde. Michael Field. Eric Mackay. Egbert Bridges. W. S. Hall Caine. William Sharp. Douglas Sladen. Adam Lindsay Gordon. C. G. D. Egberts. Clement Scott. T. Marzials. Hamilton Aide. Joseph Ashby Sterry. Lewis Carroll. William John Courthope. Westland Marston. Herman Merivale. Gilbert. To pass on to the poetesses, " H. H./' whom I place at their head, has already been discussed, and I am precluded from discussing Edith M. Thomas and the late Emma Lazarus, because copyright difficulties prevent my laying before my readers adequate specimens to support my remarks. I may say, however, that the general verdict places Miss Thomas very high, if not at the head of the living women poets of America. Celia Thaxter is unrivalled as a poetess of the sea, and many editions have attested the way in which her genius is recognised by her fellow- countrymen. One of the volumes from which I quote has passed through sixteen. The poetry of Louise Chandler Moulton is musical, pathetic, delicately finished. She has just that charm which endears " Trefoil " to English readers — a natural singer devoid of poetical artifice or mannerism. I consider her the best woman "tnnet-writer. Next to " H. H." among the poetesses I should place Nora Perry. In spite of unevenness of work- manship. Miss Perry has in a largo degree just i\,- TO THt. READER. xlvii that in which recent American poetry seems to me least remarkable — inspiration. When I read the masterpieces of two brothers, Westiuard Ho and Geoffrey Hamlyn, when I read The Daughter of Heth or " Edinburgh after Flodden," when I read Cable's best work, or that most tragical tragedy, Juliana Horatia Ewing's Story of a Short Life, I feel' the blood tingling at the roots of my hair, the tears welling; I feel their inspiration, pnd say to myself, " This is genius.'' But very little of what I have read for this anthology affects me thus. Stedman has brought this thrill in my veins, this mist over my eyes, once, twice, so have Hayne and Ryan and Lathrop with their battle-pieces, so has Hay with a love poem, and Harte with an episode. These are but few, and I don't know that any of them have stirred me more than "Riding Down." Miss Perry is a New Englander of New Englanders. No one has made the stately figures of the great actors in the Revolution drama rise before us with such a Witch of Endor veri- similitude. What she has done for her magnificent Went- worths Margaret Junkin Preston has done for the Pilgrims, though without the same fire. Harriet Prescott Spofford is a born poetess. Not infrequently in her poems, as in "The Lonely Grave," one comes across that rare note of spon- taneity. Edna Dean Proctor's great poem I am unable to quote, as it has not yet been published. Tliis is much to be regretted, as it is on a purely American theme — "A Voice from the Zuni Indians," and created quite a furore among the literati when recited in Boston. 1 1 1 n ■ 1 'ii' xlviii TO THE READER, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps needs no comment, as she is known all over the world. Reference has been made above to Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Much ridicule has been levelled at her, and much solid success has fallen to her share. I doubt if any living poetess's books sell like hers. Her publisher told me that he had sold 65,000 copies of Poems of Passion. It is interesting to analyse the sources of her success. It was originally due, undoubtedly, to the amatory reputation of her poems. But she has also a considerable gift of melody—can invent a ringing metre, and, choosing her themes from the everyday life of all, has a knack of putting into a pithy line what the average person has been thinking all along but never said. There is a good deal in common, both in the capti- vating jingle of their lines and in the mother- wit with which they put into apophthegms the philo- sophy of the life we live, between her and that most successful of Colonial poets, Adam Lindsay Gordon — the Burns of Victoria. I met an ex-drover from Queensland the other day who asked me if I had ever seen her poems, and told me that he thought " they were splendid ; they reminded him so much of Gordon's." Poetry has its genre as well as painting. I shall close my glance at the contemporary poetry of America with some remarks on four gifted young poetesses who may at any time take a leading position among the women singers of their country, Helen Gray Cone, Danske Dandridge, Louise Imogen Guiney, and Margaret Deland. Of these, so far, Margaret Deland has achieved much the greatest success. Her poems have gone through several editions, while her religious novel, John Ward, Preacher, had quite a phenomenal success. TO THE READER. xlix She writes charming little poems in the style of Herrick ; and some of them, such as the " Affaire d' Amour" quoted, are thoroughly Herrickian in their beauty and spirit. And she had the good fortune to be left alone in her studies after the sweetest poet of the seventeenth century, while others were learning to play the "fair old tunes of France," most of them, it is to be feared, not from the original music, but from the selec- tions of Dobson, Gosse, and Lang. At one time it seemed uncertain whether the cherry-stone- carvers would do a series of cameos from Herrick or Villon ; but the bluff Devonshire parson escaped the chipping, and Mrs Deland was left in un- disturbed possession of her delightful " Old Garden" to cultivate the flowers of seventeenth century England. Louise Imogen Guiney's " Wild Ride " shows genuine inspiration, and when she shakes off" the trammels of her curious and extensive reading, and evolves from herself solely, she has a great promise before her. But, to my mind, almost the most poetical among the very young poetesses are Danske Dandridge and Helen Gray Cone. Their styles and choice of subjects are quite ditferent, but both have the genuine note — are really song-birds. Take for instance Miss Cone's " Tlie Accolade," " Emelie," and " Elsinore," or Mrs Dandridge's "Desire" and "The Dead Moon." Both are happy and ingenious in their metres and subjects, and fresh in their feeling. Here ^I must say a few words of sincere regret n'er two more poets, who died during the progress of this work, Charlotte Fiske Bates, author of the generous poem on Major Andre, "At Tappan," which will bring Englishmen and Americans nearer VA I ;iiii ^1 i,, i ! 1 1 TO THE READER. together, and Dr John Eliot Bowen, whose delicate taste in editing the literary columns of the Inde- pendent, and whose translations of " Carmen Silva," proved him a true poet, as well as a true man. With them I leave the United States to turn for a few minutes to Canada, to which I shall advert very briefly, for two or three reasons. In the first place, my relations with the younger Canadian poets have been so intimate that my judgment might be warped ; and, in the second, it would be difficult to avoid so invidious a topic as compari- son with the younger poets across the border; while, in the third place, with a few exceptions, the selections from Canadian authors have not been made by myself. I had to leave New York and commence my protracted travels across Canada to Japan when I had only begun the Canadian portion f/f my book, and consequently I felt that it would be an advantage to entrust the rest of the selections to Mr Goodridge Bliss Roberts, the literary editor of Progress, who has been making a study of the subject for two or three years past. I am only responsible for the selections from Charles George Douglas Roberts, Jane Elizabeth Gostwycke Roberts, Bliss Carman, Arthur Went- worth, Hamilton Eaton, William Douw Lighthall, George Frederick Cameron, Sophie M. Almon, James Ilannay, and the great Frechette, the laureate of the French Academy. Roberts has been distinctly the most successful of the (English- speaking) younger Canadian poets, his name al- ready being familiar in England as well as the United States. Elspwhere I have had occasion to write very warmly of his work. Carman's " Death in April " had the honour of being accepted by so fastidious a critic as Aldrich ;li I. II 6 ! TO THE READER. li elicate Inde- Silva," irn for advert le first nadian Igment )uld be imparl - border ; options, ,ve not sv York Canada madian elt that b of the ts, the making rs past. 5 from izabeth Went- Ththall, Ahnon, e, the ts has tnglish- |me al- as the i,sion to lour of Lldrich for the Atlantic Monthly; and almost alone of younger poets on this side has he enjoyed the honour of contributing poems to the great English literary papers and reviews. Archibald Lampman and the Rev. W. W. Camp- bell are rivals in the favour of American magazines, and both are genuine poets who hear Nature's many voices, and show direct communication with lier. Cameron rests under the disadvantage of his premature death. Eaton, I think, has been the most happy of the Canadians in treating their national legends. There are few^ writers in the United States who equal him in this respect. His volume, though only recently issued, is one of the best yet produced by a Canadian, with a line Long- fellow-like vein running through it. Mair's fine play; Tecumseh, has, I hear, enjoyed the largest circulation of any Canadian poem. Two poetesses enjoy a wide reputation in Canada, Agnes M. Machar, and the late Isabella Valancy Crawford ; and Sophie M. Almond Hensley has produced a really remarkable sonnet. John Reade is a true poet, whose position as one of the principal leader-writers of Canada, has left him with but little time to write gems like *' In my Heart." The most illustrious poet in the dominion is a French Canadian writer, Louis Frechette, crowned laureate by the French Academy. I was acquainted too late with the unusual merit of Duncan Campbell Scott. The virile and emj)hatic poems noted below are the works of the Rev. Frederick George Scott. P)ut to end these desultory remarks, Canada's day in poetry has not yet come. She has produced no Longfellow, no Bryant, no Poe, no Emerson, :\i^. If m ^' 1 • i ■i 1 lii TO THE READER. no Whittier. But she has a generation of bright young poets coming on, who are, I think, equal to their contemporaries in the United States. In conclusion, I have to thank the authors quoted and their publishers for permission to publish specimens of their works in America. I wish I had to thank them for England also, but the copyright league, much wished for on both sides, is not yet an accomplished fact. I have to give special thanks, for most invaluable assistance in getting my work together, to the editors of the Century Magazine; to Mr Arthur Stedman of the Lihvarx) of American Literature ; to Mr Gleeson White, editor of that admirable little anthology Ballades and Rondeaux, and, above all, to Mr H. O. Houghton, head of the tirm of Houghton, Miitiin & Co. ; to Mr T. Miles of the firm of Roberts Brothers ; and Mr North of the tirm of Charles Scribner's Sons — the three firms which own nearly all the most important copy- rights — both for permissions and help. Nor must I omit to mention the special help received from Dr D. G. Oilman, President of the great Johns Ho])kins University ; President (iates of Kutger's (college ; Dr William Hayes Ward of the Indejyendent ; and Mrs TurnbuU with regard to Sidney Lanie?'. I will conclude with an adaptation of our Australian motto — " Advance America." Douor.As Sladen. is I Tounger American Poets. PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. [Born at Charleston, S.C., Ist January 1830, died near Augusta, Gii., 6th July 1886. Author of Poctna (Boston, 1855) ; Sonnets and other Poem* (New York, 1857) ; Avolia, a Legend of the Island of Cos (Bjston, 1859) ; Lc/cnds and Lyrics (Philadelphia, 1872) ; The Mountain of the Lovers, and other Poems (New York, 1873). The poenn quoted are taken from the complete edition of his poeuis, publinhe I by the D. Lothrop Company, Boston, in 1882, by kind permission of the publishers.] VICKSBURG. A BALLAD. For sixty days and upwards, A storm of slioll and shot Rained round us in a flaming shower, But still we faltered not. " If the noble city p«'rish," Our grand young leader said, "Let the onl}' walls tlie foj shall scale Be ramparts of the dead ! " For sixty days and upwards, The eye of heaven waxed dim ; And e'en throughout Uod'.s holy moin, O'er Chi'istiun pra^or and hymn, % ■iV I i YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. Arose a hissing tumult, As if the jfiends in air Strove to engulf the voice of faith In the shrieks of their despair. There was wailing in the houses, Tliere Wiis trembling on the marts, While the tempest raged and thundered, Mid the silent thrill of hearts : But the Lord, our Shield, was with us, And ere a month had sped. Our very women walked the streets With scarce one throb of dread. And the little children gambolled, Their face's purely raised, Just for a wondering moment. As thu huge bombs whirli d and blazed, Then turned with silvery laughter To the sports which children love, Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought That the good God watched above. Yet tho hailing bolts fell faster, From scores of flame-clud ships, And about us, deiiisor, (hirker. Grew the conflict's wihl eclipse. Till a solid cloud closed o'er ns, Like a type of doom and ire, Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues Of forked and vengeful lire. But tlio unseen hands of anij:els, Those bells ! once more : And pour on the waves of the passing wind The symi)honies of yore. Let the latest born be welcomed By pealings glad and long, Let the latest dead in the cliurchyard bed Be laid with solemn song. And the bolls above them throbbing, Should sound in mournful tone, As if, in grief for a hunnin death. They prophesied their own. Wiio SMys 'tis a desecration To strip the temple towers. And invest the metal of peaceful notes With death-compelling powers'? A truce to cant and folly ! Our people's all at stako, Shall we heed the cry of the shallow fool, Or pause for the bigot's sake ? Then crush the struggling sorrow I Feed high your furnace fires. And mould into deep-mouthed guns of bronze, The bells fiom a hundred s[>ires. Mcthinks no common vongoanco, No transient war eclipse, Will follow the awful thunder-burst From their adamantino lips. Ui 5-., ■ A -f I i^r^ iti * YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. t • r iiis ^ \\ u W A cause like ours is holy, And it useth holy things ; While over the storm of a righteous strife, May shine the angel's wings. Where'er our duty leads us. The grace of God is there. And the lurid shrine of war may hold The Eucharist of prayer. BEYOND THE POTOMAC. They slept on the field which their valour had won, But arose with the first early blush of the sun, For they knew that a great deed remained to be done, When they passed o'er the river. They arose with the sun, and cauglit life from his light, Those giants of courage, tho^e Anaks in fight. And they hiughed out aloud in the joy of their might, Marching swift for the river. On, on ! like the rushing of storms through tlie hills ; On, on I with a tramp that is firm as their wills ; And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills At the thought of the river. Oh ! the sheen of their swords I the fierce gleam of their eyes ! It seemed as on cartli a new sunlim'iit would rise, And, king-like, fiash up to the sun in die skies, O'er their path to the river. But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened witli gore, On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before Like wijigs of death-angels swept fast to the shore. The green shore of tiio river. PAUL HAMILTON HA YNE. 5 As they march, from the hill side, the hamlet, the stream. Gaunt throngs whom the foemen had manacled, teem, Like men just aroused from some terrible dream, To cross sternly the river. They behold the V)road banners, blood-darkened yet fair, And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair, Wliile a peal, as of victory, swells on the air, Rolling out to the river. And that cry, with a thousand strange echoinga spread, Till the ashes of heroes were thrilled in their bed. And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead, " Ay, press on to the river." On, on ! like the rushing of storms through the hills, On, on ! with a tramp that is firm as their wills ; And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills As they pause by the river. Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn At this sight, lost the touch of its aspect forlorn. And she turned on tiie tbeinen, full-statured in scorn. Pointing stern to the river. And Potomac flowed calmly, scarce heaving her breast. With h(!r low-lying hillovvs all hright in the west, For a charm as from (Jod lulled the water:! to rest Of the fair rolling river. Passed ! passed I the glad thousands march safe through the tide ; Hark ! foennin, and hear the deep knell of your pride, Kinging wi'ird-like and wild, pealing up from the side Of the calm-flowing river. 'Nt'iith a blow swift and mighty the tyrant nniy fall j Vnin, vain ! to his gods swolls a . FA UL HAMILTON HA YNE. Thoughts which, perchance, must travel back Across the wild bewildering track Of countless aeons ; memories far. High-reaching, as yon pallid star. Unknown, scarce seen, whose flickering grace Faints on the outmost rings of space. AFTER THE TORNADO, Last eve the earth was calm, the heavens were clear ; A peaceful glory crowned the waning west. And yonder distant mountain's hoary crest The semblance of a silvery robe did wear, Shot through with moon-wrought tissues ; far and near, Wood, rivulet, field — all Nature's face — expressed The haunting presence of enchanted rest. One twilight star shone like a blissful tear. Unshed. But now, what ravage in a night ! Yon mountain height fades in its cloud-girt [)all ; The prostrate wood lies smirched with rain and mire ; Through the shorn fields the brook whirls wild and white ; While o'er the turbulent waste and woodland fall. Glares the red sunrise blurred with mists of fire ! •;•> i.-*» m v\ TRISTRAM OF THE WOOD, Once when the autumn fields were wet. The trumpets rang ; the tide of battle set Toward grey Broceliande, by the western sea. In the fore-front of conflict grimly stood, Clothed in dark armour, Tristram of the Wood, And round him ranged his knights of Brittany. 1^1 lO YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. ' \ Of lordlier frame than even the lordliest there, Firm as a tower, upon his vast destrere. He looked as one whose soul was steeped in trance. Ne'er spake nor stirred he, though the trumpet's sound Echoed abroad, and all the glittering ground Shook to the steel-clad warrior's swift advance ; Ne'er spake nor stirred he, for the mystic hour Closed o'er him then ; the glamour of its power Dream-wrought, and sadly beautiful with love — Love of the lost Tseult. In marvellous stead Of thronging faces, with looks stern and dread, Through the dense dust, the hostile plumes above, He saw his fair, lost Tseult's passionate eyes, And o'er the crash of lances heard her cries, Shrill with despair, when last they twain did part. "While others thrilled to strife, he, thrilled with woe, Felt his life-currents shuddering cold and low Round the worn bastions of his broken heart. Then rolled his way the battle's furious flood ; Squadrons charged on him blindly; blows and blood Showered down like hail and water ; vainly drew The whole war round him, still his bioadsword's glcnm Flaslied in death's front, and still, as mapped in dream. He fought and slew, witting not whom he slew, Nor knew whose arm had smitten him deep and sore — So deep that Tristram never, never more Shone in the van of conflict ; but the smart Of his fierce wound tortured liin» night and day, Till, through God's grace, his life-blood ebbed away, And death's sweet quiet healed his broken heart. WILL. WALLACE HARNEY. ii WILL. WALLACE HARNEY. [Born at Bloomington, Indiana, 20th June 1831. Has resided since 1869 in Florida.] ABONAIS. Shall we meet no more, my love, at the binding of the sheaves, In the liappy harvest-fields, as the sun sinks low. When the orchard paths are dim with the drift of fallen leaves. And the reapers sing together, in the mellow, misty eves: Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! Love met us in the orchard, ere the corn had gathered plume ; Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! Sweet as summer days that die when the months are in the bloom, And the peaks are ripe with sunset, like the tassels of the broom, In the ha[)py harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. Sweet as summer days that die, leafing sweeter each to each ; Oh ! hi>ppy are the apples when the south winds blow ! All the heart was full of feeling : Love had ripened into speech, Like the saj) that turns to nectar in the velvet of the peach, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. Sweet as summer days that die at the ripening of the corn, Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! Jf'9 A :ft M i m i I * 12 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. Sweet as lovers' fickle oaths, sworn to faithless maids forsworn, "When the rausty orchard breathes like a mellow-drinking horn. Over happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. Love left us at the dying of the mellow Autumn eves ; Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! When the skies are ripe and fading, like the colours of the leaves, And the reapers kiss and part, at the binding of the sheaves. In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. Then the reapers gather home, from the grey and misty meres ; Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! Then the reapers gather home, and they bear upon their spears. One whose face is like the moon, fallen grey among the sj)heres, "With the daylight's curse upon it, as the sun sinks low. Faint as far-off bugles blowing, sof c and low the reapers sung ; Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! Sweet as summer in the blood, when the heart is ripe and young. Love is sweetest in the dying, like the sheaves he lies among. In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. !■' V N EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 13 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. [Born at Hartford, Connecticut, 8th October, 1833 ; graduated at Yale University, 1853. Author of Poems, Lyric and Idyllic (New York, 1860) ; Alice of Monmouth, an Idyl of the Great War, and other Poems (New York, 1864) ; The Blameless Prince, and other Poems (Boston, 1869) ; Victorian Poets (Boston, 1875, and London, 1875); Poets of America (Boston, 1886, and London, 1886) ; Lyrics and Idylls, with other Poems (London, 1879) ; Hawthorne and other Poems (Boston, 1877) ; Poetical Works (Boston, 1873, and subsequently with additions). Edited the Poems of Austin Dobson, with an introduction (New York, 1880) ; Is editing, with Ellen Mackay Hutchinson, A Library of American Literature (New York, 1888-90.) The poems quoted by kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, are from the Collected Edition of his Poems, published by that firm.] PAN- IN WALL STREET. Just where the Treasury's marble front Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations ; Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont To throng for trade and last quotations ; Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold Outrival, in the ears of people, The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled From Trinity's undaunted steeple, — Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamour, Above the cries of greed and gain. The curbstone war, the auction's hammer ; And swift, on Music's misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions. To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. And as it stilled the multitude, And vet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw tiie minstrel, where he stood • At ease against a Doric pillar : t [ 'I -ST i ' I /^ ■J" y^ ^ ii' III 14 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. One hand a droning organ played, The other held a Pau's-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impassioned. 'Twas Pan himself had wandered here A-stroUing through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear Tlie prelude of some pastoral ditty ! The demi-god had crossed the seas, — From haunts of shf pherd, nymph, and satyr, And Syracusan times, — to these Far shores and twenty centuries later. A ragged cap was on his head ; But — hidden thus — there was no doubting That, all with crispy locks o'erspread, His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting ; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes. Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them. And trousers, patched of divers hues, Concealed his crooked shanks beneat.i them. He filled the quivering reeds with sound, And o'er his mouth their changes shil'tod, And with his goat's-eyes looked around Where'er the passing current drifted ; And soon, as on Trinacrian hills Tlie nyinphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, Even now the tra lesuicn from their tills, With clerks and porters, crowded near him, The bulls and bears tngother drew From Jauncey C'ourt and Now Street Alley, As erst, if pastorals be true, Came beasts fit)m every wooded valley; The random passers stayed t(* list, — A lioxer iE;i,'()n, rou^di and meriy, A Broadway Daplmis, on Ids tryst With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry. IM EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 15 A one-eyed Cyclops halted long In tattered cloak of army pattern, And Galatea joined the throng, — A blowsy, apple-vending slattern ; While old Silenus staggered out From some new-fiin