fe >J[ Canterbury poets. EDITED BY WILLIAM SHARP. WOMEN POETS. *% FOR FULL LIST OF THE VOLUMES IN THIS SERIES, SEE CATALOGUE AT END OF BOOK. WOMEN POETS OF THE VICTORIAN ERA. EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUC- TION AND NOTES, BY MRS. WILLIAM SHARP. LONDON : WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, PATERNOSTER SQUARE. TO MY FRIEND MONA CAIRD, THE MOST LOYAL AND DEVOTED ADVOCATE OF THE CAUSE OF WOMAN. 263289 CONTENTS. HARRIET MARTIN EAU PAGE Onward . . . . 1 SARA COLERIDGE Song from " Phantasmiou " .... 3 Zelneth's Lament ...... 5 Phantasmion's Quest of larine .... 6 Lines on the common saying that Love is Blind . 7 CAROLINE NORTON Ifa 8 Babel ..... . . 10 LADY DUFFERIN The Lament of the Irish Emigrant . , .12 JANE WELSH CARLYLE To a Swallow building under our Eaves . . .15 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING The Cry of the Children . . . . .17 The Dead Pan . . . . . .24 A Lay of the Early Rose . . . . .35 A Rhapsody of Life's Progress . . 44 Futurity ... . .52 Perplexed Music ... . . 53 The Soul's Expression . . . . .54 viii CONTENTS. MARY COWDEN-CLARKE PAGE At Midnight of "All Souls" . 65 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE Winter ....... 56 Sonnet I hear a low voice in the sunset woods , 57 Sonnet Art thou already weary of the way . . 58 JANET HAMILTON A Ballad of Memorie ... .59 ELIZA COOK The Fisher-boat ...... (52 NorahM 'Shane . . . . . .64 Song of the Haymakers . . . . .65 EMILY BRONTE The Old Stoic 67 Stanzas Often rebuked, yet always back returning . 68 A Death Scene ...... 69 Remembrance . . . . . .72 Last Lines ....... 74 LADY WILDE ("SPERANZA") The Brothers ... ,76 DORA GREEN WELL Songs of Farewell Death . . . . .80 MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY A Character ....... 82 The Little Fair Soul . . . . .84 CONTENTS. ix GEORGE ELIOT PAGE Two Lovers ..... .87 Arion , . 89 " O, may I join the choir invisible" . . .92 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR Incompleteness . . . . . .94 DINAH MARIA CRAIK RothesayBay ... .96 Semper Fidelia . .98 Philip my King . . 100 CHRISTINA G. RGSSETTI Dream-Land . . . . . . .102 A Birthday ... . .104 Confluents ... ... 105 Echo .... . 107 Rest ... .108 Love Lies Bleeding . . 109 The World . . ... 110 Later Life . . Ill JEAN INGELOW Divided 112 An Ancient Chess King . . . . .118 Work ........ 119 ISA CRAIG-KNOX The Ballad of the Brides of Quair , . .120 HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING Baron Giovanni Nicotera ... .123 x CONTENTS. AUGUSTA WEBSTER PAGE Circe . ..... 133 In a Day . . . .141 English Stornelli . .... 147 VIOLET FANE Rest ........ 148 Forbidden Love . . , . . .150 SARAH WILLIAMS ("SADIE") Song of the Water-Nixies . . . . .151 Growth ....... 153 ISA BLAGDEN Sorrow ....... 154 Endurance . ..... 155 EMILY PFEIFFER "Peace to the Odalisque" . , . .156-7 Evolution ....... 158 To Nature ....... 159 When the Brow of June . . . . .160 A Song of Winter ...... 162 FREDERIKA RICHARDSON MACDONALD Prayer .164 New Year's Eve Midnight . . . .167 ALICE MEYNELL Song As the inhastening tide doth roll . . 169 Thoughts in Separation . . . . .170 Renouncement . . . . .171 The Modern Poet .... .172 Builders of Ruins . . 174 CONTENTS. xi LADY CHARLOTTE ELLIOT PAGE The Wife of Loki 177 LOUISA S. BEVINGTON The Valley of Remorse . . 179 MATHILDE BLIND Chants of Life 186 The Dead . 192 The Reapers . . . . . . .193 Love's Completeness . . . . .194 L'Envoy . . . . . . .195 EMILY II. HICKEY Harebells 198 Madonna della Vita . . . . . .200 A Sea Story . . 204 A. MARY F. ROBINSON Darwinism .... ... 206 The Idea . . . . . . .208 Prelude ... . 210 Janet Fisher . . 213 CONSTANCE C. W. NADEN Sunset .... ... 223 The Pantheist's Song of Immortality . . .224 AMY LEVY The Birch-Tree at Loschwitz ... 226 Sonnet Most wonderful and strange it seems, that I 227 The Two Terrors . 228 xii CONTENTS. ELLICE HOPKINS PAGE Life in Death . . 229 A Vision of Womanhood , . 232 MAY PROBYN Sudden Death . . . , , .234 Villanelle 235 ROSA MULHOLLAND Poverty 237 The Children of Lir . . , . % .238 EVELYN PYNE A Witness . , . . , , . 24t KATHARINE TYNAN West Wind , . 251 Poppies . . 253 JANE LECK Robin and Meg . . , . 256 ELIZABETH CRAIGMYLE Under Deep Apple Boughs . . 259 Chained Tigers .... 2CO-1 Solway Sands. . . . . . .262 E. NESBIT Pessimism ...,.,. 264 The Dead Mother . . , . . .265 CONTENTS. xiii MAY KENDALL PAGE Education's Martyr ...... 267 Woman's Future . . , . . .269 GRAHAM R. TOMSON Open, Sesame . . . . . ,271 Arsinoe's Cats . . . . ... 272 The Smile of All- Wisdom . . . . 274 L. M. LITTLE Remembrance . . , . . ,276 Life 277 MART C. GILLINGTON A Dead March . . , . , ,278 The Home Coming . . . . , .280 ALICE E. GILLINGTON A West-Country Love-Song .... 283 Nocturnes ... . .284 NOTES . .287 PREFACE. IT is a somewhat hackneyed remark, that if some of the poetry of our younger writers had appeared a century ago, the authors would have achieved a fame, or at any rate a reputation, beyond all com- parison with the scanty meed of acknowledgment which is their present reward. It is, however, not generally recognised how much of verse of a high intellectual and artistic quality has been written by women during the last two centuries. One or two names have a high place on the roll of fame ; others are rewarded with honourable if somewhat patronising mention and approval ; and many writers whose productions are of a quality excep- tionally noteworthy are totally forgotten, or as in the case of living authors strangely, and, one is inclined to say, ungenerously neglected. In the great and ever-increasing pressure of literary pro- duction it would be unreasonable to expect that xvi PREFACE. every true voice should make itself heard, even for the brief while of its singing-days : many, indeed most poets, must be content with the inward joy of their art. Since much that is fine in itself, so illustrative of the development of character, so representative of an age, must perish, it is surely well that the quintessence of it the amber left by subsided seas, so to speak should be preserved ; hence one good reason for anthologies. If one's many words are to be as dead and withered leaves, it is a fortunate guerdon from fate if a single lyric, a single sonnet, carry its music or its message to a few hearts here and there among those who come after us. It does not matter if one's name be forgotten, though it is a pleasant thought that it may be mentioned approvingly in days to come. "The Land o' the Leal," "Auld Robin Gray," and other familiar lyrics and poems by women, have survived, not only on account of their pathetic humanity and lyrical sweetness, but also, in some measure at least, because they came into existence at a time when there were far fewer voices than at present, and when the national inheritance of song was not so manifold as it now is. The scope of this volume covers, as the title indicates, the poetic literature produced by women in the last fifty-four years. It is obviously merely PREFACE. xvii arbitrary to draw a decisive line at the year 1836, since any date may mark the prime of the career of certain writers, while at the same time it may usher in the finest efforts of others. I have, therefore, endeavoured to make my selection with reference to writers who breathe the spirit of the Victorian, the Modern Era, rather than conform- ably to the acknowledged limits of any definite period. Thus I have included the interesting poem by Mrs. Carlyle, although it was written in 1832: and, after some hesitation, have decided to omit Joanna Baillie, Mrs. Hemans, and the Baroness Nairne; and for this reason, that though they lived for several years after Queen Victoria's accession to the throne, all their best work was written prior to that event. ^ The group of women writers, among whom these three whom I have just named were dis- tinguished, which immediately preceded the Vic- torian Era, is one of great interest. In this chorus of voices the characteristic quality is lyrical sweetness, while there is to be found a strange combination of strength and weakness, due in great part to the socially fettered condition in which women then lived. The house, with its unrelieved monotony of small daily duties, was still held to be the only sphere in which a woman's life should revolve; writing for publication b xviii PREFACE. was looked upon as unwomanly, and with as much aversion as that with which many people at present regard the idea of women appearing on a public platform. On the threshold of the century died Jean Glover, the daughter of a Scottish weaver; she had married a strolling player, and had become the best actor and singer in his troop. Most of her songs are now forgotten, but the following still remains a great favourite in Scotland : OWEE THE MUIR AMANG THE HEATHER. Comin' through the craigs o' Kyle, Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather, There I met a bonnie lassie Keepin' a' her flocks thegither. Ower the muir amang the heather, Ower the muir amang the heather, There I met a bonnie lassie Keepin' a' her flocks thegither. Says I, my dear, where is thy hame ? In muir or dale, pray tell me whither? Says she, I tent the fleecy flocks That feed amang the bloomin' heather. Ower the muir, etc. We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunnie was the weather ; She left her flocks at large to rove Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather. Ower the muir, etc. PREFACE. xix She charmed my heart, and aye sinsyne I couldna think on ony ither ; By sea and sky 1 she shall be mine, The bonnie lass amang the heather. Ower the muir, etc. Two other famous Scottish songs were written by women of humble origin, Jean Adams, the author of " There's nae Luck about the House," died unknown in the Greenock Workhouse, and was buried in a pauper's grave ; while Isobel Pagan was an Ayrshire "lucky" who kept an alehouse, and sold whisky without a licence. The finest of her songs, " Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes," which, among others, she frequently sang as a means of subsistence, is, for the general reader, too full of Scotticisms to bear quotation here. "The Flowers of the Forest," a ballad on the battle of Flodden, was written by Miss Jane Elliot in fulfilment of a wager with her brother. It rapidly spread through the country as a long- lost ballad recovered, and it was not until some time afterwards that the true authorship was known. Another poem bearing the same title was written earlier by Mrs. Alison Cockburn, at the request of an old gentleman who played to her the air of a forgotten ballad of the same name. Among the countrywomen who may be grouped with Caroline, Baroness Nairne, are Mrs. Anne xx PREFACE. Hunter, the wife of the distinguished anatomist of that name, and author of " My Mither bids me bind my Hair"; Lady Anne Barnard, of whose poem, " Auld Robin Gray," Sir Walter Scott said that it was "a real pastoral, worth all the dialogues that Corydon and Phyllis have spoken together, from the days of Theocritus downwards;" Mrs. Anne Grant ; Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton, Irish by birth and of Scottish descent, to whom we owe " My ain Fireside" ; and Lady John Scott, author of the following beautiful ballad, written on a little lonely church and burial-ground in the Pass of Durisdeer, Dumfriesshire : DUEISDEER. We'll meet nae raair at sunset when the weary day is dune, Nor wander harae thegither by the lee' licht o' the mune. I'll hear your steps nae langer amang the dewy corn, For we'll meet nae mair, my bonniest, either at e'en or morn. The yellow broom is waving abune the sunny brae, And the rowan berries dancing where the sparkling waters play; Tho' a' is bright and bonnie it's an eerie place to me, For we'll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by burn or tree. Far up into the wild hills there's a kirkyard lone and still, Where the frosts lie ilka morning and the mists hang low and chill. And there ye sleep in silence while I wander here my lane, Till we meet ance mair in Heaven never to part a^ain I PREFACE. xxi Charlotte Smith (1749-1806) is one of the many writers who has received less recognition in her lifetime than she deserved. Wordsworth, however, paid a fine tribute to her powers when he described her as "a lady, to whom English verse is under greater obligations than are likely to be acknow- ledged or remembered. She wrote little, and that little unambitiously, but with true feeling for rural nature, at a time when nature was not much regarded by English poets; for in point of time her earlier writings preceded, I believe, those of Cowper and Burns." Wordsworth, who does occasionally seem to have possessed the faculty of enjoying the work of his contemporaries, con- sidered some of the work of Helen Maria Williams worthy of notice, for in a footnote to her " Sonnet on Hope," published in her " Poems on Various Subjects, with introductory remarks on the present state of science and literature in France, 1803," she writes that " Mr. Wordsworth, who lately honoured me with his visits while in Paris, repeated it to me from memory, after a lapse of many years." Mrs. Mary Tighe, who died in 1810, wrote sonnets which are considered by Mr. Main as deserving to be classed with the very best that have been written by women up to her time. Keats read her works, and being of opinion that they had not been done justice to, he mentioned her in his xxii PREFACE. early lines " To Some Ladies." Her contemporary, Anna Seward, was a friend of Sir Walter Scott, and was called by her admirers " The Swan of Lichfield." Side by side with these writers stand Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld and Hannah More, both of whom were in great vogue with a large section of the reading public of their day. Mrs. Barbauld wrote several prose works, and her poems were collected after her death, together with a few of her letters and a memoir written by her niece, Lucy Aiken. It is difficult now to understand the reason of Hannah More's former popularity, for her dramas are dull and sententious, and lack the poetical afflatus. One couplet, however, came from her pen which will be remembered when the rest of her work is forgotten 11 In men this blunder still you find, All think their little set mankind." Mention must not be omitted of Letitia Elizabeth Landon, whose poems in "Albums" and "Annuals" were signed with the well-known initials L. E. L. She was of a delicate, gentle nature, physically and mentally ; and her poems reflected not only her own temperament, but the general mild sentiment then in vogue among "the young ladies of the domestic circle." It is usual to couple her with PREFACE. Mrs. Hemans ; but this, I think, without justice. Mrs. Hemans was unquestionably her superior in poetic energy, variety, and rhythmic power. Although this writer's poems are weakened by the sentimentality of her epoch, much of her work has true poetic qualities and lyrical impulse. Her wide popularity has not extended to the present generation, and she now runs the risk of being unduly overlooked. The following poem is one among those which are surely worthy of preser- vation : THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells, Thou hollow sounding and mysterious main? Pale, glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea t We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the depths have more 1 What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness lies I Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal argosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! Earth claims not these again. Yet more, the depths have more 1 Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by I Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. Dash o'er them, Ocean 1 in thy scornful play : Man yields them to decay. *xiv PREFACE. Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more ! High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast I They hear not now the booming waters roar, The battle thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave 1 Give back the true and brave ! If Mrs. Hemans was the chief lyrical poetess of her time, Joanna Baillie was the foremost dramatic woman writer. She outdistances Hannah More inasmuch as her works, if somewhat ponderous, are yet interesting and full of dramatic feeling, and their occasional harshness is refreshing after the frequent mawkish commonplaces of her prede- cessor. In " Marmion," Sir Walter Scott paid her the following strong compliment : " From the wild harp, which silent hung By silver Avon's holy shore, Till twice an hundred years roll'd o'er ; When she, the bold enchantress, came, With fearless hand and heart on flame I From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakened by the inspired strain, Deem'd their own Shakespeare lived again." It is impossible effectively to quote any passage from Joanna Baillie's dramas that would give an adequate idea of her power ; but she also wrote songs, many of a humorous character, which PREFACE. xxv have become popular, and have been set to music. The most widely known is the following, spirit- edly set to familiar music in the form of a glee: THE CHOUGH AND CROW. The chough and crow to roost are gone, The owl sits on the tree, The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan, Like infant charity. The wild fire dances on the fen, The red star sheds its ray, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men ! It is our opening day. Both child and nurse are fast asleep, And closed is every flower, The winking tapers faintly peep High from my lady's bower ; Bewildered hinds with shortened ken Shrink in their murky way, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men ! It is our opening day. No board nor garner own we now, Nor roof nor latched door, Nor kind mate bound by holy vow To bless a poor man's store ; Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, And night has grown our day ; Uprouse ye, then, my merry men ! It is our opening day. But it seems to me that by far the finest of this group of writers is the Baroness Nairne, " The Flower b* xxvi PREFACE. of Strathearn," as she was fitly called in her own district. She may not have the strength of Joanna Baillie, or the versatility of Mrs. Hemans, but her songs are full of deep pathos and kindly humour. They are never local, nor of an interest purely tem- porary, as was the case with the poems of many of her compeers, but they are instinct with fine feel- ing that comes straight from the heart and goes straight to the hearts of all readers. What could be more beautiful, more pathetic, or what could have a wider appeal than the well-known song, which has also a beautiful musical setting : THE LAND O' THE LEAL. I'm wearin' awa', John, Like snaw wreaths in thaw, John, I'm wearin' awa' To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, John, There's neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair In the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn's there, John, She was baith gude and fair, John, And oh ! we grudged her sair To the land o' the leal. But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, And joy is comin' fast, John, The joy that's aye to last In the land o' the leal. PREFACE. xxvii Sae dear that joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu' man e'er brought To the land o' the leal. Oh, dry your glist'ning e'e, John, My soul langs to be free, John, And angels beckon me To the land o' the leal. Oh 1 haud ye leal and true, John, Your day it's wearing through, Johu, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Now, fare ye well, my ain John, This world's cares are Tain, John, We'll meet, and we'll be fain In the land o' the leal. One poem, a clever Enigma, written in the early part of this century by Catherine Fanshawe, is possibly destined to immortality, not on account of its own merits, but through the strange hazard of Fate. This poem is the celebrated "Letter H," which was supposed by many to owe its origin to Lord Byron. Miss Mitford tells us in her remini- scences : " I have it myself printed in two editions of Lord Byron's works, the one English, the other American." And a friend for whose benefit Joanna Baillie edited a volume of miscellaneous poetry, says of it : "The ' Letter H' (I mean the Enigma so called, ascribed to Lord Byron) she wrote at xxviii PREFACE. Deepdene. I well remember her bringing it down to breakfast, and reading it to us ; and my impres- sion is that she had then just composed it." THE LETTER H. 'Twas in heaven pronounced, and 'twas muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell ; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confess'd ; 'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder. 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends him at birth, and awaits him at death. Presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown'd. Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home 1 In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drown'd. 'Twill not soften the heart ; but though deaf be the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear. Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower, Ah 1 breathe on it softly it dies in an hour. There has not, so far as I am aware, been any anthology formed with the definite aim to repre- sent our modern women-poets by one or more essentially characteristic poems. Too often, on the other hand, women have been represented by their most indifferent productions : generally, the PREFACE, xxix various selections have been given haphazard, after a predetermined arrangement in chronological or alphabetical sequence. In this volume it has been my endeavour not only to represent each woman with whose writings I have come in contact, but to do so characteristically. I do not, therefore, claim that in every instance a poet is represented by her supreme achievement. Copyright and other reasons render this impos- sible in some instances, as in the case of Mrs. Barrett Browning. Each writer, I hope, is herein introduced by lines at once noteworthy for their own sake, and eminently characteristic of the author's genius or talent. The scope of the volume covers it will thus be seen practically new ground. I do not think that the poetry enshrined herein requires any apology from me or from any one : it speaks for itself, and to my mind, at any rate conclusively enough. No inconsiderable portion of it is culled from the writings of unknown writers and of authors of very limited reputation : but I am convinced that there is a greater wealth of really fine poetic writing at present to be found in more or less obscure quarters than has ever appeared at any other period of our literary history. The idea of making this and the earlier an- thology, "Women's Voices," of which it is the xxx PREFACE. outcome, being, as it is, but a revised, occasionally changed, and considerably amplified version of the later period more lightly covered by that book, arose primarily from the conviction that our women-poets had never been collectively represented with anything like adequate justice ; that the works of many are not so widely known as they deserved to be ; and that at least some fine fugitive poetry could thus be rescued from oblivion. Women have had many serious hind- rances to contend against defective education, lack of broad experience of life, absence of free- dom in which to make full use of natural abilities, and the force of public and private opinion, both of which have always been prone to prejudge their work unfavourably, or at best apologetically. These deterrent influences are gradually passing away, with the result that an ever- widening field for the exercise of their powers is thus afforded to women. Mrs. Barrett Browning, who, with all her weak- nesses of style, towers above all women-poets of the first half of the Victorian Era, has eloquently written upon the stunting effects of ordinary life upon women in "Aurora Leigh," that wonder- ful book, so strong and at the same time so full of blemishes. Romney Leigh inveighs against women-writers as follows : PREFACE. xxxi "You generalise Oh, nothing, not even grief! Your quick-breathed hearts, So sympathetic to the personal pang, Close on each separate knife-stroke, yielding up A whole life at each wound, incapable Of deepening, widening the large lap of life To hold the world-full woe. The human race To you means, such a child, or such a man, You saw one morning waiting in the cold, Beside that gate, perhaps. You gather up A few such cases, and when strong sometimes Will write of factories and of slaves, as if Your father were a negro, and your son A spinner in the mills. All's yours and you, All, coloured with your blood, or otherwise Just nothing to you. Why, I call you hard To general suffering. Here's the world half blind With intellectual light, half brutalised With civilisation, having caught the plague In silks from Tarsus, shrieking east and west Along a thousand railroads, mad with pain And sin too 1 ... does one woman of you all (You who weep easily) grow pale to see This tiger shake his cage ? does one of you Stand still from dancing, stop from stringing pearls, And pine and die because of the great sum Of universal anguish ? Show me a tear Wet as Cordelia's, in eyes bright as yours. Because the world is mad. You cannot count, That you should weep for this account, not you 1 You weep for what you know. A red-haired child Sick in a fever, if you touch him once, Though but so little as with a finger-tip, Will set you weeping ; but a million sick You could as soon weep for the rule of three Or compound fractions. Therefore, this same world xxxii PREFACE. So comprehended by you, must remain Uninfluenced by you. Women as you are, Mere women, personal and passionate, You give us doating mothers, perfect wives, Sublime madonnas, and enduring saints 1 We get no Christ from you, and verily We shall not get a poet, in my mind." Aurora Leigh proves by her life and works what a woman may do ; and elsewhere in the book she tells to Romney the poet's mission in the world : 11 1 hold you will not compass your poor ends Of barley feeding and material ease, Without a poet's individualism To work your universal. It takes a soul To move a body : it takes a high-souled man To move the masses, even to a cleaner stye : It takes the ideal to blow a hair's-breadth off The dust of the actual. All your Fouriers failed Because not poets enough to understand That life develops from within." It is easy to generalise what women have been and are what they have done and are yet doing ; because their surroundings and past in- fluences, deterrent and otherwise, can be neatly summed up, and deductions "to order" drawn therefrom to a nicety. But who shall predict what woman will do in the future ? Daily, yearly, prejudices are being broken down, fetters are falling off; women are ushered into know- ledge and to experiences of life through wider PREFACE. xxxiii doors ; legitimate freedom is now partly theirs, and before long will be theirs as wholly as it belongs to men. Who, therefore, can predict exactly what will be or will not be the outcome of these growing possibilities ? The promise of to- day is so manifold that the morrow which is at hand can hardly but be one of lofty aim and high accomplishment. The claim of the present editor, therefore, is that the following selections will further emphasise the value of women's work in poetry even for those who are already well acquainted with English Litera- ture, and that they will convince many it is as pos- sible to form an anthology of "pure poetry" from the writings of women as from those of men. She found, as she trusts others may, that the collection thus made pointed to a steady develop- ment of intellectual power, certainly not unaccom- panied by artistic faculty a fact which gives further sanction to the belief that still finer work will be produced in future by women-poets. Doubtless, many young writers have been over- looked, among them, perhaps, some whose voices will sing with no uncertain note in coming years ; other writers are unrepresented, either because of private reasons of their own, or on account of copy- right prohibitions. Particularly to be regretted is the unavoidable absence of some representative xxxiv PREFACE. poems by Mrs. Margaret L. Woods, author of the now well-known " The Village Tragedy," and of a volume of poems distinguished by qualities rarely found in combination great technical skill, virile imagination, and almost austere reserve. She is fond of novel metrical effects; but whether her verse be conventional or not in form, it invariably shows the touch of the literary artist. One of the most characteristic of her lyrics is that entitled " Rest," three stanzas of which will suffice as well as anything else to give some hint of this writer's poetic quality : " To hear the breezes sigh Cool in the silver leaves like falling rain, Pause and go by, Tired wanderers o'er the solitary plain : See far from all affright Shy river creatures play hour after hour, And night by night Low in the West the white moon's folding flower. Thus lost to human things, To blend at last with Nature, and to hear What song she sings Low to herself when there is no one near." The Editor wishes here to acknowledge the collaboration of living writers, who have so courteously contributed poems, or who have afforded her permission to make such selection from their works as she desired. To Mr. Richard PREFACE. xxxv Garnett her thanks are due for much kindness in calling her attention to certain poems with which she should otherwise have remained un- acquainted ; to various publishers, also, who have kindly consented to her use of copyright matter, she desires to express her indebtedness, more especially to Mr. Fisher Unwin, Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co., to Messrs. Bentley Son, Messrs. Kegan Paul Co., and to Messrs. William Blackwood Sons. ELIZABETH A. SHARP. Women jpoets* HARRIET MARTINEAU. ONWARD. BENEATH this starry arch, Nought resteth or is still ; But all things hold their march, As if by one great will. Moves one, move all ; Hark to the foot-fall ! On, on, for ever. Yon sheaves were once but seed ; Will ripens into deed ; As cave-drops swell the streams, Day-thoughts feed mighty dreams ; And sorrow tracketh wrong, As echo follows song. On, on, for ever. 739 HARRIET MARTIXEA U, By night, like stars on high, The hours reveal their train ;, They whisper and go by ; I never watch in vain. Moves one, move all ; Hark to the foot-fall ! On, on, for ever. They pass the cradle head, And there a promise shed ; They pass the moist new grave, And bid rank verdure wave ; They bear through every clime The harvest of all time. On, on* for ever. SARA COLERIDGE. SARA COLERIDGE. SONG. FROM "PHANTASMION." How high yon lark is heavenward borne ! Yet, ere again she hails the morn, Beyond where birds can wing their way, Our souls may soar to endless day, May hear the heavenly quires rejoice, While earth still echoes to her voice. A waveless flood supremely bright, Has drown'd the myriad isles of light ; But, ere that ocean ebbed away, The shadowy gulfs their forms betray : Above the stars our course may run, 'Mid beams unborrow'd from the sun. SARA COLERIDGE. In this day's light what flowers will bloom, What insects quit the self-made womb ! But ere the bud its leaves unfold, The gorgeous fly his plumes of gold, On fairer wings we too may glide, Where youth and joy no ills betide. Then come, while yet we linger here, Fit thoughts for that celestial sphere, A heart which under keenest light May bear the gaze of spirits bright, Who all things know, and nought endure That is not holy, just, and pure. SARA COLERIDGE. 5 ZELNETH'S LAMENT. FROM " PHANTASMION." BY the storm invaded Ere thy arch was wrought, Rainbow, thou hast faded Like a gladsome thought, And ne'er mayst shine aloft in all earth's colours fraught. Insect tranced for ever In thy pendent bed, Which the breezes sever From its fragile thread, Thou ne'er shalt burst thy cell and crumpled pinions spread. Lily born and nourish'd 'Mid the waters cold, "Where thy green leaves flourish'd, On the sunburnt mould How canst thou rear thy stem and sallow buds unfold ? Snowy cloud suspended O'er the orb of light, With its radiance blended Ne'er to glisten bright, It sinks, and thou grow'st black beneath the wings of night. SARA COLERIDGE. PHANTASMION'S QUEST OF IARINE. YON changeful cloud will soon thy aspect wear, So bright it grows : and now, by light winds shaken, O ever seen yet ne'er to be o'ertaken ! Those waving branches seem thy billowy hair. The cypress glades recall thy pensive air ; Slow rills that wind like snakes amid the grass, Thine eye's mild sparkle fling me as they pass, Yet murmuring cry, This fruitless Quest forbear ! Nay, e'en amid the cataract's loud storm, Where foaming torrents from the crags are leaping, Methinks I catch swift glimpses of thy form, Thy robe's light folds in airy tumult sweeping ; Then silent are the falls : 'mid colours warm, Gleams the bright maze beneath their splendour sweeping. SARA COLERIDGE. LINES ON THE COMMON SAYING THAT LOVE IS BLIND. PASSION is blind, not Love : her wond'rous might Informs with threefold pow'r man's inward sight: To her deep glance the soul at large display'd Shows all its mingled mass of light and shade : Then call her blind when she but turns her head, Nor scans the fault for which her tears are shed. Can dull Indifference or Hate's troubled gaze See through the secret heart's mysterious maze ? Can Scorn and Envy pierce " that dread abode," Where true faults rest beneath the eye of God ? Not theirs, 'mid inward darkness, to discern The spiritual splendours shine and burn. All bright endowments of a noble mind They, who with joy behold them, soonest find; And better now its stains of frailty know Than they who fain would see it white as snow. CAROLINE NORTON. CAROLINE NORTON. IFS. OH, if the winds could whisper what they hear, When murmuring round at sunset through the grove ; If words were written on the streamlet clear, So often spoken fearlessly above : If tale-tell stars descending from on high, Could image forth the thoughts of all that gaze, Entranced upon that deep cerulean sky, And count how few think only of their rays ! If the lulled heaving ocean could disclose All that has passed upon her golden sand, When the moon-lighted waves triumphant rose, And dashed their spray upon the echoing strand. If dews could tell how many tears have mixed With the bright gem -like drops that Nature weeps, If night could say how many eyes are fixed On her dark shadows, while creation sleeps ! CAROLINE NORTON. 9 If echo, rising from her magic throne, Repeated with her melody of voice Each timid sigh each whispered word and tone, Which made the hearer's listening heart rejoice. If nature could, unchecked, repeat aloud All she hath heard and seen must hear and see Where would the whispering, vowing, sighing crowd Of lovers, and their blushing partners, be ? io CAROLINE NORTON. BABEL. KNOW ye in ages past that tower By human hands built strong and high ? Arch over arch, with magic power, Rose proudly each successive hour, To reach the happy sky. It rose till human pride was crushed Quick came the unexpected change ; A moment every tone was hushed, And then again they freely gushed, But sounded wild and strange. Quick, loud, and clear, each voice was heard, Calling for lirne, and stone, and wood, All uttered words but not one word, More than the carol of a bird, Their fellows understood. Is there no Babel but that one, The storied tower of other days ? Where, round the giant pile of stone, Pausing they stood their labour done> To listen in amaze. CAROLINE NOR TON. 1 1 Fair springs the tower of hope and fame, When all our life is fairy land ; Till scarcely knowing what to blame, Our fellows cease to feel the same We cease to understand. Then when they coldly smile to hear The burning dreams of earlier days ; The rapid fall from hope to fear, When eyes whose every glance was dear, Seem changing as they gaze : Then, when we feel 'twere vain to speak Of fervent hopes aspirings high Of thoughts for which all words are weak Of wild far dreams, wherein we seek Knowledge of earth and sky : Of communings with nature's God, When impulse deep the soul hath moved Of tears which sink within the sod, Where, mingling with the valley clod, Lies something we have loved. TJun cometh ours ; and better theirs Of stranger tongues together brought, Than that in which we all have shares, A Babel in a world of cares Of feeling and of thought ! 12 LADY D UFFERIN. LAD Y D UFFERIN. THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'M sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May mornin', long ago, When first you were my bride; The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek; And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. LAD Y DUFFERIN. 13 But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends, But, oh ! they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin* and my pride 1 There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin* there, And you hid it for my sake : 14 LADY D UFFERIN. I bless you for the pleasant word When your heart was sad and sore Oh, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more ! I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary kind and true ! But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm going to; They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there But I'll not forget Old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! And often in those grand old woods I'll sit and close my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 15 JANE WELSH CARLYLE. TO A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER OUR EAVES. THOU too hast travelled, little fluttering thing Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing Thou too must rest. But much, my little bird, couldst thou but tell, I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well To build thy nest. Thou hast passed fair places in thy flight ; A world lay all beneath thee where to light ; And, strange thy taste, Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky To choose this waste. Did fortune try thee? was thy little purse Perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse, Felt here secure ? Ah, no ! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one ! Thou know'st it not. Of all God's creatures, man Alone is poor. i6 JANE WELSH CARLYLE. What was it then ? some mystic turn of thought, Caught under German eaves, and hither brought, Marring thine eye For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown A sober thing that does but mope and moan, Not knowing why? Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask, Since here I see thee working at thy task With wing and beak. A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain, At which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main, Nor more need'st seek. In truth, I rather take it thou hast got By instinct wise much sense about thy lot, And hast small care Whether an Eden or a desert be Thy home, so thou remain'st alive, and free To skim the air. God speed thee, pretty bird ; may thy small nest With little ones in all good time be blest. I love thee much ; For well thou managest that life of thine, While I ! oh, ask not what I do with mine ! Would I were such ! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 17 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. " 0eu, v t TI Trpoa6epK