i 'M he .e Gallieme Book, of ^n^^lish Verse te M THE MODERN BOOKS OF VERSE THE LE GALLIENNE BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE THE LE GALLIENNE BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY RICHARD LE GALLIENNE ^ ^r BONI AND LIVERIGHT NEW YORK 1922 The Le Gallienne Book of Engush Verse Copyright, igzz, by BoNi & Liveright, Inc Printed in the United States of America UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA COLLEGE LIBRARY ]l- 73039 THE LE GALLIENNE BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The Editor and the Publisher wish to acknowledge the kind- ness of the following Publishers who have permitted the use of many selections from their lists in this Anthology: To the John Lane Co., for permission to use poems by John Davidson, William Watson, Ernest Dowson, Fran- cis Thompson, A. E. Housman, A. C. Benson, Victor Plarr, Rosamund Marriott-Watson, Arthur Symons, Lionel Johnson, Lascelles Abercrombie, W. M. Letts, Laurence Hope, Stephen Phillips and Rupert Brooke. To G. P. Putnam's Sons, for the use of "In Flanders Field," by Colonel John Macrae, and poems bj^ Norman Gale. To Brentano's, for poems by Francis Ledwidge. To Houghton, Mifflin Co., for poem by John Drinkwater. To Henry Holt and Co., for poems by Walter de la Mare. To B. W. Huebsch, Inc., for poems by D. H. Lawrence and James Joyce. To E. P. Dutton and Co., for poems by Siegfried Sassoon. To Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., for poems by Robert Graves. To Small, Maynard and Co., for poems by Bliss Carman. To Mitchell Kennerley for poems by Richard Middleton. To L. C. Page and Co., for poems by C. G. D. Roberts. To F. A. Stokes Co., for poems by Alfred Noyes and Robert Nichols. To The Macmillan Co., for poems by W. B. Yeats, W. W. Gibson, Ralph Hodgson and James Stephens. And to Mr. Curtis Brown for his courtesy in obtaining the consent of John Masefield for inclusion in this volume. CONTENTS PAGE King Cnut (1017-1035) Merrily Sang the Menkes in Ely 1 Anonymous (1250) Summer Is I-Comen In 1 Layamon (12th or 13th Century) King Arthur 1 Geoffrey Chaucer (1328-1400) Some Characters from "The Canterbury Tales" . . 2 From "The Dream" 4 The Complaint to His Empty Purpe 4 Merciles Beaute (A Triple Roundel) 5 Written on His Deathbed 6 James I of Scotland (1395-1437) From "The King's Quhair" 7 William Dunbar (1460-1521) O Reverend Chaucer ! Rose of Rhetoris All ... 8 Stephen Hawes (d. 1523) His Epitaph 8 John Skelton (1460-1529) To Mistress Margery Wentworth 8 Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542) My Lute, Awake 9 Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-1547) Summer Is Come 10 Richard Edwardes (1523-1566) Amantium Iras 10 Queen Elizabeth (1533-1603) The Doubt 11 John Still, Bishop of Bath and Wells (1543-1608) Jolly Good Ale and Old 12 Nicolas Breton (1545?-1626?) A Cradle Song 13 Sir Walter Raleigh (1552?-1618) The Faerie Queen 14 His Pilgrimage 15 The Conclusion 16 Ballads (Anonymous) Thomas the Rhymer 16 Helen of Kirconnell 19 V vi CONTENTS PAGE Waly, Waly 20 Barbara Allen's Cruelty 21 Phillada Flouts Me 22 Clerk Saunders 24 The Twa Corbies 27 Binnorie 28 Sir Patrick Spans 30 Chevy Chase 32 Edmund Spenser (1552-1599) Epithalamion 39 Prothalamion 48 Sonnets 52 John Lyly (1553-1606) Cupid and Cainpaspe 53 The Fairy Frolic 53 Sir Phiup Sidney (1554-1586) Sonnets from "Astrophel and Stella" 53 Song from "Astrophel and Stella" 55 From the "Arcadia" 56 A Dirge 57 Thomas Lodge (1556-1625) Rosalind's Madrigal, from "Rosalind" 58 George Peele (1558?-1597?) A Farewell to Arms {To Queen Elizabeth) .... 59 From "The Love of King David and Fair Bethsabe" . 59 Robert Greene (1560?-1592) Sephestia's Lullaby 60 Samuel Daniel (1562-1619) From "To Delia" 61 Henry Constable (1563-1613) My Lady's Presence Makes the Roses Red .... 61 Michael Drayton (1563-1631) Agincourt (October 25, 1415) 62 The Parting 64 Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) From "The Life and Death of Dr. Faustus" .... 65 Chorus on the Death of Faustus 65 The Passionate Shepherd to His Love 65 Walter Raleigh (1552?-1618) The Nymph's Reply to the Passionate Shepherd . . 66 Wllliam Shakespeare (1564-1616) From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona" 67 " "Love's Labour Lost" 67 " "A Midsummer-Night's Dream" 68 " "As You Like It" 69 " "Much Ado About Nothing" 71 " "Hamlet" 71 " "Twelfth Night" 71 CONTENTS vii PAGE From "Measure for Measure" and "The Bloody Brother" (Fletcher) 73 " "Cymbeline" 72 " "The Winter's Tale" 73 " "The Tempest" 73 " "The Passionate Pilgrim" 74 " "Sonnets" — xxix, xxx, xxxiii, Iv, Ix, Ixxiii, civ, cvi, cxvi, cxlvi 75 " "The Merchant of Venice" 78 " "Romeo and Juliet" 79 " "Henry V." 80 " "As You Like It" 80 " "Hamlet" 81 " "Measure for Measure" 83 " "Antony and Cleopatra" 82 " "The Winter's Tale" 82 " "The Tempest" 83 Thomas Campion (1567-1630) Follow Your Saint 83 Vobiscum est lope 83 Cherry-Ripe 84 Winter Nights 84 Amarillis 85 Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1639) Elizabeth of Bohemia 86 The Character of a Happy Life 86 Thomas Dekker (1570-1641) The Happy Heart, from "Patient Grissell" .... 87 From "The Honest Whore" 87 The Old and Young Courtier (attributed) .... 88 Ben Jonson (1573-1637) From "Cynthia's Revels" 89 From "The Forest" 89 Simplex Munditiis 90 From "Love's Chariot" 90 From "An Ode to Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morrison" 90 From "An Epithalamium" 90 On the Portrait of Shakespeare 91 To the Memory of My Beloved Master William Shakespeare 91 John Donne (1573-1631) The Good Morrow 93 Absence 94 The Dream 94 A Valediction Forbidding Mourning 95 The Funeral 96 Song 96 From "Epithalamion" 97 viii CONTENTS PAGE Richard Barnfield (1574-1627) Philomel 97 John Fletcher (1579-1625) Love's Emblems, from "Valentinian" 98 Melancholy, from "The Nice Valor" 99 God Laeus 99 John Webster (1580?-1625?) A Dirge from "The White Devil" 99 Vanitas Vanitatum 100 Richard Corbet (1582-1635) Farewell to the Fairies 100 WnxiAM Basse (1583-1653) Renowned Spenser, Lie a Thought More Nigh . . 101 William Drummond, of Hawthornden (1585-1649) Invocation 102 Sonnet 103 Francis Beaumont (1586-1615) From Letter to Ben Jonson 103 Beaumont and Fletcher Aspatia's Song 104 Thomas Carew (1587-1639) Song 104 Epitaph 104 George Wither (1588-1667) The Lover's Resolution 105 William Browne (1591-1643?) Epitaph on the Countess Dowager of Pembroke . . 106 Francis Quarles (1592-1644) The Vanity of the World 106 George Herbert (1593-1633) Virtue 107 Easter 108 Robert Herrick (1594-1674) His Theme 108 To Meadows 109 Whcnas in Silks My Julia Goes 109 The Night-Piece, to Julia 109 Corinna's Going A-Maying 110 To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time Ill Delight in Disorder 112 To Daffodils 112 To Anthea, Who May Command Him Anything . . 113 To Ben Jonson 113 A Thanksgiving to God for His House 114 James Shirley (1596-1666) Death the Conqueror 115 Thomas Randolph (1605-1635) An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford to Hasten Him into the Country 116 CONTENTS ix PAGE Sir William Davenant (1606-1668) Morning Song 118 Edmund Waller (1606-1687) "Go, Lovely Rose" 118 On a Girdle 119 Old Age and Death 119 John Milton (1608-1674) Song from "Arcades" 119 From "Comus" 120 L'Allegro 122 II Penseroso 125 Lycidas 129 On the Admirable Dramatic Poet, W. Shakespeare . 133 To the Nightingale 133 How Soon Hath Time 133 On His Blindness 134 On His Deceased Wife 134 On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 134 Sir John Suckling (1608-1641) A Ballad Upon a Wedding 135 Song 138 Richard Crashaw (1613-1650) Wishes to His Supposed Mistress 138 Hymn to the Name of Jesus 142 Richard Lovelace (1618-1658) To Althea, from Prison 142 To Lucasta, Going to the Wars 143 Abraham Cowley (1618-1667) The Wish 143 Drinking 144 Andrew Marvell (1621-1678) An Horatian Ode Upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland 145 The Garden 148 Henry Vaughan (1622-1695) The Retreat 150 Friends Departed 150 John Bunyan (1628-1688) Shepherd Bov's Song 151 John Dryden (1631-1700) Under the Portrait of Milton 152 From "Alexander's Feast" 152 Song 153 Ah, How Sweet It Is to Love! 153 Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset (1638-1706) Written at Sea, in the First Dutch War (1665), the Night Before an Engagement 154 X CONTENTS PAGE John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680) On Charles II 156 To His Mistress 156 Matthew Prior (1664-1721) Chloe 157 Epitaph on Himself 158 WlLI-IAM CONGRFA'E (1670-1729) From "The Mourning Bride" 158 Joseph Addison (1672-1719) "The Spacious Firmament on High" 158 Isaac Watts (1674-1748) "O God 1 Our Help in x\ges Past" ........ 159 Wia-iAM Oldys (1687-1761) On a Fly Drinking Out of His Cup 159 Alexander Pope (1688-1744) From "Satires" 160 " the "Essay on Man" 160 " "The Rape of the Lock" 161 The Dying Christian to His Soul 161 James Thomson (1700-1748) From "The Castle of Indolence" 162 Rule, Brittannia 163 Henry Carey (1693?-1743) Sally in Our Alley 163 Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) One-and-Twenty 165 William Shenstone (1714-1763) Written at An Inn at Henley 165 Thomas Gray (1716-1771) Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 166 From "The Progress of Poetry," a Pindaric Ode . . 169 William Collins (1721-1759) Fidele's Dirge 170 "How Sleep the Brave" 171 Ode to Evening 171 Christopher Smart (1722-1771) From "Song to David" 173 Olu'er Goldsmith (1728-1774) From "The Deserted Village" 173 Woman 176 William Covvper (1731-1800) To Marv Unvvin 176 From "The Task." Book III, "The Garden" ... 177 " "The Task" 177 A Comparison. Addressed to a Young Lady . . . 177 Boadicca. An Ode 178 On the Loss of the Royal George 179 CONTENTS xi PAGE Anna Letitia Barbauld (1743-1825) Life .; (. ^ . . . 380 Sir William Jones (1746-1794) The State v .... 180 John Logan (1748-1788) To the Cuckoo 181 Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770) Minstrel's Song in "Ella" 182 George Crabbe (1754-1832) The Parish Workhouse, from "The Village" . . . 183 "Age, with Stealing Steps . . ." from "Tales of the Hall" 184 William Blake (1757-1827) Reeds of Innocence 185 Infant Joy 185 My Silks and Fine Array 186 The Tiger 186 The Voice of the Bard 187 Ah, Sunflower 187 Milton 187 A Poison Tree 188 The Garden of Love 188 From "The Grey Monk" 189 Robert Burns (1759-1796) Bonnie Doon 189 "Comin' Through the Rye" 190 "Green Grow the Rashes, O !" 190 "Ae Fond Kiss" 191 My Bonnie Mary 191 A Red, Red Rose 192 Jean 192 Auld Lang Syne 193 Bruce to His Men at Bannockburn 193 John Anderson 194 Highland Mary 194 To Mary in Heaven 195 James Hogg (1770-1835) A Boy's Song 196 William Wordsworth (1770-1850) Lucy, I, Ti, HI, IV, V 197 The Solitary Reaper 199 Perfect Woman 200 The Rainbow 201 To the Cuckoo 201 "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" 202 Sonnets — Scorn Not the Sonnet 202 The Sonnet-Prison 203 xii CONTPZNTS PAGE Sunset and Sea 203 The World Is Too Much With Us 203 Composed Upon Westminster Bridge 204 England, 1802 204 Ode on the Intimations of Immortality from Recollec- tions of Early Childhood 205 From "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey" 210 Ode to Duty 211 Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832) Hunting Song 212 Lucy Ashton's Song 213 "Sound, Sound the Clarion" 213 Proud Alaisie 213 From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" 214 Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 214 Kubla Khan 230 The Knight's Tomb 231 Work Without Hope 232 Love 232 From "Christabel" 234 Epitaph on Himself 235 Robert Southey (1774-1843) "My Days Among the Dead Are Passsed" .... 235 Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864) Rose Aylmer 236 Dirce 236 To Robert Browning . 236 How Many Voices Gaily Sing 237 Why, Why Repine? 237 I Strove With None 237 Charles Lamb (1775-1834) The Old Familiar Faces 237 Hester 238 Thomas Campbell (1777-1844) "Ye Mariners of England" 239 Thomas Moore (1779-18.52) "The Young May Moon" 240 Tara 240 At the Mid Hour of Night 241 " 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer" 241 Edward Thurlow (Lord Tiiurlow) (1781-1829) May 242 Leigh Hunt (1784-18.59) Jenny Kiss'd Me .... 242 To the Grasshopper and the Cricket 243 Abou Ben Adhcm 243 CONTENTS xiii PAGE Thomas Love Peacock (1785-1866) The War-Song of Dinas Vawr, from "The Misfor- tunes of Elphin" 243 From the Same 244 George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron (1788-1824) To the Ocean, from "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" . . 244 The Isles of Greece 245 Sonnet on Chillon 248 "She Walks in Beauty" 248 So, We'll Go No More a Roving 249 My Boat Is on the Shore 249 Byron's Farewell 249 Charles Wolfe (1791-1823) The Burial of Sir John Moore After Corunna ... 251 Percy Bvsshe Shelley (1792-1822) To a Skylark 252 Ode to the West Wind 354 From "Adonais" 256 To Night 259 Lines to an Indian Air 260 To 260 Music, When Soft Voices Die 261 Hellas 261 From "Prometheus Unbound" 262 John Keats (1795-1821) On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer .... 262 "When I Have Fears" 263 Fragment of an Ode to Maia 263 From "The Eve of St. Agnes" 263 Ode on a Grecian Urn 266 On Melancholy 267 La Belle Dame Sans Merci 268 Ode to Psyche 269 Ode to a Nightingale 270 To Autumn 272 Last Sonnet 273 George Darlev (1795-1846) From "Sylvia" 273 Hartley Coleridge (1796-1849) Song 274 Thomas Hood (1799-1845) The Song of the Shirt 275 The Bridge of Sighs 277 Fair Ines . . . . « 279 Silence 280 Thomas Babington Macaulay, Lord Macaulay (1800- 1859) From "Horatius" 281 xiv CONTENTS PAGE Sir Hexrv Taylor (1800-1886) Elena's Song 282 William Barnes (1801-1886) The Woodlands 282 John Henrv Newman (1801-1890) The Pillar of the Cloud 283 WiNTHROP Mack WORTH Praed (1802-1839) Fairy Song 283 James Clarence Mangan (1803-1849) Dark Rosaleen 284 Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803-1849) Dream-Pedlary 286 Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861) From "Sonnets from the Portuguese" 286 A Denial 288 A Musical Instrument 289 Edward Fitzgerald (1809-1883) From "The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam" .... 290 Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) The Ladv of Shalott 294 The Lotos-Eaters 298 Song of the Lotos-Eaters 299 Song 302 From "In Memoriam" 303 "Come Into the Garden, Maud" 308 "O That 'Twere Possible" 310 From "The Princess" 310 The Splendour Falls on Castle Walls 312 Tears, Idle Tears 312 O Swallow, Swallow 313 Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead .... 313 "Break, Break, Break" 314 The Charge of the Light Brigade 314 Ulysses 315 Crossing the Bar 317 The Silent Voices 317 William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863) The Age of Wisdom 318 The Sorrows of Werther 318 The End of the Play 319 Edward Lear (1812-1888) The Owl and the Pussy-Cat . . . .- v .... 320 Robert Browning (1812-1889) From "Cavalier Tunes" 321 Home Thoughts, from Abroad 321 Song from "Pippa Passes" 322 Evelyn Hope 322 Porphyria's Lover 324 CONTENTS X7 PAGE A Toccata of Galuppi's 325 A Grammarian's Funeral 327 The Last Ride Together 330 Memorabilia ._ 333 Parting at Morning 333 Song, from "In a Gondola" 333 Summum Bonum 334 Prospice 334 Epilogue, from "Asolando" 335 Emily Bronte (1818-1848) The Prisoner 335 Last Lines 336 George Eliot (1819-1880) "Oh, May I Join the Choir Invisible" 337 Charles Kingsley (1819-1875) The Sands of Dee 337 The Three Fishers 338 Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861) "Say Not, the Struggle Naught Availeth" .... 339 Frederick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895) The Unrealised Ideal 339 At Her Window 340 Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) Quiet Work 340 Requiescat 341 Dover Beach 341 Morality 342 The Scholar-Gypsy 343 Thyrsis 349 From "Empedocles on Etna" 354 Shakespeare 355 From "Lines Written in Kensington Gardens" . . 356 The Buried Life 355 William (Johnson) Cory (1823-1892) Heraclitus 358 Remember 359 Coventry Patmore (1823-1896) Winter 359 The Toys 360 Departure 361 William Allingham (1824-1889) These Little Songs 361 The Fairies 362 Sydney Dobell (1824-1874) The Orphan's Song 363 The Ballad of Keith of Ravelston 366 Dante Gabriel Rossetti (l828-i882) The Blessed Damozel 368 xvi CONTENTS 1 he Sonnet 371 Sonnets from "The House of Life" 371 A Superscription 373 The Ballade of Dead Ladies, from the French of Frangois Villon, 14.50 374 One Girl (A Combination from "Sappho") .... 374 George Meredith (1828-1909) Love in the Valley 375 Lucifer in Starlight 380 From "Modern Love" 380 Christina G. Rossetti (1830-1894) A Birthday 382 Up-Hill 382 Song 383 Rest 383 Remember 383 Thomas Edward Brown (1830-1897) My Garden 384 Lewis Carroll (pseud, of C. L. Dodgson) (1832-1898) Jabberwocky 384 Sir Edwin Arnold (1832-1904) We Are the Voices of the Whispering Wind . . . 385 James Thomson (1834-1882) From "The City of Dreadful Night" 385 The Vine 386 Give a Man a Horse He Can Ride 386 William Morris (1834-1896) Prelude to "The Earthly Paradise" 380 Love Is Enough 387 The Nymph's Song to Hylas, from "The Life and Death of Jason" 388 Song of Orpheus, from "The Life and Death of Jason" 388 John Leicester Warren, Lord de Tabley (1835-1895) From "Orestes" 389 From "Hymn to Astarte" 390 Sir William Schwenk Gilbert (1830-1911) The Yarn of the A'^r7;icv Bell 390 To the Terrestrial Globe 393 Theodore Watts-Dunton (1836-1914) From "The Coming of Love" 393 Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909) From "The Triumph of Time" 393 Chorus from "Atalanta in Calydon" 395 The Garden of Prosperine 396 Ave Atque Vale 398 From Prologue to "Tristram of Lyonesse" .... 403 A Match 406 The Oblation 408 CONTENTS xvH PAGE Thomas Hardy (1840- ) In the Moonlight 408 The Man He Killed 409 Wilfred Scawen Blunt (1840- ) To One Who Would Make a Confession .... 409 To Manon, on His Fortune in Loving Her .... 410 From "Esther" 410 Austin Dobson (1840- ) A Garden Song 410 The Ladies of St. James's 411 The Ballad of Prose and Rhyme 412 In After Days 413 Triolet 414 Robert Buchanan (1841-1901) Judas Iscariot 414 F. W. H. Myers (1843-1901) The Inner Light 416 Arthur O'Shaughnessy (1844-1881) Ode 417 Song 417 Song 418 Song from "Chartivel" 419 Robert Bridges (1844- ) I Love All Beauteous Things 419 Elegy on a Lady Whom Grief for the Death of Her Beloved Killed 420 Nightingales . 422 A Passer-by 423 Andrew Lang (1844-1891) The Odvssey 423 Lost Love 423 Ballade of Middle Age 424 Eugene Lee-Hamilton (1845-1907) Idle Charon 425 Baudelaire 425 Grant Allen (1848-1901) A Prayer 425 Edmund Gosse (1849- ) To Austin Dobson 426 Impression 426 William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) Invictus 427 From "In Hospital" 428 "A Late Lark Twitters from the Quiet Skies" ... 428 From "London Voluntaries" 429 Theophile Marzials (1850- ) A Tragedy 431 xviii CONTENTS PAGE Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) Romance 431 Happv Thought 431 In the Highlands 432 Requiem 432 Philip Bourke Marston (1850-1887) It Must Have Been for One of Us, My Own . . . 432 Alice Meynell (1853- ) Renouncement 433 The Lady of the Lambs 433 Fiona MacLeod (pseud, of William Sharp) (1856-1905) Mo-lennav-a-chree 434 Oscar Wilde (1856-1900) Helas 434 The Ballad of Reading Gaol 435 Requiescat 450 Sonnet to Liberty 451 On the Recent Sale by Auction of Keats' Love-Letters 451 The Harlot's House 452 John Davidson (1857-1909) A Ballad of a Nun 453 Butterflies 457 From "The Testament of John Davidson" .... 457 From "Fleet Street Ecologues" 458 E. Nesbit (Mrs. Hubert Bland) (1858- ) If on Some Balmy Summer Night 458 William Watson (1858- ) Song 458 From "Wordsworth's Grave" 459 From "Epigrams" 460 Autumn 461 Nightmare (Written During Apparent Imminence of War) 462 To the Sultan 462 Alfred Edward Housman (1859- ) From "A Shropshire Lad" 463 The Power of Malt 463 With Rue My Heart Is Laden 464 Francis Thompson (1860-1907) The Hound of Heaven 464 To a Snowflake 468 Arab Love-Song 468 Daisy 469 Robinson Kay Leather Advice to a Boy 470 Charles G. D. Roberts (I860- ) Recessional 471 On Epitaph on a Husbandman 472 CONTENTS xix PAGE The Cricket r . t . 473 The Frosted Pane 473 Justin Huntley McCarthy (18G0- ) To Omar Khayyam 473 If I Were King (After Villon) . . . , . . . . 474 Bliss Carman (1861- ) Spring Song 474 Ballad of John Camplejohn 475 Envoy 477 Katherine Tynan Hinkson (1861- ) The Desire 477 Sir Owen Seaman (1861- ) To a Boy-Poet of the Decadence 478 Maurice Hewlett (1861- ) Flos Virginnm 479 Sir Henry Newbolt (1862- ) Drake's Drum 480 Messmates 480 Arthur Christopher Benson (1862- ) Prelude 481 Norman Gale (1862- ) A Love-Song 483 A Creed 482 Victor Plarr (1863- ) Epitaphium Citharistn'se 483 Rosamund Marriott Watson (1863- ) Requiescat 483 Sir Arthur T. Quiller-Couch (1863- ) The Splendid Spur 483 Herbert P. Horne (1864- ) A Song 484 Upon Returning a Silk Handkerchief 484 Sonnet 485 William Butler Yeats (1865- ) The Lake Isle of Innisfree 485 "When You Are Old" 486 The Cap and Bells 486 Arthur Symons (1865- ) At the Stage-Door 487 Asking Forgiveness 488 After Love . . . » 489 RuDYARD Kipling (1862- ) Mandalay 489 Danny Deever 491 Recessional 492 The Vampire, as Suggested by the Painting by Philip Burne-Jones 492 XX CONTENTS PAGE 'The Story of Uriah" 493 L'Envoi 494 Herbert Trench (1865- ) A Charge 49fi "I Heard a Soldier" 497 Laurence Hope (pseud, of Adela Nicolson) (1865- 1904) Ashore 497 Lionel Johnson (1867-1902) Cadwith 498 By the Statue of King Charles at Charing Cross . . 498 The Precept of Silence 500 Ernest Dowson (1867-1900) Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae . 500 Dregs 501 Extreme Unction 501 "A. E." (pseud, of George William Russell) (1867- ) A Memory of Earth 501 The Gift 502 The Burning-Glass 502 Stephen Phillips (1868-1915) I in the Greyness Rose 503 From "Marpessa" 504 From "Herod" 505 Laurence Binvon (1869- ) "O World, Be Nobler" 506 Lord Alfred Douglas (1870- ) The Dead Poet 506 Olive Cu stance (Lady Alfred Douglas) Oh! Do You Hear the Rain 506 DoLLiE Radford I Could Not Through the Burning Day 507 Thomas Sturge Moore (1870- ) A Duet 507 Hilaire Belloc (1870- ) The Early Morning •. . . 508 Col. John McCrae (1872-1918) In Flanders' Fields 508 Dora Sigerson Shorter (1873- ) Ireland 508 Walter De La Mare (1873- ) The Listeners 509 Queen Djenira 510 An Epitaph 510 John Masefield (1874- ) Flesh, I Have Knocked at Many a Dusty Door . .511 Ships 512 Cargoes 515 CONTENTS xxi PAGE Sea-Fever 515 Prayer 516 Gordon Bottomley (1874- ) In Memoriam (A. M. W.) 516 Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874- ) From "The Ballad of the White Horse" 517 Glencoe 518 Edward Thomas (1878-1917) The Unknown .... 519 Thomas MacDonagh (1878-1916) To His Ideal (Translated from the Irish of Padraic Pearse) 519 Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (1878- ) Daily Bread 520 Ralph Hodgson (1878?- ) The Mystery 520 Harold Monro (1879- ) Youth in Arms 521 Alfred Noyes (1880- ) Haunted in Old Japan 521 A Japanese Love-Song 522 Francis Ledwidge (1881-1917) The Wife of Llew 523 Growing Old 524 John Drinkwater (1882- ) A Man's Daughter 524 Richard AIiddleton (1882-1911) To A. C. M 525 Heyst-Sur-Mer 526 James Joyce (1882- ) Golden Hair 527 W. M. Letts (1882- ) For England's Sake Men Give Their Lives .... 527 The Spires of Oxford 528 Lascelles Abercrombie (1884- ) From "Marriage Song" 528 Balkis, from "Emblems of Love" 530 James Elroy Flecker (1884-1915) To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence 531 Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) The Hill 532 Peace 532 The Dead 532 The Soldier 533 James Stephens Deirdre 533 The Snare, To A. E 534 xxii CONTENTS PAGE D. H. Lawrence (1885- ) All of Roses 534 Siegfried Sassoon (1886- ) To These I Turn, in These I Trust 536 Richard Aldington (1892- ) After Two Years 536 Robert Nichols (1893- ) The Full Heart 537 Robert Graves Not Dead 537 Index of First Lines 539 Index of Titles 553 INTRODUCTION The aim of this collection of English poetry is simple. It is merely to bring together as much of the best of that poetry as it is possible to include in one companionable volume, so much of the best of it, in- deed, that little will be left outside these covers. What that best is grows less and less a matter of individual judgment. Editorial appraisers of this great in- heritance have from time to time inspected it anew, and have here and there made trifling corrections in former estimates. Once or twice even they have done more. A poet previously undervalued has occasion- ally thus come into his own — as Arthur O 'Shaugnessy, for example, owing to Palgrave's large inclusions of him in the second series of his "Golden Treasury." Once in our time, indeed, a poet all but utterly for- gotten has been rescued from the poppy of oblivion, and set upon a high lyric throne. Such was the serv- ice Dr. A. H. Bullen did for Thomas Campion, whose lyrics now sweeten so many pages of our antholo- gies. But you will look for his name in vain in per- haps the best general anthology of English literature so far made — that of Robert Chambers, a "eyclopffi- dia," which, in the main, eminently illustrates the old truth that all good taste and judgment and schol- arship in the arts are not confined to fashionable liv- ing critics and editors. To do such service to the lovers of English poetry xxiv INTRODUCTION has seldom been the fortunate opportunity of the anthologist. In the main, there has been little left for him but to confirm the judgment of his predeces- sors — for the best of the most voluminous poets soon gets itself sifted out. There is not likely, for instance, to be much disagreement in a jury of poetry-lovers as to the immortal and the perishable parts of Words- worth, or of Shelley or of Byron. More than is the case, perhaps, with any other English poets, the "col- lected works" of these poets contain a larger propor- tion of inert matter, banks of sand in which the most industrious placer miners will seek in vain for any appreciable glitter of gold. Occasionally some per- verse solitary of scholarship will arise to contest the general judgment in cases of this kind, and pro- claim his preference for those productions of the poet which the rest of the world finds unreadable. For all that, Byron's epitaph on "The Excursion" will re- main the last word on that poem; as Carlyle's epigram on "Sordello" will be recognized as generally just, if somewhat rough justice, to that poem, which an occa- sional glory will hardly save from forgetfulness. In the same way, no critical trumpets of resurrection can raise Byron 's dramas from the grave ; nor the most loyal enthusiasm for Shelley support any of us in a re-reading of his "Revolt of Islam." The same ap- plies — alas ! to have to say it — to Scott 's ' ' Lady of the Lake," and his other ballad-epics; and what remains of poor Southey save that one sad sonnet of his lonely broken mind? To that his pyramidal productivity is now pathetically sifted down. Yet that is something, and that the general judgment has rescued "My Days INTRODUCTION xxv Among the Dead Are Past" from so vast a mound of forgotten words shows how difficult it is for the most secluded good thing to escape recognition. There is an anthology of English lyrics, made but a short time ago by a critic whose love for and knowl- edge of literature are alike deep, in which he would seem to have been guided by that crochetty preference for the less known poems of the various poets repre- sented to which I have referred. The effect, there- fore, of the volume is very curious. While, undoubt- edly, in a few cases, forgotten or less remembered pieces are thus serviceably brought back to mind, those other pieces immortally associated with the names of their writers are hauntingly absent. So, by the way, a very learned and famous lady omitted Gray's "Elegy," of deliberate intent, from another anthology conceived in a similar spirit of editorial caprice. Had the other editor to whom I am referring but allowed his critical idiosyncrasy to carry him a step or two further, he might have added to the curiosities of liter- ature a volume which might well have borne the title of "The Worst Poems by the Best Poets." As it is, his anthology, for the most part, whimsically gathers together the second and third best of the poets he un- doubtedly knows and loves : possibly a service to their memory, but a questionable service to that general reader for whom the volume appears to have been de- signed. That everyone is supposed to know Milton's "Lycidas" can hardly be considered a reason for omit- ting it from a representative collection of English poetry. Otherwise, the originality of an anthology would have to be based on its omissions, as, indeed, XXVI INTRODUCTION that might be said to be the only basis for singularity left to the present-day anthologist. Of that oppor- tunity I have not in the present collection availed my- self, but, on the contrary, being of the opinion that Time is the most trustworthy of all anthologists, the severest critic and the weightiest authority on what is best worth preserving out of all the works of man, including those works we call "poetical," I have been content, in the main, to accept his judgments and adopt his selections. I believe that what has been oftenest read in the past w\\\ continue to be oftenest read in the future, and, though this may be an unfash- ionable opinion at the moment, I may perhaps point to the recent renewal of enthusiasm for Greek poetry as something in favour of my quaint point of view. Therefore, the reader will probably not find much in this volume that he has not known and loved before, though, it is, doubtless, impossible but that the editor's life-long reading of poetry has not in some degree swayed his choice among beautiful things so often chosen before, and has, therefore, given to this col- lection a certain tinge of personal preference. His chief solicitude has been, however, rather than that the reader should find novelties in this collection, that he should not miss too many of the old perfections, or sigh the lack of many a thing he sought. One of the most distinguished of English lyric poets, who happily continues to escape Westminster Abbey, wrote of Tennyson's poetry as being "rich with sweets from every Muse's hive." The phrase is not only true of "The Mantuan of our age and clime," but it might -with even fuller aptness be ap- plied to English poetry as a whole, from Chancer till INTRODUCTION xxvii our own time. Perhaps no poetry has borrowed more from the poetry of other races, and yet the poetry of no other race seems so distinctive as that of England. Never was there such an example of literary alchemy. How much that English poetry which seems most English owes in its origin to France and Italy is known to every young student of literature. Even those most cherished "wood-notes wild" of Eliza- beth's day are surprisingly indebted to England's "sweet enemy France." The debt of English lyricism to Ronsard and his school has perhaps not been suf- ficiently acknowledged, while English indebtedness to Italy has perhaps been over-emphasized. But, all in- debtedness whatsoever acknowledged, the curious fact remains that the final result is something that has not been borrowed, something that immensely, so to say, over-pays the loan — or theft. Whatever, for ex- ample, Elizabethan lyricism may have owed to Rons- ard and his "Pleiade, " however much those "sweet influences of Pleiades" may have originally aerified and heightened the English lyric art, the music of England's "Nest of Singing Birds" has a quality peculiarly its own. What is it that is in "Under the Greenwood Tree" that has never been found in the poetry of any other land? It seems as though there had been a peculiar divine sap in the original tree of English song, which, whatever the alien grafts made upon it, gave to the blossom a beauty at once starrier and yet more earth-sweet, as though star-light and the breath of hawthorn in English country lanes had become blended together in words. Even in such re- mains of Anglo-Saxon poetry as we possess, remote xxvlii INTRODUCTION as the uneoiith language makes them, we feel the pres- ence already of this native sweetness exhaling from strength — the sweetness hived in the hearts of strong men. However great the mere formal or themal influences of France and Italy upon English poetry may have been, they seem to have been those chiefly of fashion or manner. The spirit of English poetry has been entirely different from theirs, and perhaps that spirit is nearest of all to that of the great Latin poets, with their large accent, their noble gravity of mood, and such sweetness as in Catullus reminds one of the robust sweetness of Shakespeare, In its pre- eminent genius for the elegy, English poetry is also akin, to the Latin. The greatest poems in English are elegies, or spiritual, philosophic meditations, elegiac in their mood. But these also are pierced with that curious English sweetness which is like the music of the spheres combined with the smell of apples. Yes ! earth-sweetness, spiritual intensity, elegiac meditative- ness are the main qualities of English poetry, and perhaps in English nature-poetry we find them com- bined in their highest expression. ''The poetry of earth is never dead," and English earth, and the Eng- lishman's love of it, his mystic passion for it, indeed,^ and "reading" of it, have played no little part, .it is evident, in the making of English song. But, better than characterising it, analyzing it, or accounting for it, is merely and simply to enjoy it — and a greater or more lasting treasure of enjoyment is not to be found than in this book of English poetry. It is the greatest spiritual inheritance of Englishmen, the greatest gift of England to the world. Whatever INTRODUCTION xxix its special qualities, English poetry has also the in- finite variety and freshness of nature itself. Mr. Kipling, in a phrase worth a multitude of critical vol- umes, has said: There are nine and sixty ways Of inditing tribal lays. And every blessed one of them is right. Yes ! and you will find them all in English poetry, find examples of them all in this book. It remains only for me to make one or two acknowl- edgments. My indebtedness to Robert Chambers' "Cyelopffidia of English Literature" is recorded above ; and no one could compile a collection of Eng- lish poetry, since their appearance, without being under great obligations to Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch for "The Oxford Book of Verse," and to Mr. Burton E. Stevenson for that glorious Leviathan of poetry, "The Home Book of Verse." Other anthologies and collections too numerous to mention have assisted me, particularly Dr. George Saintsbury's "Seventeenth Century Lyrics," and, of course, our old familiar friend and classic in this kind, Palgrave's "Golden Treasury. ' ' I wish also to acknowledge the various, generous assistance given me by my friend, Edwin Justus Mayer. Richard Le Gallienne. THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE KING CNUT (1017-1035) ■jV/ffERRILY sang the monkes in Ely ■'••'■ When Cnut the King rowed by; And hear ye the monkes' song. Row, knightes, near the land. ANONYMOUS (1250) Slimmer Is I-Comen In CUMMER is i-comen in, Loud sing cuckoo ; Groweth seed and bloweth mead, And springeth the wood anew. Sing cuckoo ! Ewe bleateth after lamb, Loweth after calfe cow, Bullock sterteth, Bucke verteth, Merrie sing cuckoo ! Cuckoo, cuckoo ; Well thou singest, cuckoo I Nor cease thou never now, LAYAMON (i2th or 13th century) King Arthur ■Y\/"HEN that Arthur was King Hearken now a marvelous thing; He was liberal To each man alive. Knight with the best, Wond'rously keen. He was to the young for father. To the old for comforter. And with the unwise Wonderfully stern. Wrong was to him exceeding loathsome And the right ever dear. 1 2 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1328-1400) Some Characters from "The Canterbury Tales'' A knight ther was, and that a worthy man, That fro the time that he first began To riden, he loved chevalrie, Trouthe and honour, fredom and curtesie. Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre ; And, thereto, hadde he ridden, none more ferre, As wel in Cristendom as in Hethenessc, And ever honoured for his worthinesse . . . Though that he was worthy he was wise ; And of his past, as meke as is a mayde : He never j'et no vilainie ne sayde, In all his lif, unto no manere wight. He was a veray parfit gentil knight. . . . With him, ther was his sone, a young Squier, A lover, and a lusty bacdeler ; With lockcs crull as they were laide in presse. Of twenty yere of age he was, I gesse. Of his stature he was of even lengthe ; And wonderly deliver, and grete of strcngthe. And he hadde be, sometime, in chevachie In Fiaunders, in Artois, and in Picardie, And borne him wel, as of so titel space, In hope to standen in his ladies' grace. Embrouded was he, as it were a mede All full of frcshe flowres, white and rede. Singing he was, or floyting all the day : He was as freshe as is the moneth of May. Short was his goune, with sieves long and wide. Wel coude he sitte on hors, and fayre ride, He coude songes make, and wel endite ; Juste and eke dance ; and well pourtraie and write : So bote he loved, that by nightestale He slep no more than doth the nightingale : Curteis he was, lowly and servisablc ; And carf before his fader at the table. Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of hire smiling was full simple and coy; Hire gretest othe n'as but by Saint Eloy; And she was cleped Madame Eglentine. Ful wel she sange the service dcvine, Entuned in hire nose ful swetely; GEOFFREY CHAUCER And Frcnche she spake ful fayre and fetisly, After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For Frenche of Paris was to hire nnknowe. At mete was she wele ytaughte withalle ; She lette no morsel from her Hppes falle, Ne wette hire fingres in hire sauce depe. Wei coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, Thatte no drope ne fell upon hire brest. In curtesie was sette full moche hire lest. Hire over-lippe wiped she so clene, That in hire cuppe was no fcrthing sene Of grese, whan she dronken hadde hire draught. Ful semely after hire mete she raught. And sickerly she was of grete disport, And ful plesant, and amiable of port, And peined hire to contrefeten chere Of court, and ben estatlich of manere, And to ben holden digne of reverence . . . Ful semely hire wimple ypinched was ; Hire nose tretis ; hire eyen grey as glas ; Hire mouth ful smale, and thereto soft and red ; But sikerly she hadde a fayre forehed. It was almost a spaune brode I trowe ; For hardily she was not undergrowe. Full fetise was hire cloke, as I was ware. Of smale corall about hire arm she bare A pair of bedes, gauded all with grene ; , And thereon heng a broche of gild ful shene, On whiche was first ywritten a crowned A, And after, Amor vincit omnia. A clerk ther was of Oxenforde also, That unto logike hadde long ygo. As lene was his hors as is a rake. And he was not right fat I undertake ; But looked holwe, and thereto soberly. Ful thredbare was his overest courtepy, For he hadde geten him yet no benefice, He was nought worldly to have an office. For him was lever han. at his beddes hed, Twenty bokes clothed in black and red, Of Aristotle and his philosophic, Than robes riche, or fidel. or sautrle; But all be that he v/as a philosophre. Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; But all that he might of his frendes hente, On bokes and on lerning he it spente ; And besily gan for the soules praie THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Of hem that gave him wherwith to scolaie. Of studie toke he most care and hede. Not a word spake he more than was nede ; And that was said in forme and reverence, And short and quike, and full of high sentence: Souning in moral vertue was his speche ; And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. From "The Dream" A ND right anon as I the day espied. No longer would I in my bed abide, I went forth myself alone and boldel}', And held the way down by a brook side. Till I came to a land of white and green. So fair a one had I never in been. The ground was green y-powdered with daisy. The flowers and the groves alike high, All green and white was nothing else seen. The Complaint to His Empty Purse 'X'O you, my purse, and to none other wight Complain I, for ye be my lady dear ! I am so sorrow, now that ye be light ; For certes, but ye make me heavy cheer, Me were as lief be laid upon my bier; For which unto your mercy thus I cry: Be heavy again, or elles might I die ! Now voucheth safe this day, or it be night, That I of 3'ou the blissful sound may hear, Or see j'our colour like the sun bright That of yellowness had never a peer. Ye be my life, ye be my hertes stere. Queen of comfort and of good company: Be heavy again, or elles might I die ! Now purse, that be to me my life's light. And saviour, as down in this world here. Out of this toune help me through your might. Since that ye wole not be my treasurer ; For I am shaved as nigh as any frere. But yet I pray unto your courtesy Be heavy again, or elles might I die ! GEOFFREY CHAUCER O Conqueror of Brute's Albion Which that by line and free election Be very king, this song to 3'ou I send ; And ye, that mighten all our harm amend, Have mind upon my supplication ! Merciles Beaiite {A Triple Roundel) I. CAPTIVITY "Y'OUR eyen two wol slee me sodenij% I may the beaute of hem not sustene, So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene. And but your word wol helen hastily My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene. Your eyen two wol sice me sodenly, I may the beaute of hem not sustene. Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully, That ye ben of my 13'^f and deeth the queue; For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene. Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly, I may the beaute of hem not sustene. So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene. 2. REJECTION So hath 3*our beaute fro your herte chaced Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne ; For Daunger halt 3^our mercy in his cheyne. Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced ; I sey yow sooth, me nedeth not to feyne ; So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne. Alias ! that nature hath in yow compassed So great beaute, that no man may atteyne To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne. So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne ; For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne. halt] holdeth. 6 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE 3. ESCAPE Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene. He may answere and seye this or that I do no fors, I spcke right as I mcne, Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene. Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat And he is strike out of my bokes clene For ever-mo ; ther is non other mene. Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene ; Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene. Written on His Deathbed ipLY from the press, and dwell with sothfastness; Suffice unto thy good, though it be small ; For hoard hath hate, and climbing fickleness, Press hath envy, and weal is blent o'er all ; Savour no more than thee beloven shall ; Rede well thyself, that other folk can'st rede, And truth thee shall deliver 'tis no dredo. Pain thee not each crooked to redress, In trust of her that turneth as a ball ; Great rest standcth in little business ; Beware also to spurn against a nalle ; Strive not as doth a crocke with a wall ; Deemeth thyself that deemest other's deed, And truth thee shall deliver 'tis no drede. That thee is sent receive in bnxomness ; The wrestling of this world askcth a fall; Here is no home, here is but wilderness ; Forth, pilgrim, forth, O beast out of thy stall; Look up on high, and thank thy God of all ; Waiveth thy lust and let thy ghost thee lead, And truth thee shall deliver 'tis no drede. JAMES I OF SCOTLAND JAMES I OF SCOTLAND (i395-i437) From "The Kind's Qiihair" TJEWAILING in my chamber, thus alone, Despairing of all joy and remedy, For-tired of my thought, and woe-begone, And to the window gan I walk in by To see the world and folk that went forebye, As, for the time, though I of mirthis food Might have no more, to look it did me good. Now was there made, fast by the town's wall, A garden fair ; and in the corners set Ane arbour green, with wandis long and small Railed about, and so with trees set Was all this place, and hawthorn hedges knet, That lyf was none walking there forbye. That might within scarce any might espy So thick the boughis and the leavis green Beshaded all the alleys that there were, And mids of every arbour might be seen The sharpe greene sweete juniper, Growing so fair with branches here and there, That it seemed to a lyf without, The boughis spread the arbour all about. And on the smalle greene twistis sat, The little sweete nightingale, and sung So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrat Of love's use, now soft, now loud among, That all the gardens and the wallis rung Right of their song . . . . . . Cast I down mine eyes again, Where as I saw, walking imder the tower, Full secretly, new comen here to plain. The fairest or the freshest younge flower That ever I saw, methought, before that hour, For which sudden abate, anon astart. The blood of all my body to my heart. And though I stood abasit tho a lite, No wonder was; for why? my wittis all Were so overcome with pleasure and delight, Only through letting of my eyen fall, That suddenly my heart became her thrall, 8 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE For ever of free will, — for of menace There was no token in her sweete face. And in my head I drew right hastily, And eftesoons I leant it out again, And saw her walk that very womanly, With no wight mo', but only women twain. Then gan I study in myself, and sayn, "Ah, sweet ! are ye a worldly creature. Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature?" WILLIAM DUNBAR (1460-1521) (\ reverend Chaucer ! rose of rhetoris all, ^'^ As in our tongue ane flower imperial. That raise in Britain ever, who reads right, Thou bears of makaris the triumph riall, Thy fresh enamelled terms celicall : This matter could illumined have full bright. Was thou not of our English all the light. Surmounting every tongue terrestrial. As far as Mayis morrow does midnight. STEPHEN HAWES ( 1523) His Epitaph f\ mortal folk, j-ou may behold and see ^'^ How I lie here, sometime a mighty knight The end of joy and all prosperitee Is death at last, thorough his course and might: After the day there cometh the dark night. For though the daye be never so long, At last the bells ringeth to evensong. JOHN SKELTON (1460-1529) To Mistress Margery Wentworth lyi ERRY Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon. Or hawk of the tower ; With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously. SIR THOMAS WYATT So maidenly, So womanly, Her demeaning, In everything, Far, far passing That I can indite, Or suffice to write, Of merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon. Or hawk of the tower; As patient and as still. And as full of goodwill, As fair Isiphil, Coliander, Sweet Pomander, Good Cassander ; Stedfast of thought, Well made, well wrought, Far may be sought. Ere you can find So courteous, so kind. As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower. SIR THOMAS WYATT (1503-1542) My Lute, Awake Tl^Y lute, awake, perform the last Labour that thou and I shall waste, And end that I have now begun. And, when this song is sung and past, My lute, be still, for I have donel As to be heard where ear is none. As lead to grave in marble stone. My song may pierce her heart as soon : Should we, then, sigh or sing or moan? No, no, my lute, for I have done ! The rocks do not so cruelly Repulse the waves continually. As she my suit and affection : So that I am past remedy : Whereby my lute and I have donel 10 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot, By wliom unkind thou hast them won, Think not he hath his bow forgot, Ahhough my hite and I have done 1 Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, ^ That mak'st but game of earnest pain, Trow not alone under the sun ^ Unquit to cause thy lover's plain. Although my lute and I have done. Now cease, my lute, this is the last Labour that thou and I shall waste, And ended is that we begun : Now is this song both sung and past — My lute, be still, for I have done. HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY (1517-1547) Sinnmer Is Come 'T'HE soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale. The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs. The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; The buck in brake his winter coat he slings; The fishes flit with new repaired scale ; The adder all her slough away she slings; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale; The busy bee her honey now she mings ; Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs I RICHARD EDWARDES (1523-1566) Amantium Ira TN going to my naked bed, as one that would have slept. ■■■ I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept. She sighed sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, That would not cease, but cried still, in sucking at her breast. She was full weary of her watch, and grieved with her child; She rocked it, and rated it, until on her it smiled ; QUEEN ELIZABETH 11 Then did she say: "Now have I found the proverb true to prove, The falling out of faithful friends renezving is of love." Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to vi^rite, In register for to remain of such a w^orthy wight. As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat. Much matter uttered she of weight in place whereas she sat; And proved plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life, Could well be known to live in love without discord and strife: Then kissed she her little babe, and sware by God above, "The falling otit of faithful friends renezving is of love." "1 marvel much, pardie," quoth she, "for to behold the rout. To see man, woman, boy and beast, to toss the world about ; Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some check, and some can smoothly smile, And some embrace others in arms, and there think many a wile. Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble, and some stout, Yet are they never friends indeed until they once fall out." Thus ended she her song, and said, before she did remove: "The falling out of faithful friends renezving is of love." QUEEN ELIZABETH (1533-1603) The Doubt T^HE doubt of future foes Exiles my present joy, And wit me warns to shun such snares As threatens mine annoy. For fastened now doth flow, And subject faith doth ebb. Which would not be if reason ruled, Or wisdom weaved the web. But clouds of toys untried Do cloak aspiring minds. Which turn to rain of late repent. By course of changed winds. The top of hope supposed The root of truth will be. 12 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And fruitless all their graffed guiles, As shortly ye shall see. Then dazzled eyes with pride. Which great ambition blinds, Shall be unsealed by worthy wights, Whose foresight falsehood finds. The daughter of debate That eke discord doth sow, Shall reap no gain where former rule Hath taught still peace to grow. No foreign banished wight Shall anchor in this port; Our realm it brooks no stranger's force; Let them elsewhere resort. Our rusty sword with rest Shall first his edge employ. To pall their tops that seek such change And gape for future joy. JOHN STILL, BISHOP OF BATH AND WELLS (1543- I 608) Jolly Good Ale and Old From "Gammer Gurton's Needle" ¥ cannot eat but little meat. My stomach is not good ; But sure I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I nothing am a-cold ; I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare; Botli foot and hand go cold ; But. belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old. I love no roast but a nut-brown toast. And a crab laid in the fire; A little bread shall do me stead; Much bread I not desire. NICOLAS BRETON 13 No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold ; I am so wrapped and thoroughly lapped Of jolly good ale and old. And Tib, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she till ye may see The tears run down her cheek: Then doth she trowl to me the bowl Even as a maltworm should. And saith, "Sweetheart, I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old." Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do ; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to ; And all poor souls that have scoured bowls Or have them lustily trolled, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old. Back and side go bare, go bare ; Both foot and hand go cold ; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old. NICOLAS BRETON (i545?-i626?) A Cradle Song /^OME little babe, come silly soul, Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief, Born as I doubt to all our dole. And to thyself unhappy chief: Sing lullaby, and lap it warm, Poor soul that thinks no creature harm. Thou little think'st and less dost know The cause of this thy mother's moan; Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe, And I myself am all alone : Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail? And know'st not yet what thou dost ail. Come, little wretch — ah, silly heart! Mine only joy, what can I more? If there be any wrong thy smart. 14 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE That may the destinies implore: 'Twas I, 1 say, against my will, I wail the time, but be thou still. And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face! Would God Himself He might thee see! — No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace, I know right well, for thee and me : But come to mother, babe, and play, For father false is fled away. Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance Thy father home again to send, If death do strike me with his lance. Yet may'st thou me to him commend : If any ask thy mother's name, Tell how by love she purchased blame. Then will his gentle heart soon yield : I know him of a noble mind : Although a lion in the field, A lamb in town thou shalt him find : Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid. His sugared words hath me betrayed. Then may'st thou joy and be right glad; Although in woe I seem to moan. Thy father is no rascal lad, A noble youth of blood and bone : His glancing looks, if he once smile, Right honest women may beguile. Come, little boy, and rock asleep; Sing lullaby and be thou still ; I, that can do naught else but weep, Will sit by thee and wail my fill : God bless my babe, and lullaby From this thy father's quality. SIR WALTER RALEIGH (i552?-i6i8) The Faerie Queen {To Spenser) ■Ji/fETHOUGHT I saw the grave where Laura lay, ■'• Within that temple where the vestal flame Was wont to burn : and, passing by that way SIR WALTER RALEIGH 15 To see that buried dust of living flame, Whose tomb fair love and fairer Virtue kept, All suddenly I saw the Faerie Queen, At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept; And from henceforth those graces were not seen. For they this Queen attended ; in whose stead Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse. Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce: Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief, And curse the access of that celestial thief. His Pilgrimage ^^IVE me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staflf of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet. My bottle of salvation. My gov/n of glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. Blood must be my body's balmer. No other balm will there be given ; Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Traveleth towards the land of Heaven; Over the silver mountains Where spring the nectar fountains: There will I kiss The bowl of bliss. And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before ; But after, it will thirst no more. Then by that happy, blissful day, More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk appareled fresh like me. I'll take them first To quench their thirst, And taste of nectar's suckets At those clear wells Where sweetness dwells Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. And when our bottles and all we Are filled with immortality. Then the blessed paths we'll travel, Strowed with rubies thick as gravel; — Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors. 16 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall, Where no corrupted voices brawl ; No conscience molten into gold, No forged accuser bought or sold. No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, For there Christ is the King's Attorney, Who pleads for all without degrees, And He hath angels, but no fees. And when the grand twelve-million jury Of our sins, with direful fury, Against our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads His death, and then we live. Be Thou my speaker, taintless pleader, Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder ! Thou giv'st salvation even for alms ; Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. And this is mine eternal plea To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea, That, since my flesh must die so soon, And want a head to dine next noon. Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread, Set on my soul an everlasting head ! Then am I ready, like a palmer, fit To tread those blest paths which before I writ. O death and judgment, heaven and hell. Who oft doth think, must needs die well. The Conclusion E VEN such is Time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have. And paA^s us but with earth and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days ; But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God will raise me up, I trust. BALLADS— ANONYMOUS Thomas the Rhymer '^RUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e ; And there he saw a lady bright. Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. BALLADS— ANONYMOUS 17 Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk, Her mantle o' the velvet fine ; At ilka tett o' her horse's mane Hung fifty siller bells and nine. True Thomas he pu'd afif his cap. And louted low down on his knee : "Hail to thee, Mary, Queen of Heaven! For thy peer on earth could never be." "O no, O no, Thomas !" she said, "That name does not belang to me; I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland, That am hither come to visit thee. "Harp and carp, Thomas !" she said, "Harp and carp along wi' me ; And if ye dare to kiss my lips. Sure of your body I will be." "Betide me weal, betide me woe, That weird shall never daunten me." Syne he has kissed her rosy lips. All underneath the Eildon Tree, "Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said ; "True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me ; \nd ye maun serve me seven years, Through weal or woe as may chance be." She's mounted on her milk-white steed ; She's ta'en true Thomas up behind ; And aye, whene'er her bridle rang, The steed gaed swifter than the wind. O they rade on, and farther on. The steed gaed swifter than the wind ; Until they reached a desert wide. And living land was left behind. "Light down, light down now, true Thomas, And lean your head upon my knee ; Abide ye there a little space, And I will show you ferlies three. "O see ye not yon narrow road, So thick beset wi' thorns and briers? That is the Path of Righteousness, Though after it but few inquires. 18 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "And see ye not yon braid, braid road, That lies across the lily Icven? That is the Path of Wickedness, Though some call it the Road to Heaven. "And see yet not yon bonny road, That winds about the fcrnie brae? That is the Road to fair Elfland, Where thou and I this night maun gae. "But, Thomas, ye sail baud your tongue, Whatever ye may hear or see ; For speak ye word in Elfyn-land, Ye'll ne'er win back to your ain countrie.'* they rade on, and farther on, And they waded rivers abune the knee ; And they saw neither sun nor moon. But they heard the roaring of the sea. It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight, They waded through red blude to the knee ; For a' the blude that's shed on earth Rins through the springs o' that countrie. Syne they came to a garden green. And she pu'd an apple f rae a tree : "Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; It will give thee tongue that can never lee." "My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas, he said; "A gudely gift ye wad gie to me! 1 neither dought to buy nor sell. At fair or tryst where I might be. "I dought neither speak to prince or peer, Nor ask of grace from fair lady!" "Now baud thy peace !" the lady said, "For as I say, so must it be." He has gotten a coat of the even cloth. And a pair o' shoon of the velvet green; And till seven years were gane and past, True Thomas on earth was never seen. BALLADS— ANONYMOUS 19 Helen of Klrconnell T wish I were where Helen lies, Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirconnell lea ! Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me ! think na ye my heart was sair, When my Love dropp'd and spak nae mair I There did she swoon wi' meikle care. On fair Kirconnell lea. As I went down the water side. None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell lea ; 1 lighted down my sword to draw, I hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me. O Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll mak a garland o' thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair. Until the day I die ! O that I were where Helen lies I Night and day on me she cries ; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste, and come to me 1" Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I'd be blest. Where thou lits low and taks thy rest, On fair Kirconnell 'lea. 1 wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn owre my e'en, And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirconnell lea. 20 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE I wish I were where Helen lies ! Night and day on me she cries ; And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me. Waly, Waly Owaly, waly, up the bank. And waly, waly, doun the brae, And waly, waly, yon burn-side. Where I and my Love wont to gae I I lean'd my back unto an aik, I thocht it was a trustie tree ; But first it bow'd and syne it brak — Sae my true love did lichtlie me. O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie A little time while it is new! But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld, And fades awa' like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my heid, Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook. And says he'll never lo'e me mair. Now Arthur's Seat sail be my bed, The sheets sail ne'er be 'filed by me; Saint Anton's well sail be my drink; Since my true Love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw. And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle Death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie. 'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell. Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie, 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry; But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. When we cam in by Glasgow toun. We were a comely sicht to see ; My Love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel in cramasie. BALLADS— ANONYMOUS 21 But had I wist, before I kist, That love had been sae ill to win, I had lock'd my heart in a case o' gowd, And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. And O! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee ; And I mysel were dead andgane, And the green grass growing over met Barbara Allen's Cruelty TN Scarlet town, where I was born, There was a fair maid dwellin'. Made every youth cry IVell-a-way! Her name was Barbara Allen. All in the merry month of May, When green buds they were swellin', Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen. He sent his man in to her then, To the town where she was dwellin*, "O haste and come to my master dear, "If your name be Barbara Allen." So slowly, slowly rase she up, And slowly she came nigh him, And when she drew the curtain by — 'Young man, I think you're dyin'.' "O it's I am sick and very very sick, And it's all for Barbara Allen." "O the better for me ye'se never be, Tho' your heart's blood were a-spillin' !" "O dinna ye mind, young man," saj's she, "When the red wine ye were fillin', That ye made the healths go round and round, And slighted Barbara Allen?" He turn'd his face unto the wall. And death was with him dealin': "Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all. And be kind to Barbara Allen !" As she was walking o'er the fields. She heard the dead-bell knellin'; And every jow the dead-bell gave Cried "Woe to Barbara Allen." 22 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "O mother, mother, make my bed, O make it saft and narrow: My love has died for me to-day, I'll die for him to-morrow. "Farewell," she said, "ye virgins all, And shun the fault I fell in : Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen." PhlUada Flouts Me C\ what a plague is love ! ^^ How shall I bear it? She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it. She so torments my mind That my strength faileth. And wavers with the wind As a ship saileth. Please her the best I may, She loves still to gainsay; Alack and well-a-day! ■Phillada flouts me. At the fair yesterday She did pass by me; She look'd another way And would not spy me: I woo'd her for to dine. But could not get her; Will had her to the wine — He might entreat her. With Daniel she did dance. On me she look'd askance : thrice unhappy chance! Phillada flouts me. Fair maid, be not so coy, Do not disdain me! 1 am my mother's joy: Sweet, entertain me ! She'll give me, when she dies. All that is fitting: Her poultry and her bees. And her goose sitting, BALLADS— ANONYMOUS 23 A pair of mattrass beds, And a bap: full of shreds ; And yet, for all this guedes, Phillada flouts me 1 She hath a clout of mine Wrought with blue Coventry, Which she keeps for a sign Of my fidelity: But i' faith, if she flinch She shall not wear it ; To Tib. my t'other wench, I mean to bear it. And yet it grieves my heart So soon from her to part: Death strike me with his dart! Phillada flouts me. Thou shalt eat crudded cream All the year lasting, And drink the crystal stream Pleasant in tasting; Whig and whey whilst thou lust. And bramble-berries. Pie-lid and pastry-crust, Pears, plums, and cherries. Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weevil's skin — Yet all's not worth a pin 1 Phillada flouts me. In the last month of May I made her posies ; I heard her often say That she loved roses. Cowslips and gillyflowers And the white lily I brought to deck the bowers For my sweet Philly. But she did all disdain. And tbrew them back again; Therefore 'tis flat and plain Phillada flouts me. Fair maiden, have a care. And in time take me ; I can have those as fair If you forsake me : For IDoll the dairy-maid Laugh'd at me lately. 24 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And wanton Winifred Favours me fjreatly. One throws milk on my clothes, T'other plays with my nose ; What wanting: signs are those? Phillada flouts me. I cannot work nor sleep At all in season : Love wounds my heart so deep Without all reason. I 'gin to pine away in my love's shadow, Like as a fat beast may, Penn'd in a meadow. I shall be dead, I fear, Within this thousand year: And all for that my dear Phillada flouts me. Clerk Saunders #^LERK Saunders and may Margaret Walk'd owre yon garden green ; And deep and heavy was the love That fell thir twa between. "A bed, a bed," Clerk Saunders said, "A bed for you and me !" "Eye na, fye na," said may Margaret, "Till anes we married be !" "Then I'll take the sword frae my scabbard And slowly lift the pin ; And you may swear, and save your aith, Ye ne'er let Clerk Saunders in. "Take you a napkin in your hand. And tie up baith your bonnie e'en. And you may swear, and save your aith, Ye saw me na since late yestreen." It was about the midnight hour. When they asleep were laid, When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning red: BALLADS— ANONYMOUS 25 When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning bright : They said. "We hae but one sister, And behold her lying with a knight I" Then out and spake the first o' them, "I bear the sword shall gar him die." And out and spake the second o' them, "His father has nae mair but he." And out and spake the third o' them, "I wot that they are lovers dear." And out and spake the fourth o' them, "They hae been in love this mony a year." Then out and spake the fifth o' them, "It were great sin true love to twain." And out and spake the sixth o' them, "It were shame to slay a sleeping man." Then up and gat the seventh o' them. And never a word spake he ; But he has striped his bright brown brand Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye. Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn'd Into his arms as asleep she lay; And sad and silent was the night That was atween thir twae. And they lay still and sleepit sound Until the day began to daw' ; And kindly she to him did say, "It is time, true love, you were awa'." But he lay still, and sleepit sound. Albeit the sun began to sheen ; She look'd atween her and the wa'. And dull and drowsie were his e'en. Then in and came her father dear ; Said, "Let a' your mourning be ; I'll carry the dead corse to the clay, And I'll come back and comfort thee." "Comfort weel your seven sons, For comforted I will never be: striped] thrust. 26 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE I ween 'twas neither knave nor loon Was in the bower last night wi' me." The cHnkinR- bell gaed through the town, To carry the dead corse to the clay; And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret's window, I wot, an hour before the day. "Are ye sleeping, Marg'ret?" he says, "Or are ye waking prescntlie? Give me my faith and troth again, I wot, true love, I gied to thee." 'Your faith and troth ye sail never get, Nor our, true love sail never twin. Until ye come within my bower, And kiss me cheik and chin." "My mouth it is full cold, Marg'ret; It has the smell, now, of the ground; And if I kiss thy comely mouth. Thy days of life will not be lang. "O cocks are crowing a merry midnight; I wot the wild fowls arc boding day; Give me my faith and troth again. And let me fare me on my way." "Thy faith and troth thou sallna get, And our true love sail never twin, Until ye tell what comes o' women, I wot, who die in strong traivelling?" "Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee, Weel set about wi' gillyflowers ; I wot, sweet company for to see. "O cocks are crowing a merry midnight; I wot the wild fowls are boding day; The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, And I, ere now, will be miss'd away." Then she has taken a crystal wand. And she has stroken her troth thereon ; She has given it him out at the shot-window, Wi' mony a sad sigh and heavy groan. twin] break in two. BALLADS— ANONYMOUS 27 "I thank ye, Marg'ret ; I thank ye, Marg-'ret ; And ay I thank ye heartilie ; Gin ever the dead come for the quick, Be sure, Marg'ret, I'll come for thee." It's hosen and shoon, and gown alone. She climb'd the wall, and follow'd him, Until she came to the green forest. And there she lost the sight o' him. "Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? Is there ony room at your feet? Or ony room at your side, Saunders, Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?" "There's nae room at my head, Marg'ret, There's nae room at my feet ; My bed it is fu' lowly now, Amang the hungry worms I sleep. "Cauld mould is my covering now, But and my winding-sheet ; The dew it falls nae sooner down Than my resting-place is weet. "But plait a wand o' bonny birk. And lay it on my breast; And shed a tear upon my grave, And wish my saul gude rest." Then up and crew the red, red cock. And up and crew the gray: " 'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Marg'ret, That you were going away. "And fair Marg'ret, and rare Marg'ret, And Marg'ret o' veritie. Gin e'er ye love another man, Ne'er love him as ye did me." The Twa Corbies yi S I was walking all alane I heard twa corbies making a mane: The tane unto the tither did say, "Whar sail we gang and dine the day?" corbies] ravens. 28 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE " — In behint yon auld fail dyke I wot there lies a new-slain knight ; And nacbody kens that he lies there But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. "His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame. His lady's ta'en anither mate. So we may mak our dinner sweet. "Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en : Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. "Mony a one for him maks mane, But nane sail ken whar he is gane : O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sail blaw for evermair." Binnorie ' I ■'HERE were twa sisters sat in a hour ; Binnorie, O Binnorie! There cam a knight to be their wooer, By the bonnie milldams o' Binnorie. He courted the eldest with glove and ring, But he lo'ed the youngest abune a' thing. The eldest she was vexed sair. And sair envied her sister fair. Upon a morning fair and clear. She cried upon her sister dear : "O sister, sister, tak my hand, And let's go down to the river-strand." She's ta'en her by the lily hand. And led her down to the river-strand. The youngest stood upon a stane, The eldest cam and push'd her in. "O sister, sister, reach your hand ! And ye sail be heir o' half my land: BALLADS— ANONYMOUS 29 "0 sister, reach me but your glove I And sweet William sail be your love." Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam. Until she cam to the miller's dam. Out then cam the miller's son, And saw the fair maid soummin' in. "O father, father, draw your dam ! There's either a mermaid or a milk-white swan." The miller hasted and drew his dam, And there he found a drown'd woman. You couldna see her middle sma*. Her gowden girdle was sae braw. You couldna see her lily feet. Her gowden fringes were sae deep. All amang her yellow hair A string o' pearls was twisted rare. You couldna see her fingers sma', Wi' diamond rings they were cover'd a*. And by there cam a harper fine, That harpit to the king at dine. And when he look'd that lady on, He sigh'd and made a heavy moan. He's made a harp of her breast-bane, Whose sound wad melt a heart of stane. He's ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair. And wi' them strung his harp sae rare. He went into her father's hall, And there was the court assembled all. He laid his harp upon a stane. And straight it began to play by lane. "O yonder sits my father, the King, And yonder sits my mother, the Queen; "And yonder stands my brother Hugh, And by him my William, sweet and true." soummin'] swimming. 30 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE But the last tune that the harp play'd then — Bifinorie, O Binnorie! Was, "Woe to my sister, false Helen 1" By the bonnie milldams o' Binnorie. Sir Patrick Spens I. THE SAILING 'T'HE king sits in Dunfermline town Drinkinfj the blude-red wine ; "O whare will I get a skecly skipper To sail this new ship o' mine?" O up and spak an eldern knight. Sat at the king's right knee ; "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sail'd the sea." Our king has written a braid letter. And scal'd it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. "To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem ; The king's daughter o' Noroway 'Tis thou must bring her hame." The first word that Sir Patrick read So loud, loud laugh'd he ; The neist word that Sir Patrick read The tear blinded his e'e. "O wha is this has done this deed And tauld the king o' me, To send us out, at this time o' 3'ear, To sail upon the sea? "Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem ; The king's daughter o' Norowaj', 'Tis we must fetch her hame." They horsed their sails on Monenday morn Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday. skeelyl skilful. BALLADS— ANONYMOUS 31 II. THE RETURN "Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a' I Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now ever alack, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm. "I saw the new moon late yestreen Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; And if we Rang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm." They hadna sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three. When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud. And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmast lap, It was sic a deadly storm : And the waves cam owre the broken ship Till a' her sides were torn. "Go fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine. And wap them into our ship's side, And let nae the sea come in." They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the swine, And they wrapp'd them round that gude ship's side. But still the sea came in. O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To wet their cork-heel'd shoon ; But lang or a' the play was play'd They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather bed That flatter'd on the faem ; And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam hame. And lang, lang may the maidens sit Wi' their gowd kames in their hair, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand I lift] sky. lap] sprang, flatter'd] tossed afloat, kames] combs. 32 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And lang, lang mad the maidens sit Wi' their gowd kames in their hair, A-waiting for their ain dear loves ! For them they'll see nae mair. Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep; And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet I Chevy-Chase /^OD prosper long our noble king, ^^ Our lives and safeties all ; A woful hunting once there did In Chevy-Chase befall. To drive the deer v^^ith hound and horn Earl Percy took his way ; The child may rue that is unborn The hunting of that day. The stout Earl of Northumberland A vow to God did make. His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer days to take ; The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chase To kill and bear away. These tidings to Earl Douglas came. In Scotland where he lay ; Who sent Earl Percy present word He would prevent his sport. The English earl, not fearing that. Did to the woods resort, With fifteen hundred bowmen bold. All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of need To aim their shafts aright. The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran To chase the fallow dear ; On Monday they began to hunt, When daylight did appear ; BALLADS— ANONYMOUS 33 And lonp: before hiph noon they had A hundred fat bucks slain ; Then, having dined, the drovers went To rouse the deer again. The bowmen mustered on the hills, Well able to endure ; And all their rear, with special care, That day was guarded sure. The hounds ran swiftly through the woods The nimble deer to take. That with their cries the hills and dales An echo shrill did make. Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughtered deer ; Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promised This day to meet me here ; "But if I thought he would not come. No longer would I stay ;" With that, a brave young gentleman Thus to the earl did say: — "Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, — His men in armor bright ; Full twenty hundred Scottish spears All marching in our sight; "All men of pleasant Teviotdale, Fast by the river Tweed ;" "Then cease your sports," Earl Percy said, "And take your bows with speed ; "And now with me, my countrymen. Your courage forth advance ; For never was there champion yet, In Scotland or in France, "That ever did on horseback come, But if my hap it were, I durst encounter man for man, With him to break a spear." Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed, Most like a baron bold. Rode foremost of his company. Whose armor shone like gold. 34 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "Show me," said he, "whose men you be, That hunt so boldly here, That, without my consent, do chase And kill my fallow-deer." The first man that did answer make. Was noble Percy, he — Who said, "We list not to declare. Nor show whose men we be : "Yet will we spend our dearest blood Thy chiefest harts to slay." Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, And thus in rage did say : — "Ere thus I will out-braved be. One of us two shall die; I know thee well, an earl thou arr, — Lord Percy, so am L "But trust me, Percy, pity it were, And great offense, to kill Any of these our guiltless men. For they have done no ill. "Let you and I the battle try. And set our men aside." "Accursed be he," Earl Percy said, "By whom this is denied." Then stepped a gallant squire forth, Witherington was his name. Who said, "I would not have it told To Henry, our king, for shame, "That e'er my captain fought on foot, And I stood looking on. You two be earls," said Witherington, "And I a squire alone ; "I'll do the best that do I may, While I have power to stand ; While I have power to wield my sword, I'll fight with heart and hand." Our English archers bent their bows, — Their hearts were good and true ; At the first flight of arrows sent, Full fourscore Scots they slew. BALLADS— ANONYMOUS 35 Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent, As chieftain stout and good ; As valiant captain, all unmoved. The shock he firmly stood. His host he parted had in three. As leader ware and tried ; And soon his spearmen on their foes Bore down on every side. Throughout the English archery They dealt full many a wound ; But still our valiant Englishmen All firmly kept their ground. And throwing straight their bows away, They grasped their swords so bright; And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, On shields and helmets light. They closed full fast on every side, No slackness there was found; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground. In truth, it was a grief to see How each one chose his spear. And how the blood out of their breasts Did gush like water clear. At last these two stout earls did meet ; Like captains of great might, Like lions wode, they laid on lode, And made a cruel fight. They fought until they both did sweat. With swords of tempered steel, Until the blood, like drops of rain. They trickling down did feel. "Yield thee. Lord Percy," Douglas said, "In faith I will thee bring Where thou shalt high advanced be By James, our Scottish king. "Thy ransom I will freely give. And this report of thee, — Thou art the most courageous knight That ever I did see." 36 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "No, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then, "Thy proffer I do scorn ; I will not yield to any Scot That ever yet was born." With that there came an arrow keen Out of an English bow, Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart, — A deep and deadly blow; Who never spake more words than these: "Fight on, my merry men all ; For why. my life is at an end ; Lord Percy sees my fall." Then leaving life. Earl Percy took The dead man by the hand ; And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy life Would I had lost my hand. "In truth, my very heart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake : For sure a more redoubted knight Mischance did never take." A knight amongst the Scots there was Who saw Earl Douglas die. Who straight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Earl Percy. Sir Hugh Muntgomery was he called, Who, with a spear full bright. Well-mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight; And past the English archers all, Without a dread or fear; And through Earl Percy's body then He thrust his hateful spear. With such vehement force and might He did his body gore. The staff ran through the other side A large cloth-yard and more. So thus did both these nobles die. Whose courage none could stain. An English archer then perceived The noble earl was slain ; BALLADS— ANONYMOUS 37 He had a bow bent in his hand. Made of a trusty tree : An arrow of a cloth-yard long To the hard head drew he. Against Sir Hugh Mountgomery So right the shaft he set, The gray goose-wing that was thereon In his heart's blood was wet. This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun; For when they rung the evening-bell The battle scarce was done. With stout Earl Percy there were slain Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James, that bold baron. And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both Knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, Whose prowess did surmount. For Witherington my heart is woe That ever he slain should be, For when his legs were hewn in two. He knelt and fought on his knee. And with Earl Douglas there were slain Sir Hugh Mountgomery, Sir Charles Murray, that from the field One foot would never flee ; Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too, — His sister's son was he; Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, But saved he could not be. And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Earl Douglas die : Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, Scarce fifty-five did fly. Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest in Chevy-Chase were slain. Under the greenwood tree. 38 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Next day did many widows come, Their husbands to bewail ; They washed their wounds_ in brinish tears, But all would not prevail. Their bodies, bathed in purple blood. They bore with them away; They kissed them dead a thousand times, Ere they were clad in clay. The news was brought to Edinburgh, Where Scotland's king did reign, That brave Earl Douglas suddenly Was with an arrow slain : "O heavy news," King James did say; "Scotland can witness be I have not any captain more Of such account as he." Like tidings to King Henry came Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slain in Chevy-Chase : "Now God be with him," said our King, "Since 'twill no better be ; I trust I have within my realm Five hundred as good as he. "Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say But I will vengeance take ; I'll be revenged on them all For brave Earl Percy's sake." This vow full well the king performed After at Humbledown ; In one day fifty knights were slain With lords of high renown ; And of the rest, of small account, Did many hundreds die : Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, Made by the Earl Percy. God save the king, and bless this land, With plenty, joy, and peace; And grant, hcncefortli, that foul debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease. EDMUND SPENSER 39 EDMUND SPENSER (1552-1599) EpitJialamion "VE learned sisters, which have oftentimes Been to me aiding, others to adorn. Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful rhymes, That even the greatest did not greatly scorn To hear their names sung in your simple lays, But joyed in their praise; And when ye list your own mishaps to mourn, Which death, or love, or fortune's wreck did raise. Your string could soon to sadder tenor turn, And teach the woods and waters to lament Your doleful dreariment: Now lay those sorrowful complaints aside; And, having all your heads with garlands crowned, Help me mine own love's praises to resound; Nor let the same of any be envide : So Orpheus did for his own bride ! So I unto myself alone will sing; The woods shall to me answer, and my echo ring. Early, before the world's light-giving lamp His golden beam upon the hills doth spread, Having dispersed the night's uncheerful damp, Do ye awake ; and, with fresh lusty-hed. Go to the bower of my beloved love, My truest turtle dove ; Bid her awake ; for Hymen is awake. And long since ready forth his mask to move, W^ith his bright Tead that flames with many a flake, And manj' a bachelor to wait on him. In their fresh garments trim. Bid her awake therefore, and soon her dight. For lo ! the wished day is come at last. That shall, for all the pains and sorrows past. Pay to her usury of long delight: And. whilst she doth her dight. Do ye to her of joy and solace sing. That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Bring with you all the Nymphs that you can hear, Both of the rivers and the forests green, And of the sea that neighbors to her near, All with gay garlands goodly well beseen. And let them also with them bring in hand Another gay garland. For my fair love, of lilies and of roses, 40 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Bound true love wise with a blue silk riband ; _ And let them make great store of bridal posies, And let them eke bring store of other flowers, To deck the bridal bowers. And let the ground whereas her foot should wrong, For fear the stones her tender foot should wrong, Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, And diapered like the discolored mead ; Which done, do at her chamber door await, For she will waken straight; The whiles do ye this song unto her sing, The woods shall to you answer, and your echo ring. Ye Nymphs of Mulla, which with careful heed The silver scaly trouts do tend full well. And greedy pikes which use therein to feed (Those trouts and pikes all others do excel) ; And ye likewise, which keep the rushy lake, Where none do fishes take ; Bind up the locks the which hang scattered light. And in his waters, which your mirror make. Behold your faces as the crystal bright. That when you come whereas my love doth lie. No blemish she may spy. And eke, ye lightfoot maids, which keep the deer. That on the hoary mountain used to tower ; And the wild wolves, which seek them to devour, With your steel darts do chase from coming near ; Be also present here, To help to deck her, and to help to sing. That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Wake, now, my love, awake I for it is time ; The rosy morn long since left Tithon's bed, All ready to her silver coach to climb ; And Phoebus 'gins to show his glorious head. Hark, how the cheerful birds do chant their lays And carol of love's praise. The merry lark her matins sings aloft; The thrush replies ; the mavis descant plays ; The ouzel shrills; the ruddock warbles soft; So goodly all agree, with sweet consent. To this day's merriment. Ah ! my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long. When meeter were that ye should now awake, To await the coming of your joyous mate. And hearken to the birds' love-learned song. The dewy leaves among! For they of joy and plcasance to you sing. That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring. EDMUND SPENSER 41 My love is now awake out of her dreams, And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear. Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, Help quickly her to dight : But first come, ye fair hours, which were begot In Jove's sweet paradise of Day and Night; Which do the seasons of the year allot, And all that ever in this world is fair. Do make and still repair: And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian queen. The which do still adorn her beauty's pride. Help to adorn my beautifulcst bride; And as ye her array, still throw between Some graces to be seen, And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring. Now is my love all ready forth to come : Let all the virgins therefore well await : And ye fresh boys, that tend upon her groom, Prepare yourselves; for he is coming straight; Set all your things in seemly good array, Fit for so joyful day: The joyfulest day that ever sun did see. Fair Sun ! show forth thy favorable ray. And let th}' life-full heat not fervent be, For fear of burning her sunshiny face, Her beauty to disgrace. O fairest Phoebus! father of the Muse I H ever I did honor thee aright. Or sing the thing that might thy mind delight, Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse ; But let this day, let this one day, be mine ; Let all the rest be thine. Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing, That all the woods shall answer, and their echo ring. Hark I how the Minstrels 'gin to shrill aloud Their merry music that resounds from far. The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud. That well agree withouten breach or jar. But, most of all, the Damsels do delight When thej' their timbrels smite, And thereunto do dance and carol sweet. That all the senses they do ravish quite; The whiles the boys run up and down the street, Crying aloud with strong confused noise, 42 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE As if it were one voice, Hymen, io Hymen, Hymen, they do sheut; That even to the heavens their shouting shrill Doth reach, and all the firmament dcth fill; To which the people standing all about, As in approvance, do thereto applaud, And loud advance her laud ; And evermore they Hymen, Hymen sing. That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring. Lo ! where she comes along with portly pace. Like Phcebe, from her chamber of the East, Arising forth to run her mighty race, Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. So well it her beseems, that ye would ween Some angel she had been. Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire, Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween, Do like a golden mantle her attire ; And, being crowned with a garland green. Seem like some maiden queen. Her modest eyes, abashed to behold So many gazers as on her do stare, Upon the lowly ground affixed are ; Nor dare lift up her countenance too bold. But blush to hear her praises sung so loud. So far from being proud. Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing. That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see So fair a creature in your town before; So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she. Adorned with beauty's grace and virtue's store? Her goodly eyes like sapphires shining bright, Her forehead ivory white. Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath ruddied. Her lips like cherries charming men to bite, Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded. Her paps like lilies budded, Her snowy neck like to a marble tower; And all her body like a palace fair, Ascending up, with many a stately stair. To honor's seat and chastity's sweet bower. Why stand j^e still, ye virgins, in amaze. Upon her so to gaze. Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing. To which the woods did answer, and your echo ring? EDMUND SPENSER 43 But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, The inward beauty of her lively spright, Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree,_ Much more then would ye wonder at that sight, And stand astonished like to those which read Medusa's mazeful head. There dwells sweet love, and constant chastity. Unspotted faith, and comely womanhood, Regard of honor, and mild modesty; There virtue reigns as queen in royal throne. And giveth laws alone, The which the base affections do obey, And yield their services unto her will; Nor thought of thing uncomely ever may Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill. Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures. And unrevealed pleasures, Then would ye wonder, and her praises sing. That all the woods should answer, and your echo ring. Open the temple gates unto my love, Open them wide that she may enter in. And all the posts adorn as doth behove, And all the pillars deck with garlands trim. For to receive this Saint with honor due, That Cometh in to you. With trembling steps, and humble reverence. She Cometh in, before the Almighty's view; Of her 3'e virgins learn obedience. When so ye come into those holy places. To humble your proud faces : Bring her up to the high altar, that she may The sacred ceremonies there partake. The which do endless matrimony make ; And let the roaring organs loudly play The praises of the Lord in lively notes ; The whiles, with hollow throats. The Choristers the joyous Anthems sing. That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring. Behold, whiles she before the altar stands. Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks. And blesseth her with his two happy hands, How the red roses flush up in her cheeks, And the pure snow, with croodly vermill stain Like crimson dyed in grain : That even the Angels, which continually About the sacred altar do remain. Forget their service and about her fly. 44 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair, The more they on it stare. But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, That suffers not one look to glance awry, Which may let in a little thought unsound. Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, The pledge of all our band? Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluja sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Now all is done : bring home the bride again ; Bring home the triumph of our victory: Bring home with you the glory of her gain ; With joyance bring her and with jollity. Never had man more joyful day than this. Whom heaven would heap with bliss. Make feast therefore now all this live-long day; This day for ever to me holy is. Pour out the wine without restraint or stay, Pour not by cups, but by the belly full. Pour out to all that will. And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine. That they may sweat, and drunken be withal. Crown ye God Bacchus with a coronal, And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine; And let the Graces dance unto the rest, For they can do it best : The whiles the maidens do their carol sing. To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring. Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town, And leave your wonted labors for this day: This day is holy; do ye write it down. That ye for ever it remember may. This day the sun is in his chiefest height. With Barnaby the bright. From whence declining daily by degrees. He somewhat loseth of his heat and light. When once the Crab behind his back he sees. But for this time it ill ordained was. To choose the longest day in all the year, And shortest night, when longest fitter were : Yet never day so long, but late would pass. Ring }'e the bells, to make it wear away. And bonfires make all day ; And dance about them, and about them sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. EDMUND SPENSER 45 Ah ! when will this long weary day have end. And lend me leave to come nnto my love? How slowly do the hours their numbers spend? How slowly does sad Time his feathers move? Haste thee, O fairest Planet, to thy home, Within the Western foam : Thy tired steeds long since have need of rest. Long though it be, at last I see it gloom, And the bright evening-star with golden crest Appear out of the East. Fair child of beauty! glorious lamp of love! That all the host of heaven in ranks dost lead. And guidest lovers through the night's sad dread, How cheerfully thou lookest from above. And seems to laugh atween thy twinkling light, As joying in the sight Of these glad many, which for joy do sing. That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring! Now, cease, ye damsels, your delights fore-past ; Enough is it that all the day was yours : Now day is done, and night is nighing fast. Now bring the bride into the bridal bowers. The night is come, now soon her disarray, And in her bed her lay ; Lay her in lilies and in violets. And silken curtains over her display. And odored sheets, and Arras coverlets. Behold how goodly m}' fair love does lie, In proud humility! Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took In Tempe, lying on the flov/ery grass, 'Twixt sleep and wake, after she weary was, With bathing in the Acidalian brook. Now it is night, ye damsels may be gone. And leave my love alone. And leave likewise your former lay to sing : The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo ring. Now welcome, night ! thou night so long expected, That long day's labor dost at last defray, And all my cares, which cruel Love collected, Hast summed in one, and cancelled for aye : Spread thy broad wing over my love and me, That no man may us see ; And in thy sable mantle us enwrap, From fear of peril and foul horror free. Let no false treason seek us to entrap. Nor any dread disquiet once annoy The safety of our joy; 46 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE But let the night be calm, and quietsome, Without tempestuous storms or sad atlray: Like as when Jove with fair Alcmena lay, When he begot the great Tirynthian groom: Or like as when he with thyself did lie And begot Majesty. And let the maids and young men cease to sing; Nor let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring. Let no lamenting cries, nor doleful tears. Be heard all night within, nor yet without: Nor let false whispers, breeding hidden fears, Break gentle sleep with misconceived doubt. Let no deluding dreams, nor dreadful sights, Make sudden sad affrights ; Nor let house-fires, nor lightning's helpless harms. Nor let the Puck, nor other evil sprites. Nor let mischievous witches with their charms, Nor let hobgoblins, names whose sense we see not, Fray us with things that be not : Let not the screech-owl nor the stork be heard, Nor the night raven, that still deadly yells ; Nor damned ghosts, called up with mighty spells, Nor grizzly vultures, make us once afraid : Nor let the unpleasant choir of frogs still croaking Make us to wish their choking. Let none of these their dreary accents sing; Nor let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring. But let still Silence true night-watches keep. That sacred Peace may in assurance reign, And timely Sleep, when it is time to sleep. May pour his limbs forth on your pleasant plain ; The whiles an hundred little winged loves, Like divers-feathered doves. Shall fly and flutter round about your bed, And in the secret dark, that none reproves, Their pretty stealths shall work, and snares shall spread To filch away sweet snatches of delight, Concealed through covert night. Ye sons of Venus, play your sports at will ! For greedy pleasure, careless of your toys, Thinks more upon her paradise of joys. Then what ye do, albeit good or ill. All night therefore attend your merry play. For it will soon be day: Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing; Nor will the woods now answer, nor your echo ring. EDMUND SPENSER 47 Who is the same, which at my window peeps? Or whose is that fair face that shines so bright? Is it not Cj'nthia, she that never sleeps, But walks about high heaven all the night? O ! fairest goddess, do thou not envy My love with me to spy: For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought, And for a fleece of wool, which privily The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought, His pleasures with thee wrought. Therefore to us be favorable now ; And since of women's labors thou hast charge, And generation goodly dost enlarge. Incline thy will to effect our wishful vow, And the chaste womb inform with timely seed, That may our comfort breed: Till which we cease our hopeful hap to sing; Nor let the woods us answer, nor our echo ring. And thou, great Juno ! which with awful might The laws of wedlock still dost patronize. And the religion of the faith first plight With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize; And eke for comfort often called art Of women in their smart; Eternally bind thou this lovely band, And all thy blessings unto us impart. And thou, glad Genius ! in whose gentle hand The bridal bower and genial bed remain. Without blemish or stain ; And the sweet pleasures of their love's delight With secret aid dost succor and supply. Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny; Send us the timely fruit of this same night. And thou, fair Hebe ! and thou. Hymen free I Grant that it may so be. Till which we cease your further praise to sing; Nor any woods shall answer, nor your echo ring. And ye high heavens, the temple of the_ gods. In which a thousand torches flaming bright Do burn, that to us wretched earthly clods In dreadful darkness lend desired light; And all ye powers which in the same remain, More than we men can feign. Pour out your blessing on us plenteously, And happy influence upon us rain. That we may raise a large posterity. Which from the earth, which they may long possess 48 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE With lasting happiness, Up to your haughty palaces may mount; And, for the guerdon of their glorious merit, May heavenly tabernacles there inherit. Of blessed Saints for to increase the count. So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this, And cease till then our timely joys to sing: The woods no more us answer, nor our echo ring! Song! made in lieu of many ornaments, With which my love should duly have been decked, Which cutting off through hasty accidents, Ye would not stay your due time to expect, But proviised both to recompense; Be unto her a goodly ornament, And for short time an endless monument. Prothalamion f^ ALME was the day, and through the trembling ayre ^^ Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre ; When I, (whom sullein care, Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay In Princes Court, and expectation vaj'ne Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away. Like empty shaddowes, did afflict my brayne,) Walkt forth to ease my payne Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes ; Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes. Was paynted all with variable flowers. And all the meades adorned with daintie gemmes Fit to decke maydens bowres. And crowne their Paramours Against the Brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. There, in a Meadow, by the Rivers side, A Flocke of Nymphes I chaunced to espy, All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby, With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde, As each had bene a Bryde ; And each one had a little wicker basket, Made of fine twigs, entrayled curiously. In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket, And with fine Fingers cropt full feateously The tender stalkes on hye. EDMUND SPENSER 49 Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew, They gathered some ; the Violet, pallid blew. The little Dazie, that at evening closes. The virgin Lillie, and the Primrose trew. With store of vermeil Roses, To decke their Bridcgromes posies Against the Brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe Come softly swimming downe along the Lee; Two fairer Birds I yet did never see ; The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew. Did never whiter shew; Nor Jove himselfe, when he a Swan would be, For love of Leda, whiter did appeare ; Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he. Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare; So purely white they were. That even the gentle streame, the which them bare, Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare To wet their silken feathers, least they might Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre. And marre their beauties bright. That shone as heavens light, Against their Brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill, Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, As they came floating on the Christal Flood ; Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still. Their wondring eyes to fill ; Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre. Of Fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre Which through the Skie draw Venus silver Teeme; For sure they did not seeme To be begot of any earthly Seede, But rather Angels, or of Angels breede; Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say, In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weede The earth did fresh aray: So fresh they seem'd as day, Even as their Brydale day, which was not long : Sweete Themmes I runne softly, till I end my Song. Then forth they all out of their baskets drew Great store of Flowers, the honour of the field. That to the sense did fragrant odours yield. 50 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE All which upon those goodly Birds they threw And all the Waves did strew, That like old Peneus Waters they did seeme, When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore, Scattred with Flowres, through Thessaly they streeme. That they appeare, through Lillies plenteous store, Like a Brydes Chamber flore. Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two Garlands bound Of freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found, The which presenting all in trim Array, Their snowie Foreheads therewithall they crown'd, W^hil'st one did sing this Lay, Prepar'd against that Day, Against their Brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. "Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament, And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower Doth leade unto your lovers blisfull bower, Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content Of j'onr loves couplement ; And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love, With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile, Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove All Loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile For ever to assoile. Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord, And blessed Plentie v/ait upon your bord ; And let your bed with pleasures chast abound. That fruitfull issue may to you afford. Which may your foes confound. And make your joyes redound Upon your Brj^dale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my Song." So ended she : and all the rest around To her redoubled that her undersong. Which said their brydale daye should not be long: And gentle Eccho from the neighbor ground Their accents did resound. So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along, Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low. As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong, Yet did by signes his glad affection show. Making his streame run slow. And all the foule which in his flood did dwell Gan flock about these twaine, that did excel! The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shcnd The lesser starres. So they, enranged well. Did on those two attend. EDMUND SPENSER 51 And their best service lend Against their wedding day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. At length they all to mery London came, To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse, That to me gave this Life's first native source, Though from another place I take my name. An house an auncicnt fame : There when they came, whereas those bricky towres The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde, Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers. There whylome wont the Templcr Knights to byde. Till they decayd through pride : Next whereunto there standes a stately place. Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly grace Of that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell. Whose want too well now feeles my f reendles case ; But ah ! here fits not well Olde woes, but joyes, to tell Against the Brydale daye, which is not long : Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. Yet therein now doth lodge a noble Peer, Great Englands glory, and the Worlds wide wonder. Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did thunder, And Hercules two pillors standing neere Did make to quake and feare : Faire branch of Honor, flower of Chevalrie ! That fillest England with thy triumphes fame, Joy have thou of thy noble victorie. And endless happinesse of thine owne name That promiseth the same ; That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes, Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes ; And great Elisaes glorious name may ring Through al the world, fil'd with thy wide Alarmes, Which some brave muse may sing To ages following, Upon the Brj^dale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. From those high Towers this noble Lord issuing. Like Radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre In th' Ocean billowes he hath bathed fayre. Descended to the Rivers open vewing. With a great traine ensuing. Above the rest were goodly to bee seene Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature. Beseeming well the bower of anie Queene, 52 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature, Fit for so goodly stature, That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight, Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright; They two, forth pacing to the River's side, Received those two faire Brides, their Loves delight; Which, at th' appointed tyde, Each one did make his Bryde Against their Brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. Sonnets I^RESH Spring, the herald of love's mighty king In whose coat-armour richly are displayed All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring. In goodly colors gloriously arrayed ; Go to my love where she is careless laid Yet in her winter's bower not well awake; Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed Unless she do him by the forelock take ; Bid her, therefore, herself soon ready make To wait on Love among his lovely crew ; Where every one that misseth then her make Shall be by him amerced with pennance due. Make haste, therefore, sweet Love, while it is prime. For none can call again the passed time. Oft when my spirit doth spread her bolder wings, In mind to mount up to the purest sky. It down is weighed with thought of earthly things, And clogged with burden of mortality; Where when that sovereign beauty it doth spy, Resembling heaven's glory in her light, Drawn with sweet pleasure's bait it back doth fly, And unto heaven forgets her former flight. There my frail fancy, fed with full delight, Doth bathe in bliss, and mantlcth most at ease ; Me thinks of other heaven but how it might Her heart's desire with most contentment please. Heart need not wish none other happiness But here on earth to have such heaven's bliss. One day I wrote her name upon the strand; But come the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand. Rut come the tide and made my pains his prey. Vain man ! said she. that dost in vain assay JOHN LYLY 53 A mortal thing: to immortaHze ; For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wiped out likewise. Not so, quoth I ; let base thincfs devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame; My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name, — Where, whereas death shall all the world subdue, O.ur love shall live, and later life renew. JOHN LYLY (iS53-i6o6) Cupid and Campaspe /^UPID and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses; Cupid paid: He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; Loses them too ; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple on his chin ; All these did my Campaspe win : And last he set her both his eyes — She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me? The Fairy Frolic IJY the moon we sport and play, With the night begins our day: As we frisk the dew doth fall: Trip it, little urchins all ! Lightly as the little bee. Two by two, and three by three : And about go we, and about go we ! SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586) Sonnets from "Astrophel and Stella'* T OVING in truth, and fain in verse my love to show. That She, dea** She ! might take some pleasure of my pain; Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain: 54 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain ; Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain; But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay. Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows ; And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite: "Fool I" said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write I" With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies I How silently, and with how wan a face ! What ! may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks. Thy languished grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me. Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness? Come Sleep 1 O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe. The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low! With shield of proof, shield me from out the press Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: make in me those civil wars to cease I 1 will good tribute pay if thou do so. Take thou of me, smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland, and a weary head : And if these things, as being thine in right. Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare, Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought: Band of all evils; cradles of causeless care; Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought: Desire! Desire! I have too dearly bought. With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware; Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought. Who should my mind to higher things prepare. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 55 But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought ; In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire; In vain thou kindlcst all thy smoky fire ; For Virtue hath this better lesson taught, — Within myself to seek my only hire. Desiring nought but how to kill Desire. Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust ; And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things ; Grow rich in that which never taketh rust ; Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings. Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be ; Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light That doth both shine, and give us sight to see. O take fast hold ; let that light be thy guide In this small course which birth draws out to death, And think how ill becometh him to slide, Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath. Then farewell, world ; thy uttermost I see : Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me! Song from "Astrophel and Stella!' C\ NELY Joy, now here you are, ^'^ Fit to heare and ease my care, Let my whispering voyce obtaine Sweete reward for sharpest paine; Take me to thee, and thee to me: "No, no, no, no, my Deare, let be." Night hath clos'd all in her cloke. Twinkling starres love-thoughts provoke, Danger hence, good care doth keepe, Jealouzie itself doth sleepc; Take me to thee, and thee to me: "No, no, no, no, my Deare, let be." Better place no wit can find, Cupid's yoke to loose or binde ; These sweet flowers on fine bed too, Us in their best language woo ; Take me to thee, and thee to me: "No, no, no, no, my Deare, let be." This small light the moone bestowes Serves thy beames but to disclose; So to raise my hap more hie, 56 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Feare not else none can us spie; Take me to thee, and thee to me : "No, no, no, no, my Deare, let be." That you heard was but a mouse, Dumbe sleepe holdeth all the house: Yet asleepe, me thinkes thej' say, Yong folkes take time while you may; Take me to thee, and thee to me : "No, no, no, no, my Deare, let be." Niggard time threats, if we misse This large offer of our blisse. Long sta3% ere he graunt the same : Sweet, then, while ech thing doth frame, Take me to thee, and thee to me : "No, no, no, no, my Deare, let be." Your faire mother is a-bed. Candles out and curtaines spread ; She thinkes you do letters write ; Write, but let me first endite ; Take me to thee, and thee to me : "No, no, no, no, my Deare, let be." Sweet, alas, why strive j^ou thus? Concord better fitteth us ; Leave to Mars the force of hands Your power in your beautie stands ; Take thee to me, and me to thee : "No, no, no, no, my Deare, let be." Wo to me, and do you sweare Me to hate ? but I f orbeare ; Cursed be my destinies all. That brought me so high to fall ; Soone with my death I will please thee : "No, no, no, no, my Deare, let be." From the "Arcadia!' ly^'Y true-love hath my heart, and I have his, ^ By just exchange one for the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss ; There never was a better bargain driven : His heart in me keeps him and me in one. My heart in him his thouglits and senses guides: SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 57 He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his, because in me it bides. His heart his wound received from my sight; My heart was wounded from his wounded heart ; For as from me, on him his hurt did light, So still me thought in me his heart did smart : Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss, My true love hath my heart, and I have his. A Dirge "D ING out your bells, let mourning shews be spread ; For Love is dead : All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain : Worth, as nought worth, rejected. And Faith fair scorn doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus. Good Lord, deliver us ! Weep, neighbors, weep ; do yon not hear it said That Love is dead? His death-bed, peacock's folly: His winding-sheet is shame ; His will, false-seeming wholly; His sole executor, blame. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus. Good Lord, deliver us ! Let Dirge be sung, and Treutals rightly read. For Love is dead ; Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth Mj' mistress marble-heart. Which epitaph containeth, "Her eyes were once his dart." From so ungrateful fancy. From such a female frenzy. From that that use men thus. Good Lord, deliver us ! Alas, I lie : rage hath this error bred ; Love is not dead; 58 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Love is not dead, but sleepeth In her unmatched mind, Where she his counsel keepeth, Till due desert she find. Therefore from so vile fancy. To call such wit a frenzy, Who Love can temper thus, Good Lord, deliver us I THOMAS LODGE (1556-1625) Rosalind's Madrigal, from "Rosalind" T OVE in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet : Now with his wings he plays with me. Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest: Ah! wanton, will ye? And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if so I sing; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Whist, wanton, still ye I Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence. And bind you, when you long to play, For your ofifcnce. I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in ; I'll make you fast it for your sin ; I'll count 3'our power not worth a pin. — Alas ! what hereby shall I win If he gainsay me? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod? He will rcpaj'- mn with annoy. Because a god. GEORGE PEEI.E 59 Then sit thou safely on my knee; Then let thy bower my bosom be ; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee; O Cupid, so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee ! GEORGE PEELE (1558?-! 597?) A Farewell to Arms (To Queen Elicabcth) tFiS golden locks Time hath to silver turned: O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing I His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned. But spurned in vain ; youth waneth by increasing : Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen ; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. His helmet now shall make a hive for bees ; And lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms : But though from court to cottage he depart, His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart. And when he saddest sits in homely cell. He'll teach his swains this carol for a song, — "Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well. Curst be the souls that think her any wrong." Goddess, allow this aged man his right To be your beadsman now that was your knight. From "The Love of King David and Fair Bethsahe" *r\AVID. Bright Bethsabe shall wash in David's bower, In water mixed with purest almost flower. And bathe her beauty in the milk of kids ; Bright Bethsabe gives earth to my desires. Verdure to earth, and to that verdure flowers. To flowers sweet odors, and to odors wings, That carries pleasures to the hearts of kings. * * * * * ♦ Now comes my lover tripping like the roe. And brings my longings tangled in her hair. To 'joy her love I'll build a kingly bower. 60 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Seated in hearing of a hundred streams, *rhat, for their homage to her sovereign joys, Shall, as the serpents fold into their nests, In oblique turnings wind the nimble waves About the circles of her curious walks, And with their murmur summon easeful sleep, To lay his golden sceptre on his brows. ROBERT GREENE (i56o?-i592) Sephestia's Lullaby ^l^EEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee : ' When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Mother's wag, pretty boy. Father's sorrow, father's joy; When thy father first did see Such a boy by him and me, He was glad, I was woe ; Fortune changed made him so, When he left his pretty boy. Last his sorrow, first his joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Streaming tears that never stint, Like pearl-drops from a flint, Fell by course from his eyes, That one another's place supplies ; Thus he grieved in every part, Tears of blood fell from his heart, When he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. The wanton smiled, father wept, Mother cried, baby leapt ; More he crowed, more we cried, Nature could not sorrow hide : He must go, he must kiss Child and motlicr, baby bliss. For he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. SAMUEL DANIEL 61 SAMUEL DANIEL (1562-1619) From "To Delia" "VJ^HEN men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass, " And thou, with careful brow, sitting alone, Received hast this message from thy glass, That tells the truth, and says that /ill is gone; Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest, Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining: I that have loved thee thus before thou fadest, My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning? The world shall find this miracle in me. That fire can burn when all the matter's spent: Then what my faith hath been, thyself shalt see. And that thou wast unkind, thou may'st repent ! Thou may'st repent that thou hast scorned my tears, When Winter snows upon thy golden hairs. Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born : Relieve my languish, and restore the light ; With dark forgetting of my care, return I And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventured 3^outh: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn. Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, To model forth the passions of the morrow; Never let rising sun approve you liars. To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain ; And never wake to feel the day's disdain. HENRY CONSTABLE (1562-1613) TLJY Lady's presence makes the Roses red. Because to see her lips they blush for shame. The Lily's leaves, for envy, pale became ; And her white hands in them this envy bred. The Marigold the leaves abroad doth spread, Because the sun's and her power is the same. The Violet of purple color came, Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed. In brief, all fiowers from her their virtue take ; From her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed; The living heat, which her eye-beams do make, Warmeth the ground, and quickeneth the seed. The rain, wherewith she watereth these flowers. Falls from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers. 62 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631) Agincoiirt {October 25, 141 5) PAIR stood the wind for France When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry ; But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, Marchcth towards Agincourt In happy hour ; Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Where the French general lay With all his power. Which, in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide Unto him sending ; Which he neglects the while As from a nation vile. Yet with an angry smile Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, "Though they to one be ten Be not amazed : Yet have v^e well begun : Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raised. "And for myself (quoth he) This my full rest shall be : England ne'er mourn for me Nor more esteem me : Victor I will remain Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. MICHAEL DRAYTON 63 "Poitiers and Cressy tell. When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell : No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great Claiming the regal seat, B3' many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies." The Duke of York so dread The eager vanguard led ; With the mr^in Henry sped Among his henchmen. Excester had the rear, A braver man not there ; O Lord, how hot they were On the false Frenchmen I They now to fight are gone, Armor on armor shone, Drum now to drum did groan, To hear was wonder ; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake : Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder. Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham, Which didst the signal aim To our hid forces ! When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly The English archery Struck the Fren'-h horses. With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long That like to serpents stung. Piercing the weather ; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts. And like true English hearts Stuck close together. When down their bows tTiey threw, And forth their bilbos drew. And on the French thev flew, Not one was tardv; 64 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went — Our men were hardy. This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding As to o'erwhelm it ; And many a deep wound lent. His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet. Gloster, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood With his brave brother; Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight. Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another. Warwick in blood did wade, Oxford the foe invade. And cruel slaughter made Still as they ran up ; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon Saint Crispin's Day Fought was this noble fray. Which fame did not delay To England to carry. O when shall English men With such acts fill a pen? Or England breed again Such a King Harry? The Parting OINCE there's no help, come, let us kiss and parti ^ Nay, I have done. You get no more of me ! And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart. That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever I Cancel all pur vows I And when we meet at any time again, CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 65 Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing. Passion speechless lies. When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death. And Innocence is closing up his eyes : Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over. From death to life thou might'st him yet recover! CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1564-1593) From "The Life and Death of Dr. Fatistus'* ■Vt^AS this the face that launch'd a thousand ships ^^ And burn'd the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss ! Her lips suck forth my soul — see where it flies. Come, Helen, come give me my soul again ; Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips, And all is dross that is not Helena. O thou art fairer than the evening air. Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars ! Chorus on the Death of Fatistus /^UT is the branch that might have grown full straight, ^^ And burned is Apollo's laurel bough That sometime grew within this learned man: Faustus is gone 1 The Passionate Shepherd to His Love /^OME live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dafles and fields, Or woods or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks. And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies ; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. 66 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair-lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy-buds With coral clasps and amber studs : And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each Alay morning : If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love. WALTER RALEIGH (iS52?-i6i8) The Nymph's Reply to the Passionate Shepherd TF all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy Love. But Time drives flocks from field to fold ; When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; And Philomel becometh dumb ; The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields : A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. Soon break, soon wither, — soon forgotten In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 67 But could j^outh last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy Love. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616) Son^ from "The Two Gentlemen of Verona'* T^HO is Silvia? What is she? That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she ; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness : Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness ; And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing. That Silvia is excelling ; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring. Songs from "Love's Labour Lost'* TXT'HEN daisies pied, and violets blue, ' And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue. Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree. Mocks married men ; for thus sings he, Cuckoo ; Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear I When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks. The cuckoo then, on every tree. Mocks married men ; for thus sings he, Cuckoo ; 68 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear 1 When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail. When blood is nipped, and ways be foul. Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who ; Tu-whit, tu-who, — a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw. And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who ; Tu-whit, tu-who, — a merry note. While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. Songs from "A Midsummer-Night' s Dreatn' QVER hill, over dale, ^"^ Through bush, through brier. Over park, over pale, Through flood, through fire, I do wander everywhere. Swifter than the moone's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green : The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see ; Those be rubies, fairy favors. In those freckles live their savors : I must go seek some dew-drops here. And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. n You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong; Come not near our fairy queen- WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 09 Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby I Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh ; Sc, good night, with lullaby. Weaving spiders, come not here ; Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence! Beetles black, approach not near ; Worm nor snail, do no offence. Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby ; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla. lullaby I Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh ; So, good night, with lullaby. Songs from ^'As You Like It** JTNDER the greenwood tree. ^ Who loves to He with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleased with what he gets, ^ Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. II Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude ; 70 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSIi: Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho 1 unto the green holly ; Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly! Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot : Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not. Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly ; Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly I m It was a lover and his lass. With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring. Between the acres of the rye. With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino. These pretty country folks would lie, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time. When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring. This carol they began that hour. With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that life was but a flower In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring. And, therefore, take the present time With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino. For love is crowned with the prime In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 71 Sotiff from "Much Ado About Nothing'* CIGH no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever ; One foot in sea, and one on shore; To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, But let them go. And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no moe Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh not so. But let them go. And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. Song from "Hamlet** jLJOW should I your true love know '■•'■ From another one? By his cockle hat and staff. And his sandal shoon. He is dead and gone, lady. He is dead and gone ; At his head a grass-green turf. At his heels a stone. White his shroud as the mountain snow, Larded all with sweet flowers, Which bewept to the grave did go With true-love showers. Song from "Twelfth Night** f\ mistress mine, where are you roaming? ^^^ O stay and hear ; your true Love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty Sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. 72 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure : In delay there lies no plenty: Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure. Songs from "Measure for Measure' 'T'AKE, O take those lips away, **" That so sweetly were forsworn ; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn : But my kisses bring again, bring again ; Sealed of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain. Hide, O hide those hills of snow, Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those April wears ! But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee. Songs from "Cymheline' TJARK, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, •*• And Phoebus 'gins arise. _ His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies ; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes : With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise : Arise, arise. Fear no more the heat o' the sun Nor the furious winter's rages; Second stanca from "The Btoodv Brother," John Fletcher (1570-1625) WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 73 Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; Care no more to clothe and eat ; To thee the reed is as the oak: The scepter, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust Fear no more the lightning-flash Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash ; Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. Son0 from "The Winter's Tale" ■^l^HEN daffodils begin to peer, '^ With heigh I the doxy, over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o* the year ; For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. The M'hite sheet bleaching on the hedge, W?[h heigh! the sweet birds, O how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge ; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. The lark, that tirra-lirra chants. With heigh ! with heigh I the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts, While we He tumbling in the hay. Songs frovi "The Tempest** ^OME unto these yellow sands, And then take hands : Court'sied when you have, and kissed,- The wild waves whist. — Foot it featly here and there ; And. sweet sprites, the burthen bear. Hark, hark ! Bow, wow. The watch-dogs bark: Bow, wow. 74 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Hark, hark ! I hear The strain of strnttuig chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow ! II Where the bee sucks, there suck I : In a cowslip's bell I lie ; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily : Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. Full fathom five thy father lies : Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes ; Nothing of him that doth fade. But doth suflfer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Hark! now I hear them, — Ding, dong, Bell. From "The Passionate Pilgrim* (]]RABBED Age and Youth Cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care ; Youth like summer morn. Age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, Age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport. Age's health is short ; Youth is nimble. Age is lame ; Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold ; Youth is wild, and Age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee : Youth, I do adore thee ; O, my Love, my Love is young! Age, I do defy thee : O, sweet shepherd, hie thee ! For methinks thou stay'st too long. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 75 From I lie "Sonnets" \^HEN, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state. And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee : and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate : For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste; Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow. For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long-since cancelled woe. And moan the expense of many a vanished sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before: But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end. Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye. Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy. Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face. And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace : Fven so mv sun one early morn did shine With all-triumphant splendor on my brow; But out, alack! he was but one hour mine, 76 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The region cloud hath masked him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. LV Not marble, nor the pilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme ; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry. Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth ; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgment that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end ; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light. Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow ; Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow : And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. LXXIII That time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadcth in the west. Which by and by black night doth take away. Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 77 In me thoti see'st the glowinp: of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong To love that well which thou must leave ere long. CIV To me, fair friend, you never can be old; For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters cold Have from the forests shook three Summers' pride; Three beauteous Springs to yellow Autumn turned In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived ; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived : For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's Summer dead. When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights; Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have expressed Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all. you prefiguring; And, for they looked but with divining eyes. They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. cxvi Let rne not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 78 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come ; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom: If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth — My sinful earth these rebel powers arra}"^ — Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease. Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more : So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men ; And Death once dead, there's no more dying then. From "The Merchant of Venice" I nPHE quality of mercy is not strain'd ; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed ; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crovn : His sceptre shows the force of temporal pow'r, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. But mercy is above this sceptred sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this — That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 79 How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank I Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears ; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica ; look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-ej^ed cherubins ; Such harmony is in immortal souls ; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. . . . . . . Therefore, the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods; Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus : Let no such man be trusted. From "Romeo and Juliet" r\ then, I see queen Mab hath been with you. ^^^ She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman. Drawn with a team of little atomies, Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep: Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners* legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; Her traces, of the smallest spider's web ; Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams ; Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat. Not half so big as a round little worm, Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid : Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut. Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers. And in this state she gallops night by night. Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; O'er courtiers* knees, that dream on courtsies straight; O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees : 80 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit : And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail, Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep, Then dreams he of another benefice ! Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats. Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths live fathom deep ; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes ; And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again. This is that very Mab That plats the manes of horses in the night ; And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes. From "Henry V" f\ for a Muse of fire, that would ascend ^"^ The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, Assume the port of Mars ; and at his heels, Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire Crouch for employment. From "As You Like If A LL the world's a stage, ■^ And all the men and women merely players ; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts. His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant. Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms : Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier. Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel ; Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 81 In fair round belly, with ,e:ood capon lined, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances ; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his bis manly voice, Turning again towards childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all. That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion : Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. From "Hamlet" 'T'O be, or not to be, that is the question — Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them. To die — to sleep No more ; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to ! — 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die — to sleep To sleep ! — perchance to dream ! — ay, there's the rub ; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come. When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause — there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life: For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin ! Who would fardels bear, To groan and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death (That undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns) puzzles the will. And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. 82 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE From "Measure for Measure^' AY, but to die, and go we know not where; ■^^ To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod ; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice ; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence rovmd about The pendant world ; or to be worse than worst Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts Imagine howling : 'tis too horrible ! The weariest and most loathed worldly life, That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment, Can lay on nature, is a paradise To what we fear of death. From "Antony and Cleopatra" 'T^HE barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burn'd on the water : the poop was beaten gold ; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them ; the oars were silver. Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke and made The water which they beat to follow faster. As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggar'd all description : she did lie In her pavilion, cloth-of-gold of tissue, O'er-picturing that Venus where we see The fancy outwork nature : on each side her Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, With divers-color'd fans, whose vv'ind did seem To glow the delicate checks which they did cool, And what they undid did. From "The JFinter's Tale" . . . O Proserpina, For the flowers now, tliat frighted thou let'st fall From Dis's wagon I daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes On Cytherea's breath; pale primroses THOMAS CAMPION 83 That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips and The crown-imperial ; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one I From "The Tempest" #^UR revels now are ended: these our actors. As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air ; And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind ! We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. THOMAS CAMPION (1567-1620) Follow Your Saint "E^OLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet ! Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet ! There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move. And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love : But, if she scorns my never-ceasing pain. Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again. All that I sang still to her praise did tend. Still she was first, still she my songs did end ; Yet she my love and music both doth fly, The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy: Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight! It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight. Vohisciim est lope TI^HEN thou must home to shades of underground. And there arrived a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round. White lope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finished love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move; 84 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make. Of tourneys and great challenges of knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake : When thou hast told these honors done to thee. Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me ! Cherry -Ripe * I ■'HERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow ; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow which none may buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds filled with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still : Her brows like bended bows do stand. Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. Winter Nights ^[OW winter nights enlarge The number of their hours. And clouds their storms discharge Upon the airy towers. Let now the chimneys blaze, And cups o'erflow with wine ; Let well-tuned words amaze With harmony divine. Now yellow waxen lights Shall wait on honey love. While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights Sleep's leaden spells remove. This time doth well dispense THOMAS CAMPION 85 With lovers' long discourse ; Much speech hath some defence Though beauty no remorse. All do not all things well ; Some measures comely tread, Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read. The summer hath his joys And winter his delights ; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights. AmarilUs T care not for these ladies, That must be wooed and prayed : Give me kind Amarillis, The wanton countrymaid. Nature art disdaineth, Her beauty is her own. Her when we court and kiss, She cries. Forsooth, let go ! But when we come where comfort is. She never will say No. H I love Amarillis, She gives me fruit and flowers : But if we love these ladies, We must give golden showers. Give them gold, that sell love. Give me the Nut-brown lass. Who, when we court and kiss, She cries. Forsooth, let go : But when we come where comfort is. She never will say No. These ladies must have pillows. And beds by strangers wrought; Give me a bower of willows. Of moss and leaves unbought. And fresh Amarillis, With milk and honey fed ; Who, when we court and kiss. She cries, Forsooth, let go : But when we come where comfort is. She never will say No ! 86 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE SIR HENRY WOTTON (1568-1639) Elizabeth of Bohemia 'VOU meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies ; What are you when the moon shall rise? You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents ; what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise? You violets that first appear. By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year. As if the spring were all your own ; What are you when the rose is blown? So, when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind. By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not designed Th' eclipse and glory of her kind. The Character of a Happy Life XJOW happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought. And simple truth his utmost skill I Whose passions not his masters are ; Whose soul is still prepared for death. Not tied unto the world by care Of public fame or private breath; Who envies none that chance doth raise. Nor vice ; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; Who hath his life from rumors freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; THOAIAS DEKKER 87 Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great ; Who God doth late and early pray More of His grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend ; — This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands, And having nothing, yet hath all. THOMAS DEKKER ( 1570-1641) The Happy Heart, from "Patient Grissell" A RT thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O sweet content ! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed O punishment! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? O sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet content ! Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; Honest labor bears a lovely face ; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? O sweet content ! Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears ? O punishment! Then he that patiently want's burden bears No burden bears, but is a king, a king! O sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet content \ Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labor bears a lovely face ; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny I From "The Honest JVhore" PATIENCE! why, 'tis_ the soul of peace: Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven: It makes men look like gods. The best of men That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit : The first true gentleman that ever breath'd. 88 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The Old and Young Courtier AN old song made by an aged old pate, •^ ^ Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate ; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier. With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages ; They every quarter paid their old servants their wages. And never knew what belonged to coachmen, footmen, nor pages. But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges ; Like an old courtier . . . With an old study filled full of learned old books ; With an old reverend chaplain — you might know him by his looks ; With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks ; And an old kitchen, that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks ; Like an old courtier . . . With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows ; And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose ; A cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose ; Like an old courtier . . . With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, To call in all his old neighbors with bagpipe and drum, With good cheer enough to furnish every old room. And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb; Like an old courtier , . . With an old falconer, huntsmen, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds ; Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, And when he died, gave every child a thousand good pounds ; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier. {Attributed to Dekker.) BEN JONSON 89 BEN JONSON (1573-1637) From "Cynthia's Revels" OUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair. State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose ; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear, when day did close; Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever : Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright. From "The Forest" T^RINK to me only w-ith thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine ; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine ; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not . change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe. And sent'st it back to me ; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but theel 90 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Simplex Miinditiis CTILL to be neat, still to be drest. As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found. All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace ; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. From "Love's Chariof JJAVE you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of the beaver. Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier. Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she ! From "An Ode to Sir Lucius Gary and Sir H. AI orris on" ¥T is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be ; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night, — It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see. And in short measures life may perfect be. From an Epithalamium TTP, youths and virgins, up and praise ^ The god, whose nights outshine his days; Hymen, whose hallow'd rites BEN JONSON 91 Could never boast of brighter lights ; Whose hands pass liberty. Two of your troop, that with the moon were free, Are now waged to his war. And what they are, If you'll perfection see. Yourselves must be. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star. What joy, what honors can compare With holy nuptials, when they are Made out of equal parts Of years, of states, of hands, of hearts 1 When in the happy choice The spouse and spoused have foremost voice I Such, glad of Hymen's war. Live what they are, And long perfection see; And such ours be. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star. On the Portrait of Shakespeare Prefixed to the First Folio Edition, 1623 T^HIS figure, that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakespeare cut ; Wherein the Graver had a strife With Nature to outdo the life : O, could he but have drawn his wit As well in brass, as he hath hit His face ; the Print would then surpass All that was ever writ in brass. But since he cannot. Reader, look Not at his picture, but his book. To the Memory of My Beloved Master TFilUam Shakespeare, and What He Flath Left Us [1564-1616] 'X'O draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name. Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither Man. nor Muse, can praise too much. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; For silliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right ; 92 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise. These are, as some infamous bawd or whore Should praise a matron. What could hurt her more? But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin: Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage 1 My Shakespeare^ rise ! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room : Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I mean with great, but disproportioned Muses ; For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line, And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honor thee, I would not seek For names ; but call forth thundering ^schylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us ; Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead. To life again, to hear thy buskin tread. And shake a stage ; or, when thy socks were on, Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not for an age, but for all time ! And all the Muses still were in their prime. When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm ! Nature herself was proud of his designs And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines! Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit, The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please; But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of Nature's family. Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy Art My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. For though the poet's matter nature be. His art doth give the fashion ; and, that he JOHN DONNE 93 Who casts to write a Hvinp: line, must sweat, (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same (And himself with it) that he thinks to frame, Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn ; For a good poet's made, as well as born. And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well-turned, and true-filed lines ; In each of which he seems to shake a lance. As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our waters yet appear. And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take Eliza, and our James ! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there ! Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage. Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night. And despairs day, but for thy volume's light. JOHN DONNE (1573-1631) The Good Morrow T wonder, by my troth, what thou and T Did till we loved ! Were we not weaned till then. But sucked on country pleasures childishly? Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den? *Twas so ; but thus all pleasures fancies be. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired and got, — 'twas but a dream of thee. And, now, good morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear ; For Love all love of other sights controls. And makes one little room an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds be gone : Let maps to other worlds our world have shown ; Let us possess one world ; each hath one, and is one. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears. And true plain hearts do in the faces rest. Where can we find two fitter hemispheres, Without sharp North, without declining West? Whatever dies was not mixed equally; If our two loves be one, or thou and I Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die. 94 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Absence That Time and Absence proves Rather helps than hurts to loves. A BSENCE, hear thou my protestation ^^ Against thy strength, Distance and length : Do what thou canst for alteration, For hearts of truest mettle Absence doth join and Time doth settle. Who loves a mistress of such quality, His mind hath found Affection's ground Beyond time, place, and all mortality. To hearts that cannot vary Absence is present, Time doth tarry. My senses want their outward motion Which now within Reason doth win. Redoubled by her secret notion : Like rich men that take their pleasure In hiding more than handling treasure. By Absence this good means I gain, That I can catch her Where none can watch her, In some close corner of my brain: There I embrace and kiss her. And so enjoy her and none miss her. The Dream ■ff^KAR love, for nothing less than thee ^^^ Would I have broke this happy dream, It was a theme For reason, much too strong for fantasy. Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet ATy dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it. Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truths and fables histories ; Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest. . . . Abridged. JOHN DONNE 95 A Valediction Forbidding Mourning A S virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go: Whilst some of their sad friends do say, The breath goes now — and some say, no ; So let us melt, and make no noise. No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love. Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears, Men reckon what it did, and meant; But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent. Dull, sublunary lovers' love — Whose soul is sense — cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which alimented it. But we're by love so much refined, That ourselves know not what it is ; Inter-assured of the mind, Careless eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls, therefore, (which are one) Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion. Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff thin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other do. And though it in the centre sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it. And grows erect as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; Thy firmness makes my circles just, And makes me end where I begun. 96 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The Funeral TX/'HOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm '* Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm ; The mystery, the sign you must not touch, For 'tis my outward soul. Viceroy to that which, unto heav'n being gone. Will leave this to control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part Can tie those parts, and make me one of all ; Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art Have from a better brain, Can better do't : except she meant that I By this should know my pain. As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemned to die. Whate'er she meant by't, bury it with me. For since I am Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry If into oiher hands these reliques came. As 'twas humility 'T afford to it ail that a soul can do. So 'tis some bravery That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you. Song f^O and catch a falling star, ^^ Get with child a mandrake root. Tell me where all past years are. Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear mermaid's singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging. And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'st borr> to strange sights, Things invisible go see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till Age snow white hairs on thee ; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair. RICHARD BARNFIELD 97 If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not : I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three. From "Epithalamion" 'T'HE sunbeams in the east are spread: Leave, leave, fair bride, your solitary bed! No more shall you return to it alone, It nurseth sadness ; and your body's print Like to a grave the yielding down doth dint. You and your other you meet there anon : Put forth, put forth that warm balm-breathing thigh, Which, when next time you in these sheets will smother, There it must meet another. Which never was, but must be oft more nigh. Come glad from thence, go gladder than you came: To-day put on perfection, and a woman's name. Daughters of London, you which be Our golden mines and furnished treasury: You which are angels, yet still bring with you Thousands of angels on your marriage days ; Help with your presence, and devise to praise These rites, which also unto you grow due. Conceitedly dress her; and be assigned By you fit place for every flower and jewel; Make her for love fit fuel. As gay as Flora and as rich as Inde: So may she fair and rich, in nothing lame To-day put on perfection, and a woman's name. . . , RICHARD BARNFIELD (i 574-1627) Philomel A S it fell upon a day ■^ Tn the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing. Trees did grow and plants did spring; 98 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE E\'erything did banish moan Save the Nightingale alone : She, poor bird, as all forlorn Leaned her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the doleful'st ditty. That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry; Tcrcit, Tcrcu ! by and by ; That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own. Ah ! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain : Senseless trees they cannot hear thee. Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee; King Pandion he is dead, All thy friends are lapped in lead; All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing: Even so, poor bird, like thee. None alive will pity me. JOHN FLETCHER (1579-1625) Love's EiJiblems, from "Valentinian' "NTOW the lusty spring is seen; Golden yellow, gaudy blue. Daintily invite the view : Everywhere on every green Roses blushing as they blow, And enticing men to pull, Lilies whiter than the snow, Woodbines of sweet honey full: All love's emblems, and all cry, "Ladies, if not plucked, we die." Yet the lusty spring hath stayed ; Blushing red and purest white Daintily to love invite Every woman, every maid : Cherries kissing as they grow, And inviting men to taste. Apples even ripe below. Winding gently to the waist : All love's emblems, and all cry, "Ladies, if not plucked, we die." JOHN WEBSTER 99 Melancholy, from "The Nice Valor'* TJENCK, all you vain delights. As short as are the nijjhts. Wherein you spend your folly: There's naught in this life sweet If man were wise to see't, But only melancholy, O sweetest Melancholy! Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chained up without a sound ! Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves ! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls! A midnight bell, a parting groan ! These are the sounds we feed upon ; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. God Laiis /^OD Lasus, ever young, Ever honor'd, ever sung, Stain'd with blood of lusty grapes, In a thousand lusty shapes Dance upon the mazer's brim. In the crimson liquor swim ; From thy plenteous hand divine Let a river run with wine : God of youth, let this day here Enter neither care nor fear. JOHN WEBSTER (i58o?-i625?) ^ Dirge, from "The White Devil" ^ALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. 100 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gray tombs are robbed) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again. Vanitas Vanitatiim A LL the flowers of the spring "^ Meet to perfume our burying; These have but their growing prime. And man does flourish but his time : Survey our progress from our birth — We are set, we grow, we turn to earth» Courts adieu, and all delights, All bewitching appetites ! Sweetest breath and clearest eye Like perfumes go out and die ; And consequently this is done As shadows wait upon the sun. Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind. And weave but nets to catch the wind RICHARD CORBET (1582-1635) Farewell to the Fairies p*AREWELL, rewards and fairies ! Good housewives now may say. For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they. And though they sweep their hearts no less Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late, for cleanliness, Finds sixpence in her shoe? Lament, lament, old abbeys. The fairies' lost command ! They did but change priests' babies. But some have changed your land ; And all your children sprung from thence, Are now grown Puritanes ; Who live as changelings ever since. For love of your demains. WILLIAM BASSE 101 At morning and at evening both You merry were and glad ; So little care of sleep or sloth These pretty ladies had ; When Tom came home from labor. Or Ciss to milking rose, Then merrily merrily went their tabor And nimbly went their toes. Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain ; But since of late, Elizabeth, And later, James came in. They never danced on any heath As when the time hath been. By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession ; Their songs were Ave-Maries, Their dances were procession. But now, alas ! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas ; Or farther for religion fled ; Or else they take their ease. A tell-tale in their company They never could endure ; And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth, was punished sure; It was a just and Christian deed To pinch such black and blue: Oh, how the Commonwealth doth need Such justices as you! WILLIAM BASSE (1583-1653) DENOWNED Spenser, lie a thought more nigh •^ To learned Chaucer, and rare Beaumont lie A little nearer Spenser, to make room For Shakespeare in your threefold, fourfold Tomb. To lodge all four in one bed make a shift Until Doomsday, for hardly will a fifth Betwixt this day and that by Fate be slain For whom your curtains may be drawn again. If your precedency in death doth bar A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre. Under this carved marble of thine own, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 102 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Sleep, rare Tragedian, Shakespeare, sleep alone. Thy unmolested peace, unshared Cave, Possess as Lord, not Tenant, of thy Grave, That unto us and others it may be Honor hereafter to be laid by thee. WILLIAM DRUMMOND, OF HAWTHORNDEN (1585-1649) Ifivocation pHGEBUS, arise, ■■■ _ And paint the sable skies With azure, white and red : Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, That she thy career may with roses spread : The nightingales tliy coming each where sing, Make an eternal Spring ! Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; Spread forth thy golden hair In larger locks than thou wast wont before, And, emperor-like, decora With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night. Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. This is that happy morn, That day, long- wished day, Of all my life so dark, (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn. And fates not hope betraj',) Which, only white, deserves A diamond for ever should it mark. This is the morn should bring unto this grove My Love, to hear and recompense my love. Fair king, who all preserves. But show thy blushing beams. And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see, than those which by Peneus' streams Did once thy heart surprise. Nay, suns, which shine as clear As thou, when two thou didst to Rome appear. Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: If that ye, winds, would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Your stormy chiding stay; Let Zephyr only breathe. And with her tresses play. Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death. FRANCIS BEAUMONT 103 — The winds all silent are, And Phoebus in his chair Ensafifroning sea and air, Makes vanish every star : Night like a drunkard reels Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels : The fields with flowers are decked in every hue, The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue : Here is the pleasant place, And everything save her, who all should grace. Sonnet T KNOW that all the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought In Time's great periods, shall return to nought; The fairest states have fatal nights and days. I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought. As idle sounds, of few or none are sought. That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. I know frail beauty like the purple flower. To which one morn oft birth and death aflfords, That love a jarring is of mind's accords. Where sense and will bring under Reason's power: Know what I list, all this cannot me move, But that alas ! I both must write and love. FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1586-1615) Fi-om Letter to Ben Jonson ■jVTETHINKS the little wit I had is lost Since I saw you : for wit is like a rest Set up at tennis, which men do the best, With the best gamesters : what things have we seen Done at the Mermaid ; heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame. As if that every one from whence they came Had meant to put his whole soul in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life: then when there had been thrown Wit able enough to justify the town For three days past ; wit that might warrant be For the whole city to talk foolishly Till that were cancelled; and when that was gone, We left an air behind us, which alone Was able to make the next two companies Right witty; though but downright fools were wise. 104 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER Aspatia's So7ig ¥ AY a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear ; Say, I died true. My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth ! THOMAS CAREW (1587-1639) Song A SK me no more where Jove bestows, ■^ When June is past, the fading rose ; For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich j'our hair. Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more where those stars Might That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west The Phcenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, _ And in your fragrant bosom dies. Epitaph nPHE Lady Mary Villiers lies ■^ Under this stone: with weeping eyes The parents that first gave her breath. And their sad friends, laid her in earth. GEORGE WITHER 105 If any of them, reader, were Known nnto thee, shed a tear: Or if thj^self possess a gem, As dear to thee as this to them ; Though a stranger to this place, Bewail in theirs thine own hard case; For thou perhaps at thy return Mayst find thy darling in an urn. GEORGE WITHER (1588-1667) The Lover's Resolution CHALL I, wasting in despair. Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she thinks not well of me, What care I how fair she be? Shall my silly heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican. If she be not so to me. What care I how good she be? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well-deservings known Make me quite forget my own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may merit name of Best, If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? She that bears a noble mind. If not outward helps she find. Thinks what with them he would do That without them dares her woo ; And unless that mind I see. What care I how great she be? 106 THE AIODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve ; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go ; For if she be not for me. What care I for whom she be? WILLIAM BROWNE (i 591 -1643?) Epitaph of the Countess Dowager of Pembroke TTNDERNEATH this sable hearse ^ Lies the subject of all verse: Sidne3''s sister, Pembroke's mother : Death, ere thou hast slain another, Fair, and learned, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee. Marble piles let no man raise To her name : in after days, Some kind woman born as she, Reading this, like Niche Shall turn marble, and become Both her mourner and her tomb. FRANCIS QUARLES (i 592-1644) The Vanity of the JVorld I7ALSE w'orld, thou ly'st : thou canst not lend ■*■ The least delight : Thy favors cannot gain a friend, Thoy are so slight : Thy morning pleasures make an end To please at night: Poor are the wants that thou supply'st, And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st With heaven ; fond earth, thou boast'st ; false world, thou ly'st. Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales Of endless treasure; Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure; GEORGE HERBERT 107 Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, And swear'st to ease her: There's none can want where thou supply'st: There's none can give when thou deny'st. Alas ! fond world, thou boast'st ; false world, thou ly'st. What well advised ear regards What earth can say? Thy words are gold, but thy rewards Are painted clay: Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thou canst not play: Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st ; If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st: Thou art not what thou seem'st ; false world, thou ly'st. Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint Of new-coin'd treasure; A paradise, that has no stint. No change, no measure; A painted cask, but nothing in't. Nor wealth, nor pleasure : Vain earth ! that falsely thou comply'st With man ; vain man ! that thou rely'st On earth ; vain man, thou dot'st ; vain earth, thou ly'st. What mean dull souls, in this high measure, To haberdash In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure Is dross and trash? The height of whose enchanting pleasure Is but a flash? Are these the goods that thou supply'st Us mortals with? Are these the high'st? Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st. GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1633) Virtue OWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright — The bridal of the earth and sky ; The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave. And thou must die. 108 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. Easter T got me flowers to strew Thy way, ■*■ I got me boughs of? many a tree ; But Thou wast up by break of day And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee. The sun arising in the east. Though he give light, and the east perfume, If they should offer to contest With Thy arising, they presume. Can there be any day but this. Though many suns to shine endeavor? We count three hundred, but we miss : There is but one, and that one ever. ROBERT HERRICK (1594-1674) His Theme I" sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers, Of April, May, of June, and July flowers : I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes, Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes, I write of Youth, of Love, and have access By these, to sing of cleanly wantonness ; I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece. Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris: I sing of times trans-shifting; and I write How roses first came red. and lilies white ; I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing The court of Mab, and of the Fairy King. I write of Hell : I sing and ever shall, Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all. ROBERT HERRICK 109 To Meadozvs "\7'E have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers ; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. You have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear awaj' The richer cowslips home. Ye've heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round ; Each virgin, like a spring. With honeysuckles crowned. But now, we see none here, Whose silv'ry feet did tread, And with dishevelled hair Adorned this smoother mead. Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown, Ye're left here to lament Your poor estates, alone. JVhenas in Silks My Julia Goes "l^HENAS in silks my Julia goes, '^ Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see That brave vibration each way free ; Oh, how that glittering taketh me ! The Night-Piece, to Julia "O'ER eyes the glow-worm lend thee, •*■■''■ The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glov/. Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee, Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ; But on, on, thy way. Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee. no THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Let not the dark thee cumber ; What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear, without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me ; And when I shall meet Thy silv'ry feet. My soul I'll pour into thee. Corinna's Going A-Maying /^ ET up. get up for shame, the blooming morn ^^ Upon her wings presents the god unsliorn. See how Aurora throv/s her fair Fresh-quilted colors through the air : Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east, Above an hour since : yet you not dressed ; Nay ! not so much as out of bed ; When all the birds have matins said And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, Whereas a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green. And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not ; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you : Besides, the childhood of the day has kept. Against you come, some orient pearls unwept; Come, and receive them while the^ light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night. And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in_ praying: Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying. Come, my Corinna, come : and. coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimmed with trees ; see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch : each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, ROBERT HERRICK 111 Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove ; As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad ; and let's obey The proclamation made for May: And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. There's not a budding boy or girl, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream Before that we have left to dream : And some have wept, and wooed and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth : Many a green gown has been given ; Many a kiss, both odd and even : Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament ; Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked, yet we're not a-Maying. Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun ; And, as a vapor or a drop of rain. Once lost, can ne'er be found again : So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time (^ ATHER ye rosebuds while ye may, ^^ Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying. The glorious land of heaven, the sun. The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run. And nearer he's to setting. 112 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer ; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use j-our time, And while ye m^iy, go marry : For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry. Delight in Disorder A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction: An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher: A_ cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbons to flow confusedly: A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat : A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility: Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part. To Daffodils ip.MR Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon ; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay as you, W^c have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. ROBERT HERRICK 113 To Anthea, Who May Command Him Anything "DID me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be ; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee. A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay , To honor thy decree ; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee. Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see ; And having none, yet will I keep A heart to weep for thee. Bid me despair, and I'll despair. Under that cypress tree ; Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death, to die for thee. Thou art my life, my love, my heart. The very eyes of me ; And tiast command of every part. To live and die for thee. To Ben Jonson AH. Ben! Say how. or when Shall we thy guests Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the Sun. The Dog, the Triple Tun? Where we such clusters had. As made us nobly wild, not mad ; And yet each verse of thine Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine. Abridged. 114 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE A Thanksgiving to God for His House T ORD, Thou hast given me a cell •^ Wherein to dwell ; A little house, whose humble roof Is weather-proof ; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry; Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate; Both void of state ; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by the poor, Who thither come, and freely get Good words, or meat. Like as my parlor, so my hall And kitchen's small; A little buttery, and therein A little bin. Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipped, unflead ; Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire. Close by whose living coal I sit. And glow like it. Lord, I confess too. when I dine, The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by Thee : The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress ; Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet. To be more sweet. *Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth. And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink. Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land. And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one ; JAMES SHIRLEY 115 Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day ; Besides, my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year; The while the conduits of my kine Run cream, for wine : All these, and better. Thou dost send Me, to this end, — That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign, As wholly Thine ; — But the acceptance, that must be. My Christ, by Thee. JAMES SHIRLEY (1596-1666) Death the Conqueror 'T^HE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armor against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill : But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still : Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow ; Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds : Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. IIG THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE THOMAS RANDOLPH (1605-1635) An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford to Hasten Him into the Country /^OME, spur away, I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down And leave the chargeable noise of this great town: I will the country see. Where old simplicity. Though hid in gray. Doth look more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. Farewell, you city wits, that are Almost at civil war — 'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad. More of my days I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise ; Or to make sport For some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court. Then, worthy Stafford, say. How shall we spend the day."* With what delights Shorten the nights? When from this tumult we are got secure, Where mirth with all her freedom goes, Yet shall no finger lose ; Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure? There from the tree W^e'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry ; And every day Go see the wholesome country girls make hay, Whose brown hath lovelier grace Than any painted face That I do know Hyde Park can show: Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet (Though some of them in greater state Might court my love with plate) The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street. But think upon Some other pleasures : these to me are none. THOMAS RANDOLPH 117 Why do I prate Of women, that are things against my fate ! I never mean to wed That torture to my bed : My Muse is she My love shall be. Let clowns get wealth and heirs : when I am gone And that great bugbear, grisly Death, Shall take this idle breath, If I a poem leave, that poem is my son. Of this no more I We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store. No fruit shall 'scape Our palates, from the damson to the grape. Then, full, we'll seek a shade. And hear what music's made ; How Philomel Her tale doth tell. And how the other birds do fill the choir ; The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, Warbling melodious notes ; We will all sports enjoy which others but desire. Ours is the sky, Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: Nor will we spare To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; But let our hounds run loose In any ground they'll choose; The buck shall fall, The stag, and all. Our pleasures must from their own warrants be. For to my Muse, if not to me, I'm sure all game is free: Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty. And when we mean To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then, And drink by stealth A cup or two to noble Barkley's health, I'll take my pipe and try The Phrygian melody; Which he that hears. Lets through his ears A madness to distemper all the brain: Then I another pipe will take And Doric music make, To civilize with graver notes our wits again. 118 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT (1606-1668) Morning Song TPHE lark now leaves his watery nest, ■*■ And climbinp shakes his dewy wings, He takes your window for the east, And to implore your light, he sings ; Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star. The ploughman from the sun his season takes ; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes ; Awake, awake, break through j^our veils of lawn I Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn. EDMUND WALLER (1606-1687) *'Go, Lovely Rose*' G .0, lovely Rose — Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have imcommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired : Bid her come forth, Sufifer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die — that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee ; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair I JOHN MILTON 119 On a Girdle * I ""HAT which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done. It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass ! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair I Give me but what this ribbon bound. Take all the rest the sun goes round 1 Old Age and Death * I ^HE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er ; So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries. The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that time has made: Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new. JOHN MILTON (1608-1674) ^ong from "Arcades" /^'ER the smooth enamell'd green, ^^ Where no print of step hath been, Follow me as I sing. And touch the warbled string. Under the shady roof Of branching elm star-proof. Follow me, I will bring you where she sits, Clad in splendor as befits Her deity. Such a rural Queen All Arcadia hath not seen. 120 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE From "Comtis" 'T'HE star tliat bids the shepherd fold, Now the top of heaven doth hold; And the gilded car of day His glowing axle doth allay In the steep Atlantic stream ; And the slope sun his upward beam Shoots against the dusky pole, Pacing toward the other goal Of his chamber in the east. Meanwhile welcome Joy, and Feast, Midnight Shout and Revelry, Tipsy Dance and Jollity. Braid your locks with rosy twine, Dropping odors, dropping wine. Rigor now is gone to bed, And Advice with scrupulous head. Strict Age, and sour Severity, With their grave saws in slumber lie. We that are of purer fire Imitate the starry quire, Who in their nightly watchful spheres Lead in swift round the months and j'^ears. The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove, Now to the moon in wavering morricc move ; And on the tawny sands and shelves Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves. By dimpled brook, and fountain brim. The wood-nymphs deck'd with daisies trim, Their merry wakes and pastimes keep ; What hath night to do with sleep? Night hath better sweets to prove, Venus now wakes, and wakens Love. Come let us our rites begin, 'Tis only day-light that makes sin, Which these dun shades will ne'er report. Hail Goddess of nocturnal sport, Dark-vcil'd Cotytto, t'whom the secret flame Of midnight torches burns ; mysterious dame, That ne'er art call'd, but when the dragon womb Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom. And makes one blot of all the air ; Stay thy cloudy ebon chair, Wherein thou rid'st with Hecat, and befriend Us thy vow'd priests, till utmost end Of all thy dues be done, and none left out. Ere the babbling eastern scout. JOHN MILTON 121 The nice morn, on the Indian steep From her cabin'd loophole peep, And to the tell-tale sun descry Our conccal'd solemnity. Come, knit hands, and beat the ground In a light fantastic round. ****** To the ocean now I fly, And those happy climes that He Where day never shuts his eye. Up in the broad fields of the sky: There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree : Along the crisped shades and bowers Revels the spruce and jocund Spring, The Graces, and the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Thither all their bounties bring; There eternal Summer dwells. And west-winds, with musky wing. About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue That her purfled scarf can show, And drenches with Elysian dew (List mortals, if your ears be true) Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where young Adonis oft reposes, Waxing well of his deep wound In slumber soft, and on the ground Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen ; But far above in spangled sheen Celestial Cupid her famed son advanced. Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranced, After her wand'ring labors long, Till free consent the Gods among Make her his eternal bride, And from her fair unspotted side Two blissful twins are to be born, Youth and Joy ; so Jove hath sworn. But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end. Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, ^ And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the moon. 122 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Mortals, that would follow me, Love Virtue, she alone is free. She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime: Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her. L' Allegro ■jLIENCE loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian Cave forlorn 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ! Find out some uncouth cell. Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings. And the night-Raven sings ; There, under Ebon shades, and low-browed Rocks, As ragged as thy Locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou Goddess fair and free. In Heaven yclept Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more. To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; Or whether (as some Sager sing) The Frolic Wind that breathes the Spring, Zephir with Aurora playing. As he met her once a-Maying, There, on Beds of Violets blue, And fresh-blown Roses washed in dew, Filled her with thee, a daughter fair. So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides. And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as ye go On the light fantastic toe. And in thy right hand lead with thee, The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honor due, Mirtli, admit me of thy crew To live with her, and live with thee, JOHN MILTON 123 In unrcproved pleasures free ; To hear the Lark begin his flight, And, singing, startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies. Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine, Or the twisted Eglantine. While the Cock, with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin. And to the stack, or the Barn-door, Stoutly struts his Dames before, Oft listening how the Hounds and horn Clearly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some Hoar Hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill. Some time walking not unseen By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green. Right against the Eastern gate. Where the great Sun begins his state. Robed in flames, and Amber light. The clouds in thousand Liveries dight. While the Plowman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the Furrowed Land, And the Milkmaid singeth blithe. And the Mower whets his scythe. And every Shepherd tells his tale Under the Hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the Landscape round it measures. Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray. Mountains on whose barren breast The laboring clouds do often rest: Meadows trim with Daisies pied. Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide. Towers, and Battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted Trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies. The Cynosure of neighboring eyes. Hard by a Cottage chimney smokes. From betwixt two aged Oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met. Are at their savory dinner set Of Herbs, and other Country Messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; And then in haste her Bower she leaves. With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves ; 124 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tanned Haycock in the Mead. Sofnetimes with secure delight The upland Hamlets will invite, When the merry Bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the Chequered shade ; And young and old come forth to play On a Sunshine Holyday, Till the live-long day-light fail ; Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale, With stories told of many a feat. How Faery Mab the junkets eat. She was pinched, and pulled she said ; And he, by Friar's Lantern led, Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat, To earn his Cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy Flail hath threshed the Corn That ten day-laborers could not end. Then lies him down, the lubber fiend. And stretched out all the Chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength ; And Crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first Cock his Matin rings. Thus done the Tales, to bed they creep, By whispering Winds soon lulled asleep. Towered Cities please us then. And the busy hum of men. Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold, In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold. With store of Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend To win her Grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In Saffron robe, with Taper clear. And pomp, and feast, and revelry. With mask, and antique Pageantry, Such sights as youthful Poets dream On Summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned Sock be on. Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native Wood-notes wild ; And ever, against eating Cares, Lap me in soft Lydian Airs, Married to immortal verse JOHN MILTON 125 Such as the meetinar soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding- bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,^ The melting voice through mazes running; Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony; That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice. These delights, if thou canst give. Mirth, with thee I mean to live. // Penseroso TJENCE vain deluding Joys, ■■^ The brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bestead. Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys; Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, Or likest hovering dreams The fickle Pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy. Hail, divinest Melancholy ! Whose Saintly visage is too bright To hit the Sense of human sight ; And therefore to our weaker view, O'er-laid with black, staid Wisdom's hue. Black, but such as in esteem, Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. Or that Starred Ethiope Queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended. Yet thou art higher far descended : Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore. To solitary Saturn bore ; His daughter she (in Saturn's reign. Such mixture was not held a stain). Oft in glimmering Bowers, and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove. 126 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure. Sober, steadfast, and demure. All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of Cypress Lawn, Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep th}'- wonted state, With even step, and musing gait. And looks commercing with the skies. Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : There, held in holy passion still, Forget thy self to Marble, till With a sad Leaden downward cast, Thou fix them on the earth as fast. And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. And hears the Muses in a ring, Aye round about Jove's Altar sing. And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure; But first, and chiefest, with thee bring, Him that yon soars on golden wing. Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne. The Cherub Contemplation, And the mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a Song, In her sweetest, saddest plight. Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke. Gently o'er th' accustomed Oak; Sweet Bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, Chauntress, oft the Woods among, I woo to hear thy even-song ; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven Green, To behold the wandering Moon, Riding near her highest noon. Like one that had been led astray Through the Heaven's wide pathless way; And oft, as if her head she bowed. Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft on a Plat of rising ground, T hear the far-off Curfew sound. Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar; Or if the Air will not permit, Some still removed place will fit, JOHN MILTON 127 Where glowing Embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, Far from all resort of mirth, Save the Cricket on the hearth, Or the Bellman's drowsy charm, To bless the doors from nightly harm : Or let my Lamp, at midnight hour, Be seen in some high lonely Tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato to unfold What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold The immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook: And of those Daemons that are found In fire, air, f^ood, or under ground. Whose power hath a true consent With Planet, or with Element. Some time let Gorgeous Tragedy In Sceptered Pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line. Or the tale of Troy divine. Or what (though rare) of later age, Ennobled hath the Buskined stage. But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Mussus from his bower, Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew Iron tears down Pluto's cheek. And made Hell grant what Love did seeTc. Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to w^ife. That owned the virtuous Ring and Glass, And of the wondrous Horse of Brass, On which the Tartar King did ride; And if aught else great Bards beside, In sage and solemn tunes have sung. Of Tourneys and of Trophies hung; Of Forests, and enchantments drear. Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. Till civil-suited Morn appear. Not tricked and frounced as she was wont, With the Attic Boy to hunt. But Kerchiefed in a comely Cloud, While rocking Winds are Piping loud, Or ushered with a shower still. 128 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling Leaves, With minute-drops from off the Eaves. And when the Sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves. And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves. Of Pine, or monumental Oak, Where the rude Ax with heaved stroke. Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt. Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. There in close covert by some Brook, Where no profaner e3^e may look. Hide me from Day's garish eye. While the Bee with Honied thigh. That at her flowery work doth sing, And the Waters murmuring Witli such consort as they keep. Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep ; And let some strange mysterious dream, Wave at his Wings, in Airy stream Of lively portraiture displayed. Softly on my eye-lids laid. And as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some Spirit to mortals good. Or th' unseen Genius of the Wood. But let my due feet never fail, To walk the studious Cloister's pale, And love the high embowed Roof, With antique Pillars massy proof, And storied Windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing Organ blow, To the full voiced choir below. In Service high, and Anthems clear. As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies. And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage. The Hairy Gown and Moss}"- Cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every Star that Heaven doth shew. And every Herb that sips the dew ; Till old experience do attain To something like Prophetic strain. These pleasures. Melancholy, give, And I with thee w-ill choose to live. JOHN MILTON 129 Lycidas {A Lament for a Friend Drozvned in His Passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637) "VET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sere, I come to pluck your Berries harsh and crude. And with forced fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear. Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin, then. Sisters of the sacred well. That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favor my destined Urn, And as he passes turn. And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self-same hill. Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill ; Together both, ere the high Lawns appeared Under the opening eye-lids of the Morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the Graj'-fly winds her sultry horn. Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night. Oft till the Star that rose, at Evening, bright Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the Rural ditties were not mute. Tempered to the Oaten Flute ; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel. From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damretas loved to hear our song. But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return ! Thee, Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, With wild Thyme and the gadding Vine o'ergrown. And all their echoes mourn. The Willows, and the Hazel Copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the Canker to the Rose, 130 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the White-thorn blows ; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep. Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : Aye me, I fondly dream ! Had ye been there — for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son Whom Universal nature did lament, When, by the rout that made the hideous roar. His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? Alas ! What boots it with uncessant care To tend the homel.y slighted Shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse, Were it not better done, as others use. To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. Or with the tangles of Ncjcra's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of Noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze. Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, And slits tlie thin-spun life. "But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears; "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on eacli deed. Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed." O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood : But now my Oat proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea That came in Neptune's plea. He asked the Waves, and asked the Felon winds. What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? And questioned every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked Promontory. JOHN MILTON 131 They knew not of his story, And sage Hippotades their answei brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed, The Air was calm, and on the level brine. Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. It was that fatal and perfidious Bark Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow, His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge. Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. "Ah, who hath reft," (quoth he) "my dearest pledge?" Last come, and last did go. The Pilot of the Galilean Lake. Two massy Kej's he bore of metals twain, (The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain). He shook his Mitered locks, and stern bespake, "How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake. Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold! Of other care they little reckoning make. Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold A Sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least That to the faithful Herdman's art belongs I What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when the}' list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw, The hungrj' Sheep look up, and are not fed. But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread : Besides what the grim Wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said. But that two-handed engine at the door. Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past. That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast Their Bells, and Flowerets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use, Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enameled eyes. That on the green turf suck the honied showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Jessamine, The white Pink, and the Pansy freaked with jet, 132 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The glowing Violet, The Musk-rose, and the well-attired Woodbine, With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears : Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the Laureate Hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me ! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas Wash far away, where e'er thy bones are hurled, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. Where the great vision of the guarded Mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold ; Look homeward. Angel, now, and melt with ruth : And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, vvoful Shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneatli the watery floor. So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head. And tricks his beams, and witli new-spangled Ore, Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low. but mounted high. Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves W^here. other groves and other streams along, With Nectar pure his oozj' Locks he laves, And hears the unexpressivc nuptial Song, In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above. In solemn troops, and sweet Societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the Shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander In that pcrilotis flood. Thus sang the uncouth Swain to the Oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with Sandals gray, He touched the tender stops of various Quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the Sun had stretched out all the hills. And now was dropt into the Western bay ; At last he rose, and twitched his Mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new. JOHN MILTON 133 An Epitaph on the Jdmirable Dramatic Poet, W. Shakespeare y^TYlXT needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones " The labor of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a stary-pointing- pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavoring art, Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving. Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And so sepulchered in such pomp dost lie. That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. To the Nightingale ^\ nightingale that on yon bloomy spray ^"^ Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day. First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love. O, if Jove's will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh ; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate. Both them I serve, and of their train am L How Soon Hath Time XTOW soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth yearl My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shcw'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth That I to manhood am arrived so near ; And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. 134 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow. It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high. Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven, All is, if I have grace to use it so. As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. On His Blindness "^^HEN I consider how my light is spent ' ' Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent, which is death to hide. Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide ; "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed. And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; They also serve who only stand and wait." On His Deceased Wife TVi^ETHOUGHT I saw my late espoused Saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave. Whom Jove's great Son to her glad Husband gave, Rescu'd from death by force though pale and faint. Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint. Purification in the old Law did save. And such, as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint. Came vested all in white, pure as lier mind : Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight, Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd So clear, as in no face with more delight. But O as to embrace me she enclin'd I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night. On the Late Massacre in Piedmont A VENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones ■^ Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, SIR JOHN SUCKLING 135 Forget not : in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Picdmontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1608-1641) A Ballad upon a JFedding T tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Oh, things without compare ! Where I the rarest things have seen ; Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair. At Charing Cross, hard by the way Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs ; And there did I see coming down Such folk as are not in our town, • Forty at least, in pairs. At Course-a-Park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' the town : Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the green, Or Vincent of the Crown. Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, (His beard no bigger, though, than thine) Walk'd on before the rest: Our landlord looks like nothing to him : The king, God bless him, 'twould undo him. Should he go still so drest. But wot you what? The youth was going To make an end of all his wooing; The parson for him staid : Yet by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all past. Perchance, as did the maid. 136 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The maid, and tlicrcby hangs a tale, For such a maid no whitsum-ale Could ever yet produce : No grape that's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice. Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which tliey did bring; It was too wide a peck : And, to say truth (for out it must) It look'd like the great collar (just) About our young colt's neck. Her feet beneath her petticoat. Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light: But oh ! she dances such a way 1 No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight. He would have kissed her once or twice, But she would not, she was so nice, She would not do't in sight. And then she looked as who should say: I will do what I list to-day, And you shall do't at night. Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison ; Who sees them is undone ; For streaks of red were mingled there. Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, The side that's next the sun. Her lips were red ; and one was thin, Compar'd to that was next her chin. Some bee had stung it newly ; But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze. Than on the sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get : But she so handled still the matter. They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit. If wishing should be any sin. The parson himself had guilty been (She look'd that day so purely) : SIR JOHN SUCKLING 137 And did the youth so oft the feat At niglit, as some did in conceit, It would have spoiled him surely. Passion, oh me ! how I run on 1 There's that that would be thought upon. I trow, besides the bride : The bus'ness of the kitchen's great, For it is fit that men should eat, Nor was it there denied. Just in the nick, the cook knock'd thrice. And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving-man, with dish in hand, March'd boldly up, like our train'd band, Presented, and away. When all the meat was on the table. What man of knife, or teeth, was able To stay to be intreated? And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace, The company was seated. Now hats fly off, and youths carouse ; Healths first go round, and then the house. The bride's came thick and thick ; And when 'twas nam'd another's health. Perhaps he made it her's by stealth, And who could help it, Dick? O' th' sudden up they rise and dance; Then sit again, and sigh, and glance : Then dance again, and kiss. Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place. And ev'ry man wish'd his. By this time all were stol'n aside To counsel and undress the bride : But that he must not know : But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so. When in he came (Dick), there she lay Like new-fall'n snow melting away ('Twas time, I trow, to part) ; 138 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Kisses were now the only stay, Which soon she gave, as who should say, God b' w' ye, with all my heart. But, just as Heaven would have, to cross it, In came the bridesmaids with the posset : The bridegroom ate in spite ; For had he left the women to't, It would have cost two hours to do't, Which were too much that night. At length the candle's out, and now All that they had not done they do. What that is, who can tell? But I believe it was no more Than thou and I have done before With Bridget and with Nell. Son^ \JU"iiY so paie and wan, fond lover? "' Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prithee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move : This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her : The devil take her I RICHARD CRASH AW (1613-1650) Wishes to His Supposed Mistress "O/'HOE'ER she be, " That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me : Where'er she lie. Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny: RICHARD CRASHAW 139 Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth : Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine: Meet 3'oii her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses. And be ye called my absent kisses. I wish her Beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe-tie : Something more than Taffeta or tissue can. Or rampant feather, or rich fan. More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm's toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile. A Face that's best By its own beauty dressed, And can alone commend the rest. A Face, made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. A Cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what their reader sweetly ru'th. A Cheek, where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box its being owes. Lips, where all day A lover's kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away. Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress Themselves in simple nakedness. Eyes, that displace The neighbor diamond, and outface That sunshine by their own sweet grace. 140 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are : Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play. Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear. A well-tamed Heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart. Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on Love's bow. Yet play less arrows than they owe. Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm. Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within. Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress. And have no other head to dress. Fears, fond and slight As the coy bride's, when night. First does the longing lover right. Days that need borrow No part of their good-morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow. Days that, in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind, are day all night. Nights, sweet as they. Made short by lovers' play. Yet long by the absence of the day. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, "Welcome, f riend 1" RICHARD CRASHAW 141 Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers ; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright. Or give down to the wings of Night In her whole frame Have Nature all the name ; Art and Ornament, the shame I Her flattery, Picture and Poesy: Her counsel her own virtue be. I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes ; and I wish — no more. Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows; Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise ; Her, that dares be What these lines wish to see ; I seek no further, it is She. 'Tis She, and here, Lo ! I unclothe and clear My Wishes' cloudy character. May she enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it! Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying Wishes, And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye ; Be ye my fictions — but her Story! 142 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Hymn to the Name of Jesus T sing the Name which none can say, But touch'd with an interior ray; The name of our new peace ; our good ; Our bliss, and supernatural blood ; The name of all our lives and loves : Hearken and help, ye holy doves 1 The high-born brood of day; you bright Candidates of blissful light, The heirs elect of love ; whose names belong Unto the everlasting life of song; All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast Of his unbounded Name build your warm nest. Oh, fill our senses, and take from us All force of so profane a fallacy, To think aught sweet but that which smells of thee. Fair flow'ry name ! in none but thee, And thy nectareal fragrancy, Hourly there meets An universal synod of all sweets; By whom it is defined thus — That no perfume For ever shall presume To pass for odoriferous, But such alone Vv'hose sacred pedigree Can prove itself some kin, sweet name! to thee. RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658) To Althea, from Prison 'HEN Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whimper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound. Our hearts with loj-al flames ; When thirsty grief in wine we steep. When healths and draughts go free — ABRAHAM COWLEY 143 Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King : When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage ; H I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free. Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. To Lticasta, Going to the JFars nPELL me not. Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore ; I could not love thee. Dear, so much, Loved I not Honor more. ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618-1667) The TVhh 'XTT'ELL then, I now do plainly see '" This busy world and T shall ne'er agree; The very honey of all earthly joy Does, of all meats, the soonest cloy: And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd, and buzz, and mnrmurings Of this great hive, the city! 144 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave. May I a small house and large garden have ; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too ! And since Love ne'er will from me flee, — A mistress moderately fair. And good as guardian-angels are, Only beloved, and loving me ! O fountains ! when in you shall I Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy? O fields ! O woods ! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade? Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood ! Here's wealthy Nature's treasury. Where all the riches lie, that she Has coined and stamped for good. Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetched metaphors appear ; Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And naught but echo flatter. The gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way; And therefore we may boldly say That 'tis the way to thither. How happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die 1 She who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts solitude. I should have then this only fear : Lest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me. And so make a city here. Drinking (After Anacreon) * ■"'HE thirsty earth soaks up the rain. And drinks, and gapes for drink again ; The plants suck in the earth, and are. With constant drinking, fresh and fair; The sea itself (vv'hich one would think Should have but little need of drink). Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up. So filled that they o'erflow the cup. The busy sun (and one would guess By's drunken fiery face no less). ANDREW MARVELL 145 Drinks up the sea, and, when he's done, The moon and stars drink up the sun : They drink and dance by their own light; They drink and revel all the night. Nothing in nature's sober found, But an eternal "health" goes round. Fill up the bowl then, fill it high — Fill all the glasses there ; for why Should every creature drink but I? Why, men of morals, tell me why? ANDREW MARVELL (1621-1678) An Horat'tan Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland (1650) 'T'HE forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing. *Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armor's rust. Removing from the wall The corselet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace. But through adventurous war Urged his active star ; And, like the three-forked lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nursed, Did through his own side His fiery way divide ; For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy. And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose; — Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent; And Caesar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. 146 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE 'Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry Heaven's flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due, Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reserved and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot), Could by industrious valor climb To ruin the great work of time. And cast the Kingdoms old Into another mould ; Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain — But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak — Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less. And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come. What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art ; Where, twining subtle fears with hope. He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Caresbrooke's narrow case ; That thence the Royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn : While round the armed bands Did clap their bloody hands. He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene. But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try; Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite. To vindicate his helpless right; But bowed his comely head Down, as upon a bed. ANDREW MARVELL 147 This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forced power: So when they did design The Capitol's first line, A Bleeding Head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run ; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate ! And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed ; So much one man can do That does both act and know. They can affirm his praises best. And have, though overcome, confessed How good he is, how just And fit for highest trust. Nor yet grown stiflFer with command, But still in the republic's hand — How fit he is to sway That can so well obey! He to the Commons' feet presents A Kingdom for his first year's rents, And, what he may, forbears His fame, to make it theirs : And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the public's skirt. So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky. She, having killed, no more doth search But on the next green bough to perch ; Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure. What may not then our Isle presume, While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear, If thus he crowns each year? As Caesar, he. ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all States not free Shall Climacteric be. 148 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his parti-colored mind, But, from this valor, sad, Shrink underneath the plaid. Happy, if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer. But thou, the war's and fortune's son, March indefatigably on. And for the last effect. Still keep the sword erect : Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night ; The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain. The Garden "LJOW vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or baj^s, And their incessant labors see Crowned from some single herb or tree. Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid ; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose 1 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men : Your sacred plants, if here below Only among the plants will grow ; Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. Cut in these trees their mistress' name : Little, alas ! they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed ! Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound. No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passions' heat. Love hither makes his best retreat: ANDREW MARVELL 149 The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race ; Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow ; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head ; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach ; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less. Withdraws into its happiness ; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find ; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas ; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. Casting the body's vest aside. My soul into the boughs does glide ; There, like a bird, it sits and sings. Then whets and combs its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy Garden-state While man there walked without a mate : After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet I But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there : Two paradises 'twere in one. To live in Paradise alone. How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run : And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers I 150 THE AIODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-1695) The Retreat TJTAPPY those early days, when I Shined in my Angel-infancy 1 Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white, celestial thought ; When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back, at that short space, Could see a glimpse of His bright face ; When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My Conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense ; But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. O how I long to travel back. And tread again that ancient track ! That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train ; From whence the enlightened spirit sees That shady City of Palm-trees. But ah ! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way! Some men a forward motion love. But I by backward steps would move; And, when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return. Friends Departed 'T'lIEY are all gone into the world of light! And I alone sit lingering here ; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast. Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is dressed After the sun's remove. JOHN BUNYAN 151 I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days : My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays. O holy Hope I and high Humility, High as the heavens above ! These are your walks, and you have showed them me, To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Justl Shining nowhere, but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust. Could man outlook that mark I He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know. At first sight, if the bird be flown; Bvit what fair dell or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. And j'et, as Angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul, when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep. Ha star were confined into a tomb. Her captive flames must needs burn there ; But when the hand that locked her up gives room, She'll shine through all the sphere. O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee ! Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass : Or else remove me hence unto that hill. Where I shall need no glass. JOHN BUNYAN (1628-1 Shepherd Boy's Song TJE that is down needs fear no fall, He that is low, no pride ; He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide. . . . {Abridged') 152 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700) Under the Portrait of Milton In Tonson's Folio Edition of Paradise Lost, 1688 'T'HREE Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed; The next in majesty; in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go: To make a third she joined the former two. From "Alexander's Feast" '*^ S ""WAS at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son — Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne ; His valiant peers were placed around. Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, (So should desert in arms be crowned) ; The lovely Thais b}'' his side Sate like a blooming Eastern bride In flower of j'outh and beauty's pride : — Happy, happy, happy pair ! None but the brave None but the brave None but the brave deserves the fair ! Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touched the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove Who left his blissful seats above — Such is the povv'er of mighty love! A dragon's fierj' form belied the god ; Sublime on radiant spires lie rode When he to fair Olympia pressed. And while he sought her snowy breast, Then round her slender waist he curled, And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. JOHN DRYDEN • 153 — The listening crowd admire the lofty sound 1 A present deity! they shout around: A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound: With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god, Affects to nod And seems to shake the spheres. . . . Abridged. Song PAREWELL, ungrateful traitor! Farewell, my perjured swain! Let never injured creature Believe a man again. The pleasure of possessing Surpasses all expressing, But 'tis too short a blessing, And love too long a pain. 'Tis easy to deceive us. In pity of your pain ; But when we love, you leave US, To rail at you in vain. Before we have descried it, There is no bliss beside it, But she, that once has tried it, Will never love again. The passion you pretended. Was only to obtain : But when the charm is ended. The charmer you disdain. Your love by ours we measure, Till we have lost our treasure ; But dying is a pleasure. When living is a pain. Ah, How Sweet It Is to Love! A H, how sweet it is to love ! "^ kh. how gay is young Desire! And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach Love's fire ! Pains of love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are. 154 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Sighs which are from lovers blown Do but gently heave the heart : Ev'n the tears they shed alone Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death. Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend ; Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send : For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before. Love, like spring-tides full and high, Swells in every youthful vein ; But each tide does less supply, Till they quite shrink in again : If a flow in age appear, 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear. CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET (1638-1706) Written at Sea, in the First Dutch War (1665), the Night Before an Engagement nnO all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite ; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write : The Muses now, and Neptune too. We must implore to write to you — With a fa, la, la, la, la. For though the Muses should prove kind. And fill our empty brain. Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main. Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea — With a fa, la, la, la, la. Then if we write not by each post. Think not we are unkind ; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen or by wind : Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall bring them twice a day — With a fa, la, la, la, la. CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET 155 The King with wonder and surprise Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old : But let them know it is our tears Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs — With a fa, la, la, la, la. Should foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story, The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe. And quit their fort at Goree : For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind? — With a fa, la, la, la, la. Let wind and weather do its worst. Be you to us but kind ; Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find : *Tis then no matter how things go, Or who's our friend, or who's our foe — With a fa, la, la, la, la. To pass our tedious hours away We throw a merry main, Or else at serious ombre play: But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue? We were undone when we left you — With a fa, la, la, la, la. But now our fears tempestuous grow And cast our hopes away; Whilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit careless at a play: Perhaps permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan — With a fa, la, la, la, la. When any mournful tune you hear. That dies in every note As if it sighed with each man's care For being so remote, Think then how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were played— With a fa, la, la, la, la. 156 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE In justice j'on cannot refuse To think of our distress, When we for hopes of honor lose Our certain happiness : All those designs are but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love — With a fa, la, la, la, la. And now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears. In hopes this declaration moves Some pity for our tears : Let's hear of no inconstancy — We have too much of that at sea — With a fa, la, la, la, la. JOHN WILAIOT. EARL OF ROCHESTER (1647-1680) Oil Charles II IJERE lies our Sovereign Lord the King, Who?e v.'ord no man relies on. Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one. To His Mistress "lA/^IIY dost thou shade thy lovely face? O, why Docs that eclipsing hand of thine deny The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye? Without tliy light, what light remains in me? Thou art my life: my way, my light's in thee; I live, I move, and by thy beams I see. Thou art my life: if thou but turn away, My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way: Without thee, Love, I travel not, but stray. My light thou art: without thy glorious sight. My eyes are darkened with eternal night. My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light. Thou art my way: I wander if thou tly. Thou art my light: if hid, how blind am I! Thou art my life: if thou witlidraw'st, I die. MATTHEW PRIOR 157 My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see : To whom, or whither should my darkness flee. But to that light? and who's that light but thee? If I have lost my path, dear lover, say. Shall I still wander in a doubtftil way? Love, shall a lamb of Israel's sheep-fold stray? My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray, I cannot go, nor can I safely stay: Whom should I seek, but thee, my path, my way? And yet thou turn'st thy face away, and fly'st me 1 And yet I sue for grace, and thou deny'st me I Speak, art thou angry, love, or only try'st me ? . . . Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye. The dead man's life: on thee my hopes rely: If I but them remove, I surely die. Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings, and stay I See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray, O thou that art my life, my light, my way! Then work thy will I If passion bid me flee My reason shall obey, my wings shall be Stretched out no farther than from me to thee. MATTHEW PRIOR (1664-1721) ChJoe 'HAT I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shews The difference there is betwixt nature and art; I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose ; And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart. The god of us verse-men — you know, child — the Sun, How after his journey he sets up his rest; If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run. At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast. So when I am wearied with wandering all day, To thee, my delight, in the evening I come ; No matter what beauties I saw in my way, They were but my visits, but thou art my home. 158 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Epitaph on Himself ■^"OBLES and heralds, by your leave, •*"^ Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, The son of Adam and of Eve ; Can Bourbon or Nassau claim higher? WILLIAM CONGREVE (1670-1729) From "The Mourning Bride" jy/TUSIC hath charms to soothe a savage beast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. I've read that things inanimate have moved. And, as with living souls, have been informed, By magic numbers and persuasive sound. JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719) "The Spacious Firmament on High" Tf'HE spacious firmament on high. With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied Sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's power display ; And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail. The Moon takes up the w'ondrous tale ; And nightly to the listening Earth Repeats the story of her birth : Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn. Confirm the tidings as they roll And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball? What though nor real voice nor sound Amidst their radiant orbs be found? In Reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice ; For ever singing as they shine, "The Hand that made us is divine.'* ISAAC WATTS 159 ISAAC WATTS (1674-1748) 'O God! Our Help in Ages Past'* Cy GOD ! our help in ages past. Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home ! Under the shadow of Thy Throne Thy saints have dwelt secure ; Sufficient is Thine arm alone, And our defense is sure. Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her fame, From everlasting Thou art God, To endless years the same. A thousand ages in Thy sight Are like an evening gone ; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun. Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly, forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day. O God ! our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come. Be Thou our guide when troubles last. And our eternal home ! WILLIAM OLDYS (1687-1761) On a Fly Drinking Out of His Cup "DUSY, curious, thirsty fly! Drink with me and drink as I : Freely welcome to my cup, Couldst thou sip and sip it up: Make the most of life you may, Life is short and wears away. Both alike are mine and thine. Hastening quick to their decline: Thine's a summer, mine's no more, Though repeated to threescore. Threescore summers, when they're gone, Will appear as short as one! 160 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744) From "Satires" C HUT, shut the door, good John 1 fatigued I said, Tie up the knocker; say I'm sick, I'm dead. The dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt. All bedlam or Parnassus is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pijsrc? my thickets, through my grot they glide. By land, by water, they renew the charge ; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free, Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me ; Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner time. Is there a parson, much bemused in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross. Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? . . . All fly to Twit'nam and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws. Imputes to me and my damned works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. . . . Why did I write? what sin to me unknown Dipped me in ink; my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade. No duty broke, no father disobeyed : The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife; To help me through this long disease, my life. . . . From the "Essay on Man" ^^H Happiness! our being's end and aim, ^-^ Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content, whate'er thy name; That something still which prompts the eternal sigh. For which we bear to live, or dare to die, Which, still so near us, yet beyond us lies, O'crlooked, seen double, by the fool, and wise! . . . Ask of the learned the way! the learned are blind; This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind ; Some place the bliss in action, some in ease ; ALEXANDER POPE 161 Those call it pleasure, and contentment these ; Some sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain ; Some swelled to gods, confess even virtue vain; Or indolent, to each extreme they fall, To trust in everything, or doubt of all. Fro7n "The Rape of the Lock" A ND now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed, Each silver vase in mystic order laid : First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores. With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. A heavenly image in the glass appears. To that she bends, to that her eye she rears ; The inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here The various offerings of the world appear ; From each she nicely culls with curious toil. And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box : The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; The fair each moment rises in her charms. Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace. And calls forth all the wonders of her face; Sees by degrees a purer blush arise. And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. The busy sylphs surround their darling care, These set the head, and those divide the hair; Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown. And Betty's praised for labors not her own. The Dying Christian to His Soul "YT'ITAL spark of heav'nly flame ! Quit, O quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, O the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life. 162 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister Spirit, come away I What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts my sight. Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death? The world recedes; it disappears! Heav'n opens on my eyes ! my ears With sounds seraphic ring! Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly 1 O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting? JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748) From "The Castle of Indolence'* A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was. Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye: And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, For ever flushing round a summer sky: There eke the soft delights, that witchingly Distil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh ; But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. . . Behold ! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold ! See all but man with unearned pleasure gay: See her bright robes the butterfly luifold. Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May! What youthful bride can equal her array? Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray. From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. . . . Come, ye who still the cumbrous load of life Push hard up hill ; but as the furthest steep You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep, And hurls your labors to the valleys deep, For ever vain ; come, and, withouten fee, I, in oblivion will your sorrows steep, Your cares, your toils, will steep you in a sea Of full delight: Oh come, ye weary wights, to me! HENRY CAREY 163 Rule, Britannia {From "Alfred") ■^XTHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command, '^' Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung the strain : Rule, Britannia, ride the waves, Britons never will be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall. Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free, The dread and envy of them all. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak. Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, But work their woe, and thy renown. To thee belongs the rural reign ; Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; Ail thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles, thine. The Muses, still with Freedom found. Shall to thy happy coast repair: Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. Rule, Britannia, etc. HENRY CAREY (i693?-i743) Sally in Our Alley C\ F all the girls that are so smart ^'^ There's none like pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em ; 164 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'cm ; But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally ! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely ; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely : But let him bang his bellyful, ril_ bear it all for Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. Of all the days that's in the week I dearly love but one day — And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Alonday ; For then I'm dressed all in my best To walk abroad with Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named ; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. When Christmas comes about again, O, then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master and the neighbors all Make game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I'd better be A slave and row a galley; But when my seven long years are out, O, then I'll marry Sally; O, then we'll wed, and then we'll bed — But not in our alley I SAMUEL JOHNSON 165 SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784) Onc-and-Twenty T ONG-EXPECTED One-and-twenty, Ling'ring year, at Icnp^th is flown : Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty, Great *** ****, are now your own. Loosen'd from the minor's tether, Free to mortgage or to sell, Wild as wind and light as feather. Bid the sons of thrift farewell. Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies, All the names that banish care; Lavish of your grandsire's guineas, Show the spirit of an heir. All that prey on vice and folly Joy to see their quarry fly: There's the gamester, light and jolly, There's tlie lender, grave and sly. Wealth, my lad, was made to wander. Let it wander as it will ; Call the jockey, call the pander. Bid them come and take their fill. When the bonny blade carouses, Pockets full, and spirits high — What are acres ? what are houses ? Only dirt, or wet or dry. Should the guardian friend or mother Tell the woes of wilful waste. Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother;-^ You can hang or drown at last ! WILLIAM SHENSTONE (1714-1763) Written at an Inn at Henley 'X'O thee, fair freedom ! I retire From flattery, cards, and dice, and din; Nor art thou found in mansions higher Than the low cot, or humble inn. 166 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE 'Tis here with boundless power I reign; And every health which I begin, Converts dull port to bright champagne ; Such freedom crowns it, at an inn. I fly from pomp, I fly from plate ! I fly from falsehood's specious grin I Freedom I love, and form I hate. And choose my lodgings at an inn. Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore. Which lackeys else might hope to win ; It buys, what courts have not in store ; It buys me freedom at an inn. Whoe'er has traveled life's dull round. Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome, at an inn. THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) Elegy Written In a Country Churchyard TPHE curfew tolls the knell of parting day. The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. THOMAS GRAY 167 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield 1 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke 1 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour : The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust. Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark un fathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden that, with dauntless breast. The little tyrant of his fields withstood. Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 168 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the ^luse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supplj': And many a holy text around she strews. That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey. This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies. Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries. E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the imhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. THOMAS GRAY 1G9 "There at the foot of yonder noddinpf beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed v/ith care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: "The next, with dirges due in sad array. Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH ZJERE rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Hea7'en did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear. He gained from Heaven ('twas all he ivished) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draiv his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trcmblinn hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. From "The Progress of Poetry," a Pindaric Ode p'A.R from the suti and summer gale,_ In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To Him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face : the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year : Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears. Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears. 170 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time : The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where Angels tremble while they gaze. He saw; but blasted with excess of light. Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race. With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace. Hark, his hands the lyre explore ! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah ! 'tis heard no more O Lyre divine ! what daring Spirit Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban eagle bear Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air : Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray, With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun : Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate. Beneath the Good how far — but far above the Great. WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) Fidele's Dirge ' I ""O fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom. And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove. But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew ; The female fays shall haimt the green. And dress thy grave with pearly dew ; WILLIAM COLLINS 171 The redbreast oft, at evening hours, Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss, and gathered flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake the sylvan cell, Or midst the chase, on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed ; Beloved till life can charm no more; And mourned till Pity's self be dead. "How Sleep the Brave'* OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell, a weeping hermit, there I Ode to Evening TF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song. May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs. Thy springs and dying gales ; Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn. 172 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE As oft he rises, 'midst the twilight path Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum : Now teach me, maid composed. To breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return ! For when thy folding-star arising shows His pal}' circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge. And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car : Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile, Or upland fallows gray Reflect its last cool gleam. Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain. Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That, from the mountain's side. Views wilds and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as of the wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light ; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Afi'rights thy shrinking tr:n'n, And rudely rends thy robes : So long, regardful of thy quiet rule. Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, And hymn thy favorite name! CHRISTOPHER SMART 173 CHRISTOPHKR SAIART (1722-1771) From "Song to David" CWEET is the dew that falls betimes, _ And drops upon the leafy limes ; Sweet, Hermon's fragrant air : Sweet is the lily's silver bell, And sweet the wakeful tapers' smell That watch for early pra3'er. Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence ; Sweet, when the lost arrive : Sweet the musician's ardor beats, While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, The choicest flowers to hive. Strong is the horse upon his speed ; Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, Which makes at once his game : Strong the tall ostrich on the ground ; Strong through the turbulent profound Shoots Xiphias to his aim. Strong is the lion — like a coal His eyeball, — like a bastion's mole His chest against the foes : Strong the gier-eagle on his sail ; Strong against tide the enormous whale Emerges as he goes. But stronger still, in earth and air, And in the sea, the man of prayer, And far beneath the tide : And in the seat to fate assigned. Where ask is have, where seek is find. Where knock is open wide. OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774) From "The Deserted Village" CWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where_ health and plenty cheered the labouring swain. Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed : 174 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please : How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, The hawthorn-bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made ! Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. When once destroyed, can never be supplied. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear. And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place ; Unskillful he to fawn, or seek for power. By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize. More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train. He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sate by his fire, and talked the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule; The village master taught his little school; OLIVER GOLDSMITH 175 A man severe he was, and stern to view ; I knew him well, and every truant knew: Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee. At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convej'ed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught. The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew ; 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge ; In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still. While words of learned length and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. — Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where graj'beard mirth and smiling toil retired. Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlor splendors of that festive place, — The whitewashed wall ; the nicely sanded floor ; The varnished clock that ticked behind the door; The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures placed for ornaments and use ; The twelve good rules ; the royal game of goose ; The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay; While broken tea-cups wisely kept for show. Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Vain, transitory splendors ! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 176 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. These simple blessings of the lowlj' train ; To me more dear, congenial to my heart One native charm, than all the glow of art. Woman TXT" HEN lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her tears away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from ev'ry eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom is — to die. WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800) To Mary Unwin "jl^ARY ! I want a lyre with other strings. Such aid from Heaven as some have feigned they drew. An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things ; That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth with honor due. In verse as musical as thou art true. And that immortalizes whom it sings : But thou hast little need. There is a Book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenlv light. On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright: There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine; And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. WILLIAM COWPER 177 From "The Task"; Book HI, "The Garden" T WAS a stricken deer that left the herd Long since ; with many an arrow deep infixed My panting side was charged, when I withdrew To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. There was I found hy One who had Himself Been hurt by the archers. In his side He bore, And in His hands and feet, the cruel scars. With gentle force soliciting the darts, He drew them forth, and healed and bade me live. Since then, with few associates, in remote And silent woods I wander, far from those My former partners of the peopled scene ; With few associates, and not wishing more. Here much I ruminate, as much I may, With other views of men and manners now Than once, and others of a life to come. I see that all are wanderers, gone astray Each in his own delusions ; they are lost In chase of fancied happiness, still wooed And never won. Dream after dream ensues. And still they dream that they shall still succeed And still are disappointed. Rings the world With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind And add two-thirds of the remaining half. And find the total of their hopes and fears Dreams, empty dreams. From "The Task" ^JOW stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each. So let us welcome peaceful evening in. A Comparison. Addressed to a Young Lady CWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid ! Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay, busy throng, With gentle, yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blessed where'er she goes; Pure-bosomed as that watery glass, And heaven reflected in her face! 178 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Boadicea. An Ode ll/'HEN the British Warrior Queen, "^ Bleeding from the Roman rods. Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath a spreading oak Sat the druid, hoary chief, Every burning word he spoke Full of rage and full of grief: Princess ! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. "Rome shall perish, — write that word In the blood that she has spilt ; Perish hopeless and abhorred, Deep in ruin as in guilt. "Rome, for empire far renowned, Tramples on a thousand states. Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, — Hark! the Gaul is at her gates. "Other Romans shall arise. Heedless of a soldier's name, Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize. Harmony the path to fame. "Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land. Armed with thunder, clad with wings. Shall a wider world command. "Regions Cassar never knew Thy posterity shall sway, Where his eagles never flew. None invincible as they." Such the bards prophetic words. Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride. Felt them in her bosom glow. WILLIAM COWPER 179 Rushed to battle, fought and died, Dying, hurled them at the foe. "Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed. Shame and ruin wait for you !" On the Loss of the "Royal George" 'X'OLL for the brave ! •■• The brave that are no more I All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore I Eight hundred of the brave Whose courage was well-tried, Had made the vessel heel. And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset ; Down went the "Royal George" With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave ! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought ; His work of glory done. It was not in the battle ; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath ; His fingers held the pen. When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up. Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tears that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound. And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main. ISO THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er, And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the waves no more. ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD (1743-1825) Life T IFE ! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met, I own to me's a secret yet. But this I know, when thou art fled. Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so valueless shall be As all that then remains of me. O whither, whither dost thou fly? Where bend unseen thy trackless course? And in this strange divorce. Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? To the vast ocean of empyreal flame From whence thy essence came Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed From matter's base encumbering weed? Or dost thou, hid from sight. Wait, like some spell-bound knight. Through blank oblivious years the appointed hour To break thy trance and reassume thy power? Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be? O saj% what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee? Life! we have been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear ; Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; — Then steal away, give little warning. Choose thine own time ; Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning! SIR WILLIAM JONES (1746-1704) The State "V\7'HAT constitutes a State? ^ Not high rais'd battlement or labor'd mound, Thick wall or moated gate; JOHN LOGAN 181 Not cities proud with spies and turrets crown'd ; Not ba^'s and broad arm'd ports. Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride, Not starr'd and spangled courts, Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride, No : — Men, high-minded Men, With pow'rs as far above dull brutes endued In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ; Men, who their duties know, But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aim'd blow. And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain : These constitute a State, And sov'reign Law, that State's collected will. O'er thrones and globes elate Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill ; Smit by her sacred frown The fiend. Discretion, like a vapor sinks. And e'en th' all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Such was this heav'n-lov'd isle. Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore I No more shall freedom smile? Shall Britons languish, and be Men no more? Since all must life resign. Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave, 'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave. JOHN LOGAN (1748-1788) To the Cuckoo XJA.IL, beauteous stranger of the grovel Thou messenger of Spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome ring. What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear : Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year? Delightful visitant ! with thee I hail the time of flowers And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. 183 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fli'st thy vocal vale. An annual guest in other lands. Another Spring to hail. Sweet bird ! thy bovver is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear ; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No Winter in thy year ! O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe. Companions of the Spring. THOMAS CHATTERTON (1752-1770) Minstrel's Song in "Ella!' OH ! sing unto my roundelay ; Oh ! drop the briny tear with me ; Dance no more at holiday. Like a running river be ; My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed. All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night. White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed. All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as throstle's note. Quick in dance as thought was he ; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; Oh ! he lies by the willow-tree. My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed. All under the willow-tree. Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the briered dell below ; GEORGE CRABBE 183 Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing. To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. See ! the white moon shines on high ; Whiter is my true-love's shroud ; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave, Shall the garish flowers be laid. Nor one holy saint to save All the sorrows of a maid. My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed. All under the willow-tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers, Round his holy corse to gre ; Elfin-fairy, light your fires. Here my body still shall be. My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed. All under the willow-tree. Come with acorn cup and thorn. Drain my heart's blood all away; Life and all its good I scorn. Dance by night, and feast by day. My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed. All under the willow-tree. Water-witches, crowned with reytes, Bear me to your deadly tide. I die — I come — my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died. GEORGE CRABBE (1754-1832) The Parish Workhouse from "The Village*' 'X'HEIRS is yon house that holds the village poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door ; There, where the putrid vapors flagging, play. And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; 184 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE There children dwell who know no parents' care ; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there; Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, Forsaken wives and mothers never wed. Dejected widows with unheeded tears, And crippled age with more than childhood fears ; The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they I The moping idiot and the madman gay. . . . Say ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes. Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance With timid eye, to read the distant glance ; Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, To name the nameless ever-new disease ; Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, Which real pain and that alone can cure ; How would ye bear in real pain to_ lie, Despised, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath Where all that's wretched pave the way for death? "Age, with Stealing Steps . . /' {From "Talcs of the Hall") IX years had passed, and forty ere the six, ^ When time began to play his usual tricks ; The locks once comely in a virgin's sight. Locks of pure brown, displayed tlie encroaching white; The blood, once fervid, now to cool began, And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man. I rode or walked as I was wont before. But now the bounding spirit was no more ; A moderate pace would now my body heat; A walk of moderate length distress my feet. I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime, But said, "The view is poor; wc need not climb." At a friend's mansion I began to dread The cold neat parlour and the gaj' glazed bed : At home I felt a more decided taste. And must have all things in my order placed. I ceased to hunt ; my horses pleased me less — My dinner more ; I learned to play at chess. 1 took my dog and gun, but saw the brute Was disappointed that I did not shoot. My morning walks I now could bear to lose, And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose : In fact, I felt a languor stealing on ; WILLIAM BLAKE 185 The active arm, the agile hand, were gone; Small daily actions into habits grew. And new dislike to forms and fashions new. I loved my trees in order to dispose ; I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ; Told the same story oft — in short, began to prose. WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1S27) Reeds of Innocence pIPING down the valleys wild, •^ Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me : — "Pipe a song about a Lamb !" So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again." So I piped : he wept to hear. "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; Sing thy songs of happy cheer 1" So I sang the same again. While he wept with joy to hear. "Piper, sit thee down and v/rite In a book, that all may road." So he vanished from my sight ; And I plucked a hollow reed. And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. Infant Joy T have no name ; I am but two days old." What shall I call thee? "I happy am, Joy is my name." Sweet joy befall thee I Pretty joy! Sweet joy, but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee; Thou dost smile, I sing the while ; Sweet joy befall thee! 186 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE My Silks and Fine Array ly^'Y silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air; By love are driven away. And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave : Such end true lovers have. His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold ; Oh, why to him was't given. Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is Love's all-worshipped tomb Where all love's pilgrims come. Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding sheet; When I my grave have made. Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay, True love doth pass away. The Tiger ' [""IGER, tiger, burning bright ""• In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears. Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee? WILLIAM BLAKE 187 Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? The Voice of the Bard "LI EAR the voice of the Bard, Who present, past, and future, sees; Whose ears have heard The Holy Word That walk'd among the ancient trees ; Calling the lapsed soul, And weeping in the evening dew ; That might control The starry pole, And fallen, fallen light renew ! "0_ Earth, O Earth, return! Arise from out the dewy grass I Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumbrous mass. "Turn away no more ; Why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor. The watery shore. Is given thee till the break of day." Ah, Sunflower A H. Sunflower, weary of time, ■^^ Who countest the steps of the sun. Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done — Where the youth pined away with desire, And the pale virgin, shrouded in snow. Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go I Milton A ND did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen? 188 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic mills? Bring me my bow of burning gold ! Bring me my arrows of desire ! Bring me my spear ! O clouds, unfold ! Bring me my chariot of fire ! I will not cease from mental fight. Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem In England's green and pleasant land. A Poison Tree T was angry with my friend : I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe : I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears. Night and morning with my tears ; And I sunned it with smiles And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright ; And my foe beheld it shine. And he knew that it was mine. And into my garden stole When the night had veiled the pole; In the morning glad I see My foe outstretched beneath the tree. The Garden of Love T went to the Garden of Love, And I saw what I never had seen : A chapel was built in the midst. Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this chapel were shut. And "Thou shalt not" writ over the door; So I turned to the Garden of Love That so many sweet flowers bore; ROBERT BURNS 191 And I saw it was filled with graves, And tomb-stones where flowers should be : And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, And binding with briars my joys and desires. From "The Grey Monk'* 15 UT vain the Sword and vain the Bow, They never can work War's overthrow. The Hermit's prayer and the Widow's Tear Alone can free the World from fear. For a Tear is an Intellectual Thing, And a Sigh is the Sword of an Angel King, And the Ijitter groan of the Martyr's woe Is an arrow from the Almightie's bow. ROBERT BURNS (i759-i796) Bonnie Doon VE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair ! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care ! Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough ; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate ; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate. Aft hae T roved by bonnie Doon To see the woodbine twine. And ilka bird sang o' its love ; And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pti'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree : And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me. 190 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "Comin' Through the Rye" f^ OMIN' through the Rye. poor body/ Comin' through the Rye, She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Comin' through the Rye. Oh Jennjf's a' wat poor bodj% Jenny's seldom dry ; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Comin" through the Rye. Gin a body meet a body, Comin' through tlie Rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry? Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the glen, Gin a body kiss a body, Need the warld ken? "Green Grow the Rashes, Of" TP HERE'S naught but care on every han'. In every hour that passes, O I What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O? Green grow the rashes, O ! Green grow the rashes, O ! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, Are spent amang tlie lasses, O ! The warl'ly race maj' riches chase, An' riches still may fiy tliem, O ! An' though at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, 01 Gie me a canny hour at e'en ; My arms about my dearie. O I An* warl'ly cares, an' warl'ly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! For you sae douce, ye sneer at this ; Ye'er naught but senseless asses, O I The wisest man the warl' e'er saw He dearly loved the lasses, 01 ROBERT BURNS 191 Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O ! Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses, O I "Ae Fond Kiss" A E fond kiss, and then we sever ; ■^*' Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee I Who shall say that Fortune grieves him While the star of Hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu* twinkle lights me, Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy; Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met, or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure. Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee! My Bonnie Mary f^O fetch to me a pint o' wine,_ ^^ And fill it in a silver tassie. That I may drink, before I go. A service to my bonnie lassie. _ The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law. And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 192 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it's no the roar o' sea or shore Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; Nor shout o' war that's heard afar — It's leaving thee, my bonnic Mary! A Red, Red Rose f\ my luve's like a red, red rose ^^ That's newly sprung in June ; O, my luve's like the melodic That's sweetl}' played in tune. As fair thou art, my bonnie lass. So deep in luve am I ; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve ! And fare thee weel a while ! And I will come again, my luve. Though it were ten thousand mile. Jean ^\ F a' the airts the wind can blaw ^"^ I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There's wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air : There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings But minds me o' my Jean. ROBERT BURNS 193 Auld Lang Syne OHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, '^ And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And days o' lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. We twa hae rin about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine ; But we've wandered monie a weary fit Sin' auld lang syne. We twa hae paidl't i' in the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne. And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine ; And we'll tak a right guid wilHe-waught For auld lang syne. And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp. And surely I'll be mine. And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne I Bruce to His Men at Bannockburn C COTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, ^ Scots, wham Bruce hae aften led ; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory ! Now's the day, and now's the hour : See the front o' battle lour : See approach proud Edward's power,— Chains and slavery ! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! 194 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw. Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me ! By oppression's woes and pains 1 By your sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins. But they shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers lowl Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty's in every blow I — Let us do or dee ! John Anderson JOHN Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thcgither, And mony a canty day. John, We've had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thcgither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. Highland Mary "Y" E banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlic! There simmer first unfauld her robes. And there the langcst tarry ; For there I took the last farewecl 0' my sweet Highland Mary. ROBERT BURNS 195 How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel's wings Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender ; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder ; But, O ! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipped my flower sae early ! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly ; And moldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. To Alary in Heaven TPHOU lingering star, with lessening ray, Thou lov'st to greet the early morn. Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget. Can I forget the hallowed grove. Where by the winding Ayr we met. To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace, — Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr. gurgHng,_ kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; 196 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene ; The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, The birds sang love on every spray, — Till soon, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care ! Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? JAMES HOGG (1770-1835) A Boy's Song ■^l^^nERE the pools are bright and deep, ' Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and over the lea. That's the way for Billy and me. Where the blackbird sings the latest. Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest. Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to track the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the hazel bank is steepest. Where the shadow falls the deepest. Where the clustering nuts fall free. That's the way for Billy and me. Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell. But this I know, I love to play Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the water and over the lea, That's the way for Billy and me. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 197 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850) Lucy CTRANGE fits of passion I have known : ^ And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell. When she I loved was strong and gay, And like a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath the evening moon. Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; My horse trudged on — and we drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. And now we reached the orchard plot ; And as we climbed the hill. Towards the roof of Lucy's cot The moon descended still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind nature's gentlest boon ! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon. My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped : When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropped. What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head ! — "Oh, mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead 1" She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love : 198 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me ' IV Three years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown ; This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. "Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse : and with me The girl, in rock and plain. In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm. And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend ; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mold the maiden's form By silent sympathy. "The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 199 "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake — The work was done — How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. A slumber did my spirit seal ; I had no human fears : She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, or force ; She neither hears nor sees ; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. The Solitary Reaper "DEHOLD her, single in the field. Yon solitary Highland Lass I Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass I Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain ; O listen ! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of Travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands : A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers fiow 200 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago : Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again I Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending ; — I listened, motionless and still ; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. Perfect Woman CHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight ; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament ; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; A dancing shape, an image gay. To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned. To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still and bright With something of angelic licht. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 201 The Rainbow A^'Y heart leaps up when I behold ^ A rainbow in the sky : So was it when my life began ; So is it now I am a man ; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die ! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. To the Cuckoo f\ blithe new-comer ! I have heard, ^"^ I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice? While I am lying on the grass, Thy two-fold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near. Though babbling only, to the vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring 1 Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to ; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways. In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. 202 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee! "I JVandered Lonely as a Cloud!* T wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills. When all at once I saw a cloud, A host of golden daffodils ; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance. Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced ; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : A poet could not but be ga3% In such a jocund company: I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought; For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude ; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. Sojinets Scorn Not the Sonnet C CORN not the sonnet ; critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honors; — with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; Camoens soothed with it an exile's grief ; The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with v,'hich Dante crowned WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 203 His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from faery-land To struggle through dark ways ; and when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! The Sonnet-Prison ^^UNS fret not at their convent's narrow room ; And hermits are contented with their cells ; And students with their pensive citadels : Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest peak of Furness Fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : In truth, the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is : and hence to me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found. Sunset and Sea TT is a beauteous evening, calm and free; The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven is on the sea: Listen ! the mighty Being is awake. And doth with His eternal motion make A sound like thunder — everlastingly. Dear child ! dear girl ! that walkest with me here, If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine : Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. The World Is Too Much With Us 'T'HE world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; Little we see in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon I 204 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathcrcd now like sleeping flowers ; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. Composed upon. fFestminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 P ARTH has not anything to show more fair : Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beaut}' of the morning: silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples He Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill ; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! The river glideth at his own sweet will : Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; And all that mighty heart is lying still! England, 1 802 C\ friend! I know not which way T must look ^"^ For comfort, being, as I am, oppressed, To think that now our life is only dressed For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : The wealthiest man among us is the best : No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense. This is idolatry; and these we adore: Plain living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 205 Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee : she is a fen Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; Oh ! raise us up, return to us again, And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart ; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. Abridged. Ode on the Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood 'T'HERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light. The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;— Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. n The Rainbow comes and goes. And lovely is the Rose ; The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. Ill Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song. And while the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound. To me alone there came a thought of grief t A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. 206 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep: No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and Sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every Beast keep holiday; — Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shep- herd boy ! IV Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal. The fulness of your bliss, I feel — T feel it all. evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning This sweet May morning, And the Children are culling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — 1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear! — But there's a Tree, of many, one, A single Field which I have looked upon. Both of them speak of something that is gone: The Pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat : Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? ' Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting. And comcth from afar: Not in entire forgctfulness. And not in utter nakedness. But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home : Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 207 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the East Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision spendid Is on his way attended ; At length the Man perceives it die away. And fade into the light of common day. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. And even with something of a Mother's mind. And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can. To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known. And that imperial palace whence he came. VII Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses, With light upon him from his Father's eyes I See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life. Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral ; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife: But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside. And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part ; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage'* With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. vm Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind. That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 203 THE MODERN ROOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Haunted for ever by the eternal mind. — Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave: Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke. Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest — Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,_ With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:— Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections. Which, be they what they may. Are yet the fountain-light of all our day. Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have povv-er to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, To perish never. Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor. Nor Man nor Boy, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 209 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither. Can in a moment travel thither And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous songl And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound ! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. XI And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves ! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks, which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they: The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet ; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 210 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE From "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey'* . . . that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, — Until, the breath of this corporeal frame. And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul : While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmonj', and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. . . . . . . For nature (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. — I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colors and their forms, were then to me An appetite : a feeling and a love. That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more. And all its dizzj' raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity. Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused. Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 211 Ode to Duty CTERN Daughter of the Voice of Godl '^ O Duty! if that name thou love, Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove ; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe ; From vain temptations dost set free ; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity 1 There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them ; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth : Glad Hearts I without reproach or blot. Who do thy work, and know it not : 0, if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around them cast. Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be. When love is an unerring light. And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold. Live in the spirit of this creed ; Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 1, loving freedom, and untried ; No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide. Too blindly have reposed my trust : And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray ; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control ; But in the quietness of thought: Me this unchartered freedom tires ; I feel the weight of chance-desires ; My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 212 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Nor know \vc anythinp: so fair As is the smile upon thy face : Flowers laugh before thee on their beds. And fragrance in thy footing treads ; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong. To humbler functions, awful Power 1 I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour ; O, let my weakness have an end 1 Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give; And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live! SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832) Hunting Song ■^S^AKEN. lords and ladies gay, ^^ On the mountain dawns the day; All the jolly chase is here. With hawk and horse and hunting-spear I Hounds are in their couples yelling. Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling. Merrily, merrily, mingle they, "Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Springlets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming, And foresters have busy been To track the buck in thicket green ; Now we come to chant our lay, "Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the greenwood haste away ; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot and tall of size ; We can show the marks he made When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed; You shall see him brought to bay; Waken, lords and ladies gay. SIR WALTER SCOTT 213 Louder, louder chant the lay, Waken, lords and ladies gay ! Tell them j^outh, and mirth, and glee Run a course as well as we ; Time, stern huntsman ! who can balk, Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk? Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay ! Lucy Ashton's Song L OOK not thou on beauty's charming; Sit thou still when kings are arming; Taste not when the wine-cup glistens ; Speak not when the people listens ; Stop thine ear against the singer ; From the red gold keep thy finger ; Vacant hand and heart and eye. Easy live and quiet die. Sound, Sound the Clarion Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name. Proud Maisie pROUD Maisie is in the wood. Walking so early ; Sweet Robin sits on the bush. Singing so rarely. "Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?" "When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye." "Who makes the bridal bed. Birdie, say truly?" "The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. "The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady!" 214 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" 11 REATHES there a man with soul so dead, •*^ Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned. As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go mark him well: For him no minstrel raptures swell ; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. O Caledonia 1 stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires 1 what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand I SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772-1834) The Rime of the Ancient Mariner TT is an ancient Mariner, ■*• And he stoppeth one of three. "By thy long gray beard and glittering eye. Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? "The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin ; The guests are met, the feast is set : May'st hear the merry din." He holds him with liis skinny hand, "There was a ship," quoth he. "Hold ofYl unhand me. gray-beard loon 1" Eftsoons his hand dropped he. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 215 He holds him with his glittering eye — The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child : The Mariner hath his will. The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : He cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. "The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top. "The Sun came up upon the left. Out of the sea came he ! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. "Higher and higher every day. Till over the mast at noon " The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The bride hath paced into the hall. Red as a rose is she ; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man. The bright-eyed Mariner. "And now the Storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along. "With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe. And forward bends his head. The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled. "And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold : 216 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald. "And through the drifts the snowy cHfts Did send a dismal sheen : Nor shapes of men, nor beasts we ken — The ice was all between. "The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around : It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound I "At length did cross an Albatross, Through the fog it came ; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name. "It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through ! "And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or p\ay, Came to the mariners' hollo ! "In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. It perched for vespers nine ; whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white moonshine." "God save thee, ancient Mariner, From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — Why look'st thou so?" "With my crossbow I shot the Albatross. "The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. "And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariners' hollo ! SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 217 "And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe : For all averred I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch I said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow ! "Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist : Then all averred I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay. That bring the fog and mist. "The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. The furrow followed free ; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. "Down dropped the breeze, the sails dropped down, 'Twas sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea I "All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun. at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. "Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. "Water, water, everywhere. And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. "The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be I Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. "About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils. Burnt green, and blue, and white. 21S THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "And some in dreams assured were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. "And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root ; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. "Ah ! well-a-da}' ! what evil looks Had I from old and young ! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. "There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time ! a weary time ! How glazed each weary eye ! When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky. "At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist ; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. "A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared : As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged, and tacked, and veered. "With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. We could nor laugh nor wail ; Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood. And cried, A sail ! a sail ! "With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call : Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in. As they were drinking all. "See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more Hither to work us weal — Without a breeze, without a tide. She steadies with upright keel ! SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 219 "The western wave was all aflame, The day was wellriigh done 1 Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad, bright Sun ; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun. "And straight the Sun was flecked with bars (Heaven's Mother send us grace!), As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With broad and burning face. "Alas I (thought L and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears ! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres? "Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a Death? and are there two? Is Death that Woman's mate? "Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold : Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. "The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice ; 'The game is done ! I've won ! I've won 1' Quoth she, and whistles thrice. "The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out At one stride comes the dark; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. Off shot the specter-bark. "We listened and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup. My life-blood seemed to sip ! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; From the sails the dew did drip — Till clomb above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. 220 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. "Four times fifty living men (And I heard nor sigh nor groan), With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. "The souls did from their bodies fly — They fled to bliss or woe ! And every soul, it passed me by Like the whizz of my crossbow 1" PART IV "I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! I fear thj^ skinnj' hand ! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand. "I fear thee and thy glittering eye. And thy skinnj^ hand so brown." — "Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! This body dropped not down. "Alone, alone, all, all alone. Alone on a wide, wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. "The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie : And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on ; and so did L "I looked upon the rotting sea. And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck. And there the dead men lay. "I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gushed, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. "I closed my lids, and kept them close. And the balls like pulses beat ; SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 221 For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, Laj' like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet. "The cold sweat melted from their limbs. Nor rot nor reek did they: The look with whicli they looked on me Had never passed away. "An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high ; But oh ! more horrible than that Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse. And yet I could not die. "The moving Moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide ; Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside — "Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread ; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red. "Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes : They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. "Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire : Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam ; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. "O happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty might declare : A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware : Sure my kind saint took pity on me. And I blessed them unaware. "The selfsame moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. 222 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "O sleep ! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole ! To Mary Queen the praise be given ! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul. "The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled w^ith dewr; And when I awoke, it rained. "My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. "I moved, and could not feel my limbs: I was so light — almost I thought that I had died in sleep. And was a blessed ghost. "And soon I heard a roaring wind: It did not come anear ; But with its sound it shook the sails. That were so thin and sere. "The upper air burst into life ; And a hundred fire-flags sheen ; To and fro they were hurried about; And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. "And the coming wind did roar more loud. And the sails did sigh like sedge ; And the rain poured down from one biack cloud : The Moon was at its edge. "The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side ; Like waters shot from some high crag, The liglitning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. "The loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on ! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 223 "They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise. "The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; Yet never a breeze up-blew ; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do ; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — We were a ghastly crew. "The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee : The body and I pulled at one rope. But he said naught to me." "I fear thee, ancient Mariner 1" "Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest : 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain. Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest : "For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast ; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed. "Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun ; Slowly the sounds came back again. Now mixed, now one by one. "Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the skylark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are. How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning! "And now 'twas like all instruments. Now like a lonely flute ; And nov/ it is an angel's song. That makes the Heavens be mute. "It ceased: yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. 324 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath. "Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The Spirit slid : and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also. "The Sun, right up above the mast. Had fixed her to the ocean : But in a minute she 'gan stir. With a short uneasy motion — Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion. "Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound : It flung the blood into my head. And I fell down in a swound. "How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare ; But ere my living life returned, I heard, and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air. " Ts it he?' quoth one, 'is this the man? By Him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross. " 'The Spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow. He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.' "The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done. And penance more will do.' First Voice: " 'But tell me, tell me I speak again. What makes that ship drive on so fast? SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 225 Thy soft response renewing — What is the Ocean doing?' Second Voice : " 'Still as a slave before his lord, The Ocean hath no blast; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast — "'If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see ! how graciously She looketh down on him.' First Voice : " 'But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind?' Second Voice : " 'The air is cut away before. And closes from behind. " 'Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! Or we shall be belated : For slow and slow that ship will go ; When the Mariner's trance is abated.' "I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather : 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high ; The dead men stood together. "All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter : All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter. "The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs. Nor turn them up to pray. "And now this spell was snapped: once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen — "Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, 26 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head ; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. "But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made : Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade. "It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring — It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming. "Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too : Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — On me alone it blew. "O dream of joy! is this indeed The lighthouse top I see Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree? "We drifted o'er the harbor-bar, And I with sobs did pray — let me be awake, my God I Or let me sleep alway. "The harbor-bay was clear as glass. So smoothly it was strewn ! And on the bay the moonlight lay. And the shadow of the Moon. "The rock shone bright, the kirk no less. That stands above the rock: The moonlight .steeped in silcntncss The steady weathercock. "And the bay was white with silent light Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colors came. "A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: 1 turned my eyes upon the deck — O Christ 1 what saw I there! SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 227 "Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood ! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood. "This seraph-band, each waved his hand: It was a heavenly sight 1 They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light ; "This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart — No voice ; but O, the silence sank Like music on my heart. "But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer ; My head was turned perforce away, And I saw a boat appear. "The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast : Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. "I saw a third — I heard his voice: It is the Hermit good ! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. PART VII "This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears I He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. "He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — He hath a cushion plump : It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. "The skiff -boat neared : I heard them talk, 'Why, this is strange, I trow ! Where are those lights so many and fair. That signal made but now?' 228 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE " 'Strange, by my faith !' the Hermit said — 'And they answered not our cheer ! The planks look warped ! and see those sails. How thin they are and sere I I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were " 'Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf's young.' " 'Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — (The Pilot made reply) I am a- feared.' — 'Push on, push on !' Said the Hermit cheerily. "The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred ; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. "Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread : It reached the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead. "Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat ; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat. "Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round ; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. "I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit. "I took the oars : the Pilot's boy. Who now doth crazy go. Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 229 'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see The Devil knows how to row.' "And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land ! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. " 'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !' The Hermit crossed his brow, 'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say — What manner of man art thou?' "Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale ; And then it left me free. "Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns : And till my ghastly tale is told. This heart within me burns. "I pass, like night, from land to land ; I have strange power of speech ; That moment that his face T see, I know the man that must hear me : To him my tale I teach. "What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there : But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark, the little vesper bell. Which biddeth me to prayer ! "O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea: So lonely 'twas, that God Himself Scarce seemed there to be. "O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me. To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company! — "To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray. While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay! 230 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "Farewell, farewell I but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. "He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God, who loveth us, He made and loveth all." The Mariner, whose ej^e is bright. Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door. He went like one that hath been stunned. And is of sense forlorn : A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn. Kiihla Khan IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round : And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills. Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But O! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place ! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething. As if this Earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced. Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail. Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 231 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves ; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of icel A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played. Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there. And all should cry, Beware I Beware 1 His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice. And close your eyes with holy dread. For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. The Knighfs Tomb T\7"HERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? ^^ Where may the grave of that good man be? — By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvelljrn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear. And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year. And whistled and roar'd in the winter alone. Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown. — The Knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust ; — His soul is with the saints, I trust. 232 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Work Without Hope A LL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair— ■^^ The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing — And Winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring I And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blew, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not 1 Glide, rich streams, away 1 With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live. Love A LL thoughts, all passions, all delights, '^*- Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve ! She leaned against the armed man. The statue of the armed Knight; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own. My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air; I sang an old and moving story — SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 233 An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a fitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined ; and ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love. Interpreted my own. She listened with a fitting blush. With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face ! But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night ; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade. And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade — There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight! And that, unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land ; — And how she wept and claspedhis knees; And how she tended him in vain — And ever strove to expiate _ The scorn that crazed his brain ;— And that she nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay; — 234 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE His dying words — but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty. My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pityl All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve ; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long I She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin-shame ; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stepped — Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace ; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears, and she was calm. And told her love with virgin pride ; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride. Front "Christahel" A LAS ! they had been friends in youth ; ■^^ But whispering tongues can poison truth ; And constancy lives in realms above ; And life is thorny; and youth is vain: And to be wroth with one we love. Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine, With Roland and Sir Leoline. ROBERT SOUTHEY 835 Each spake words of hiph disdain And insult to his heart's best brother: They parted — ne'er to meet ae:ain I But never either found another To free the hollow heart from painin,? — They stood aloof, the scars remaining:, Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; A dreary sea now flows between. But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. Shall wholly do away, I we'en, The marks of that which once hath been. Epitaph on Himself CTOP, Christian passerby! Stop, child of God I And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod A poet lies, or that which once seemed he — Oh I lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. 1 That he, who many a year, with toil of breath, Found death in life, may here find life in death I Mercy for praise — to be forgiven for fame, He asked and hoped through Christ — do thou the same. ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843) 'My Days Among the Dead Are Passed" Tyf'Y days among the Dead are passed. Around me I behold. Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old : My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal. And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe. My cheeks have often been bedewed With tears of thoughtful gratitude. \ly thoughts are with the Dead ; with them I live in long-past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears : And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. 236 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE My hopes are with the Dead ; anon My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on Through all Futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (1775-1864) Rose Aylnier A H, what avails the sceptered race ! Ah, what the form divine ! What every virtue, every grace I Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee. Dirce CTAND close around, ye Stygian set, With Dirce in one laoat conveyed ! Or Charon, seeing, may forget That he is old and she a shade. To Robert Browning TPHERE is delight in singing, tho' none hear Beside the singer ; and there is delight In praising, the' tlie praiser sit alone And see the prais'd far off him, far above. Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee, Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, No man hath walkt along our roads with step So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue So varied in discourse. But warmer climes Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. CHARLES LAMB 237 How Many Voices Gaily Sing TTOW many voices f!:aily sing, ■'■■'• "O happy morn, O happy sprinpr Of life!" Meanwhile there comes o'er me A softer voice from Memory, And says, "If loves and hopes have flov^^n With years, think, too, what griefs are gone I" Why, JVhy Repine? "^l^HY, why repine, my pensive friend. At pleasures slipt away? Some the stern Fates will never lend, And all refuse to stay. I see the rainbow in the sky, The dew upon the grass, I see them and I ask not why They glimmer or they pass. With folded arms I linger not To call them back; 'twere vain; In this, or in some other spot, I know they'll shine again. / Strove with None T strove with none, for none was worth my strife ; Nature T loved, and, next to nature, art; I warm'd both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart. CHARLES LAMB (177S-1834) The Old Familiar Faces T have had playmates, I have had companions. In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays,- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. T h^vp been laughing, T have been carousing. Drinking late, sitting late, with mv bosom cronies, — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 238 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE I loved a Love once, fairest among women : Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her, — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man : Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bofiom, thou more than a brother. Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces — How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me ; all are departed, — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. Hester "lA^HEN maidens such as Hester die, ' '^ Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavor. A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed, And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flushed her spirit: I know not by what name beside I shall it call; if 'twas not pride. It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule. Which doth the human feeling cool ; But she was trained in Nature's school ; Nature had blessed her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, — Ye could not Hester. THOMAS CAMPBELL 239 My sprightly neighbor, gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet as heretofore, Some summer morning, When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, — A bliss that would not go away, — A sweet forewarning? THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844) "Ye Mariners of England" Y^E Mariners of England That guard our native seas ! Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze ! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe ; And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow I While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ! — For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave : Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow! While the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy winds do blow. Britannia needs no bulwarks. No towers along the steep ; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves. Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below. As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow! When the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy winds do blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn ; Till danger's troubled night depart And the star of peace return. 240 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Then, then, yc ocean-warriors ! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, Wiicn the storm has ceased to blow I When the fiery light is heard no more. And the storm has ceased to blow. THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852) "The Young May Moon" * I 'HE young Maj' moon is beaming, love, ■*■ The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love ; How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove. When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake !— till rise of sun, my dear, *Tis never too late for delight, my dear ; And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear I Now all the world is sleeping, love. But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star More glorious far Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake! — till rise of sun, my dear. The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, Or in watching the flight Of bodies of light He might happen to take thee for one, my dear ! Ta ra 'X'HE harp that once through Tara's halls "*• The soul of music shed. Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days. So glory's thrill is o'er. And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more. No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells ; The chord alone that breaks at night Its tale of ruin tells. THOMAS MOORE 241 Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, — The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks To show that still she lives. At the Mid Hour of Night A T the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly ■^ To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye ; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky. Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear, When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear ; And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love ! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of of Souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. " 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer^* ''T'lS the last rose of summer. Left blooming alone ; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred. No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may / follow. When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered. And fond ones are flown, O who would inhabit This bleak world alone? 242 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE EDWARD THURLOW (LORD THURLOW) (1781-1829) May "VfAYI queen of blossoms, "*•'•*■ And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music Shall we charm the hours? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead ? Or to the lute give heed In the green bowers? Thou hast no need of us. Or pipe or wire, Thou hast the golden bee Ripen'd with fire ; And many thousand more Songsters, that thee adore Filling earth's grassy floor With new desire. Thou hast thy might herds. Tame and free-livers ; Doubt not, thy music too In the deep rivers ; And the whole plumy flight Warbling the day and night — Up at the gates of light, See, the lark quivers 1 LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859) Jenny Kiss'd Me T ENNY kiss'd me when we met, ^ Jumping from the chair she sat in ; Time, you thief ! who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I'm wearj% say I'm sad ; Say that health and wealth have miss'd me ; Say I'm growing old, but add — Jenny kiss'd me I THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 243 To the Grasshopper and the Cricket /^ REEN little vaulter in the sunny prass, ^^ Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When even the bees lag at the summoning brass ; And you. warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass ; Oh, sweet and tiny cousins, that belong. One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine ; both, though small, are strong At your clear hearts ; and both were sent on earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song — Indoors and out, summer and winter, mirfh. Ahoti Ben Adhem, A BOU Ben Adhem — may his tribe increase I — "^^ Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom. An angel writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said : "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head. And with a look made of all sweet accord. Answered : "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low. But cheerily still ; and said : "I pray thee, then. Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light. And shewed the names whom love of God had blessed, And lo 1 Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK (1785-1866) The JVar-Song of Dinas Vawr (From "The Misfortunes of Elphin," abridged) nPHE mountain sheep are sweeter, But the valley sheep are fatter; We therefore deemed it meeter 244 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE To carry off the latter. We made an expedition ; We met an host and quelled it ; We forced a strong position, And killed the men who held it. . . . {From the same) T^OT drunk is he, who from the floor •^^ Can rise alone, and still drink more: But drunk is he who prostrate lies. Without the power to drink or rise. GEORGE GORDON BYRON— LORD BYRON (1788- I 824) To the Ocean {From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage") nPHERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes By the deep sea, and music in its roar ; I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin, his control ^ Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. Without a grave, unknclled, uncoflined, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise. Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And scnd'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay. And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. GEORGE GORDON BYRON— LORD BYRON 245 The armaments which thnnderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake And monarchs tremble in their capitals. The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee and arbiter of war, — These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee ; — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters washed them power while they were free, And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou ; Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play, Times writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow ; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime, — The image of Eternity, — the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean ; and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward. From a boy I wantoned with thy breakers, — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear; For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane, — as I do here. The Isles of Greece T 'HE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung I Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. 246 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." The mountains look on Marathon — And Marathon looks on the sea ; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; And ships, by thousands, lay below. And men in nations ; — all were his ! He counted them at break of day — And when the sun set, where were they? And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now — The heroic bosom beats no morel And must thy lyre, so long divine. Degenerate into hands like mine? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame. Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the three hundred grant but three To make a new Thermopylae ! What, silent still? and silent all? Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head. But one, arise, — we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb. GEORGE GORDON BYRON— LORD BYRON 247 In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; Fill high the cup with Samian wine I Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine I Hark! rising to the ignoble call — How answers each bold Bacchanal ! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave — Think ye he meant them for a slave? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine : He served — but served Polycrates — A tyrant ; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; That tyrant was Miltiades ! O that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind ! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore ; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks — They have a king who buys and sells ; In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwelTs: But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! Our virgins dance beneath the shade — I see their glorious black eyes shine ; But, gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves. To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 248 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — Dash down yon cup of Samian wine 1 Sonnet on Chillon PTERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons. Liberty, thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart — The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom — Their country conquers with their martyrdorn. And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. And thy sad floor an altar ; for 'twas trod. Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God. "She Walks in Beauty" OHE walks in beauty, like the night '^ Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes : Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less. Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face : Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent ! GEORGE GORDON BYRON— LORD BYRON 249 So, We'll Go No More a Roving CO, we'll go no more a roving So late into the nii^ht, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon. My Boat Is on the Shore "|y4[Y boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea : But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee ! Here's a sigh to those that love me, And a smile to those who hate ; And, whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it shall yet bear me on ; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won. Were't the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink. Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink. With that water as this wine, The libation I would pour Should Le : — "Peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore !" Byron's Farewell ♦npiS time this heart should be unmoved, ■^ Since others it hath ceased to move : Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! 250 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE My days are in the yellow leaf ; The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone 1 The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field. Glory and Greece, around me see I The Spartan, borne upon his shield. Was not more free. Awake! (not Greece — she is awake!) Awake my spirit ! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. And then strike home ! Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood ! — Unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regret'st thy youth, why live? The land of honourable death Is here : — up to the field, and give Away thy breath ! Seek out — less often sought than found — A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; Then look around and choose thy ground, And take thy rest. CHARLES WOLFE 251 CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823) The Burial of Sir John Moore After Coriinna (January 16, 1809) "^"OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, ^ As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning. By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lanthorn dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow. That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone. But we left him alone with his glory. 252 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822) To a Skylark JJAIL to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire ; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run ; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pak purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere. Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thj' voice is loud. As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art wc know not ; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought. Singing hymns unbidden Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 253 Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew. Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view : Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves. By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves : Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine : I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal. Or triumphal chaunt, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt — A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? • What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee : Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 254 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught ; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. Ode to the West Wind f\ wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, ^"^ Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red. Pestilence-stricken multitudes ! O thou Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low. Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 255 Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill; Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver ; hear, O hear ! n Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion. Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean. Angels of rain and lightning ! there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge. Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height. The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre. Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear! Ill Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams. Beside a pumice isle in Baise's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear. And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! 256 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable ! if even I were as in my boj'hood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision — I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. O 1 lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : What if my leaves are falling like its own? The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone. Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe. Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? From "Ado7iais'* ■pEACK, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — He hath awakened from the dream of life — 'Tis we, wlio, lost in stormy visions keep, With phantoms an unprofitable strife. And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 257 Invulnerable nothings. We decay Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief Convulse us and consume us day by day, And cold hopes sv^^arm like worms within our living clay. He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again ; From the contagion of the world's slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain ; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn. With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. . . . He is made one with Nature : there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird ; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone. Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. He is a portion of the loveliness Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there, All new successions to the forms they wear ; Torturing the unwilling dross that checks its flight To its own likeness, as each mass may bear, And bursting in its beauty and its might From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light. The splendors of the firmament of time May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not; Like stars to their appointed height they climb, And death is a low mist which cannot blot The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair. And love and life contend in it, for what Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air. The inheritors of unfulfilled renown Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought, Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton 258 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Rose pale, — his solemn agony had not Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought And as he fell and as he lived and loved, Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot. Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved; Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. . . . Here pause : these graves are all too young as yet To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned Its charge to each; and if the seal is set. Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, Break it not tliou ! too surely shalt thou find Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonais is, whj^ fear we to become? The One remains, the many change and pass ; Heaven's light forever shines. Earth's shadows fly ; Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass. Stains the v/hite radiance of Eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die, If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek! Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure sky. Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart? Thy hopes are gone before ; from all things here They have departed ; thou shouldst now depart I A light is passed from the revolving year, And man. and woman ; and what still is dear Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers near; 'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, No more let Life divide what Death can join together. That Light whose smile kindles the Universe, That Beauty in which all things work and move, That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love Which through the web of being blindly wove By man and beast and cartli and air and sea, Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of The fire for whicli all thirst, now beams on me. Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. The breath whose might I have invoked in song Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 2" Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; The massy earth and sphered skies are riven ! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ; Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star. Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. To Night CWIFTLY walk o'er the western wave, ^ Spirit of Night ! Out of the misty eastern cave Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear. Which make thee terrible and dear. Swift be thy flight! Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Star-inwrought ! Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, Come, long-sought ! When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee ; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried, "Would'st thou me?" Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noontide bee, "Shall I nestle near thy side? Would'st thou me?" — And I replied, "No, not thee." Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon — Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night — Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon I 2G0 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Lines to an Indian Air ¥ arise from dreams of thee ■*• In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright, I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me — who knows how? To thy chamber window, sweet 1 The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream; The champak odonrs fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart. As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art! lift me from the grass! 1 die, 1 faint, I f ail 1 Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas ! My heart beats loud and fast ; Oh ! press it close to thine again, Where it must break at last. To /^NE word is too often profaned ^-^ For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it. One hope is too like despair For prudence to smother. And Pity from thee more dear Than that from another. I can give not what men call love; But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not: The desire of the moth for the star. Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow? PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 261 Music, When Soft Voices Die Tl/TUSIC, when soft voices die. Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken. Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the beloved's bed ; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on. Hellas 'T'HE world's great age begins anew. The golden years return, The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn : Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. A brighter Hellas rears its mountains From waves serener far ; A new Peneus rolls his fountains Against the morning star ; Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. A loftier Argo cleaves the main, Fraught with a later prize ; Another Orpheus sings again. And loves, and weeps, and dies; A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore. O write no more the tale of Troy, If earth Death's scroll must be — Nor mix with Laian rage the joy Which dawns upon the free. Although a subtler Sphinx renew Riddles of death Thebes never knew. Another Athens shall arise, And to remoter time Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, The splendour of its prime; And leave, if naught so bright may live. All earth can take or Heaven can give. 262 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Saturn and Love their long repose Shall burst, more bright and good Than all who fell, than One who rose. Than manj' unsubdued : Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers, But votive tears and symbol flowers. O cease! must hate and death return? Cease! must men kill and die? Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy! The world is weary of the past — O might it die or rest at last I From "Prometheus Unbound" 'T'O suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; To forgive wrongs darker than death or night; To defy Power, which seems omnipotent; To love, and bear ; to hope till Hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates ; Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent ; This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free; This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory. JOHN KEATS (1795-1821) On First Looking into Chapman's Homer ly^'UCH have I travelled in the realms of gold. And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne : Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken : Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific — and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien. JOHN KEATS 263 *'fVhen I Have Fears" "ITl^HEN I have fears that I may cease to be ^^ Before my pen has p:Ieaned my teeming brain, Before high-piled books in charact'ry Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain ; When I behold, upon the night's starred face. Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour ! That I shall never look upon thee more. Never have relish in the fairy power Of unreflecting love ! — then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. Fragment of an Ode to Maia ■jyf OTHER of Hermes ! and still youthful Maia I •^'■'- May I sing to thee As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baia? Or may I woo thee In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles, By bards who died content on pleasant sward, Leaving great verse unto a little clan? O give me their old vigour ! and unheard Save of the quiet primrose, and the span Of heaven, and few ears. Rounded by thee, my song shall die away Content as theirs. Rich in the simple worship of a day. 'The Eve of St. Agnes" OT. AGNES' Eve— Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold : Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old. Seemed taking flight for heaven, without a death,^ Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 264 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meager, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : The sculptured dead on each side, seem to freeze, Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails : Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. , . . A casement high and triple-arched there was, All garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device. Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings ; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon ; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together pressed. And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint : She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed. Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew faint : She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. Anon his heart revives : her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragment bodice ; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; Blissfully havened both from joy and pain; Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. JOHN KEATS 265 Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, And listened to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless And breathed himself: then from the closet crept Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept. And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo — how fast she slept. Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. Affray his ears, though but in dying tone: — The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth and lavendered. While he forth from the closet brouglit a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; Manna and dates, in argosy transferred From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one. From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. These delicates he heaped with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night. Filling the chilly room with perfume light — "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : It seemed he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phantasies. 266 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, He played an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence called, "La belle dame sans merci" : Close to her ear touching the melody; — Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan : He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. Ode on a Grecian Urn nPHOU still unravished bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; Not to the sensual ear. but, more endured, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; And, happy melodist, unwearied. For ever piping songs for ever new ; More happy love ! more happy, happy love I For ever warm and still to be enjoyed. For ever panting and for ever young ; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, JOHN KEATS 267 Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be ; and not a soul, to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape ! fair attitude ! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed ; Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral ! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. On Melancholy "^"O, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist ^ Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd By niglitshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ; Make not your rosary of yew-berries. Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries ; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all. And hides the green hill in an April shroud ; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave. And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine. Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Toy's grape against his palate fine: His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 268 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE La Belle Dame Sans Merci r\ what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, ^"^ Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. what can ail thee, knight-at-arms So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full. And the harvest's done. 1 see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew. And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful — a fairy's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light. And her e3'es were wild. I made a garlaild for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love. And made sweet moan. I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A fairy's song. She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew. And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true." She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore; And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lulled me asleep. And there I dreamed — Ah ! woe betide I The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill's side. JOHN KEATS 269 I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried — "La belle dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!" I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side. And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering. Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing. Ode to Psyche f\ Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung ^^ By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear. And pardon that thy secrets should be sung Even into thine own soft-conched ear: Surely I dreamed to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awakened eyes? I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly. And, on a sudden, fainting with surprise. Saw two fair creatures,, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied : 'Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and hudded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass ; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too ; Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: The winged boy I knew ; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? His Psyche true 1 O latest-born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-regioned star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heaped with flowers ; 270 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours ; No voice, no hite, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming ; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. brightest ! though too late for antique vows, Too, too late for the fond believing Ijtc, When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; Yet even in these days so far retired From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 1 see, and sing, by my own ej^es inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours ! Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming: Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind. Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind : Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-Iain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name. With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign. Who, breeding flowers, will never breed the same; And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in ! Ode to a Nightingale "jy^'Y heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains ^ My sense, as though of hemlock T had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, — JOHN KEATS 271 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth I O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. And purple-stained mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim : Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret, Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; Where palsy shakes a few. sad. last gray hairs. Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies ; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs ; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee ! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry Fays ; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. T cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 272 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; NoviT more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain. While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy I Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird I No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self I Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream. Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waK'ing dream? Fled is that music: — Do I wake or sleep? To Autumn CEASON of mists and mellow f ruitfulness f Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease. For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells. GEORGE DARLEY 273 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook ; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too. While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft. And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. Last Sonnet ■Q RIGHT Star! would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart. Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priest-like task Of pure ablution round eartii's human shores. Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors — No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable. Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest. Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath. And so live ever — or else swoon to death. GEORGE DARLEY (1795-1846) From "Sylvia" WHO wants a gown ^ Of purple fold, Embroidered down The seams with gold? See here ! — a Tulip richly laced To please a royal fairy's taste 1 274 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Who wants a cap Of crimson grand? By great good hap I've one on hand : Look, sir I — a Cock's-comb, flowering red, 'Tis just the thing, sir, for your head! "Who wants a frock Of vestal hue? Or snowy smock? — Fair maid, do you? O me ! — a Ladysmock so white I Your bosom's self is not more bright I Who wants to sport A slender limb? I've every sort Of hose for him: Both scarlet, striped, and yellow ones : This Woodbine makes such pantaloons ! Who wants — (hush! hush!) A box of paint? 'Twill give a blush, Yet leave no taint : This Rose with natural rouge is fill'd, From its own dewy leaves distill'd. HARTLEY COLERIDGE (1796-1849) Song CHE is not fair to outward view As many maidens be, Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me ; Oh ! then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light. But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye : Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are. THOMAS HOOD 275 THOMAS HOOD (1799-1845) The Song of the Shirt ■^17"ITH fingers weary and worn, ' '^ With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plving her needle and thread, — Stitch— stitch— stitch !_ In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt 1" "Work — work — work While the cock is crowing aloof! And work — work — work Till the stars shine through the roof I It's oh ! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! "Work — work — work Till the brain begins to swim ! Work — work — work Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, — Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream I "O men with sisters dear! O men with mothers and wives ! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives 1 Stitch — stitch — stitch. In poverty, hunger and dirt, — Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt! "But why do I talk of death,— That phantom of grisly bone I hardly fear his terrible shape. It seems so like my own, — It seems so like my own Because of the fasts I keep; O God ! that bread should be so dear. And flesh and blood so cheap! "Work — work — worlj I My labour never flags; 276 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags. That shattered roof — and this naked floor — A table — a broken chair — And a wall so blank my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there 1 "Work — work — work From weary chime to chime t Work — work — work As prisoners work fcr crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, — Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed. As well as the weary hand. "Work — work — work In the dull December light! And work — work — work When the weather is warm and bright I While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling. As if to show me their sunny backs. And twit me with the Spring. "Oh but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,— With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet I For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel. Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meall "Oh but for one short hour, — A respite, however brief I No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief ! A little weeping would ease my heart; But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread I" With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread, — Stitch— stitch— stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — Would that its tone could reach the rich I — She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" THOMAS HOOD 277 The Bridge of Sighs /^NE more Unfortunate, ^'^ Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death I Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly. Young, and so fair! Look at her garments Clinging like cerements: Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her; All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonour. Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers. One of Eve's family — Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? 278 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas ! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun ! O, it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed ; Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement. Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March _ Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery. Swift to be hurled — Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world 1 In she plunged boldly — No matter how coldly The rough river ran— Over the brink of it, Picture it, — think of it, Dissolute Man ! Lave in it, — drink of it. Then, if you can ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slendely. Young, and so fair I THOMAS HOOD 279 Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly. Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing, Fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely. Cold inhumanity. Burning insanity, Into her rest. — Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly. Over her breast 1 Owning her weakness. Her evil behaviour. And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour I Fair Ines f\ saw ye not fair Ines ? ^^ She's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest : She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast. O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night. For fear the Moon should shine alone, And stars unrivaled bright; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write 1 Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, 280 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whispered thee so near ! Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear? I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore : It would have been a beauteous dream, — If it had been no more 1 Alas, alas ! fair Ines, She went away with song, With Music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng; But some were sad, and felt no mirth, But only Music's wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell, To her you've loved so long. Farewell, farewell, fair Ines 1 That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck. Nor danced so light before, — Alas for pleasure on the sea. And sorrow on the shore ! The smile that blessed one lover's heart Has broken many more ! Silence 'T'HERE is a silence where hath been no sound. There is a silence where no sound may be. In the cold grave, — under the deep, deep sea. Or in wide desert where no life is found. Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound ; No voice is hush'd — no life treads silently. But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free. That never spoke, over the idle ground : But in green ruins, in the desolate walls Of antique palaces, where Man hath been. Though the dun fox a wild hyaena calls. And owls that flit continually between. Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan — There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 281 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. LORD MACAULAY (1800-1859) From "Horatius" 'j^HEN out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate : "To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his Gods, "And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, — To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame? "Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye maj'; I, with two more to help me. Will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopped by three : Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?" Then out spake Spurius Lartius, — A Ramnian proud was he : "Lo, I will stand at thy rieht hand, And keep the bridge with thee." And out spake strong Herminius, — Of Titan blood was he : "I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee." "Horatius," quoth the Consul, "As thou sayest so let it be." And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old. 282 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state ; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great: Then lands were fairly portioned ; Then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. SIR HENRY TAYLOR (1800-1886) Elena's Song OUOTH tongue of neither maid nor wife To heart of neither wife nor maid- Lead we not here a jolly life Betwixt 'the shine and shade ? Quoth heart of neither maid nor wife To tongue of neither wife nor maid — Thou wagg'st, but I am worn with strife, And feel like flowers that fade. WILLIAM BARNES (1801-1886) The Woodlands C\ spread agean your leaves an' flow'rs ^'^ Lwonesome woodlands ! zunny woodlands ! Here underneath the dewy show'rs warm-air'd spring-time zunny woodlands ! As when, in drong or open ground, Wi' happy bwoyish heart I vound The twitt'ren birds a builden round Your high-bough'd hedges, zunny woodlands I You gie'd me life, you gie'd me jay, Lwonesome woodlands ! zunny woodlands I You gie'd me health, as in my play 1 rambled through ye, zunny woodlands ! You gie'd me freedom, vor to rove In airy mead or sheady grove You gie'd me smilen Fanny's love. The best ov all o't, zunny woodlands ! JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 283 My vu'st shrill skylark whiver'd high, Lwonesome woodlands ! zunny woodlands ! To zing below your deep-blue sky An' white spring-clouds, O zunny woodlands ! An' boughs o' trees that woonce stood here, Wer glossy green the happy-year That gie'd me woone I lov'd so dear, An' now ha lost, O zunny woodlands 1 let me rove agean unspied, Lwonesome woodlands ! zunny woodlands ! Along your green-bough'd hedges' zide, As then I rambled, zunny woodlands I An' where the missen trees woonce stood, Or tongues woonce rung among the wood, My memory shall meake em good, Though you've a-lost em, zunny woodlands I JOHN HENRY NEWMAN (1801-1890) The Pillar of the Cloud T EAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on ! The night is dark, and I am far from home — Lead Thou me on ! Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see The distant scene, — one step enough for me. 1 was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on. I loved to choose and see my path ; but now Lead Thou me on 1 I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears. Pride ruled my will : remember not past years. So long Thy power hath blessed me, sure it still Will lead me on. O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone ; And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED (1802-1839) Fairy Song TITE has conn'd the lesson now; He has read the book of pain: There are furrows on his brow; I must make it smooth again. 284 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Lol I knock the spurs away; Lo 1 I loosen belt and brand : Hark 1 I hear the courser neigh For his stall in Fairy-Land. Bring the cap, and bring the vest; Buckle on his sandal shoon ; Fetch his memory from the chest In the treasury of the moon. I have taught him to be wise For a little maiden's sake; — Lo ! he opens his glad eyes, Softly, slowly: Minstrel, wake! JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803-1849) Dark Rosaleen C\ my dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep ! The priests are on the ocean green. They march along the deep. There's wine from the royal Pope Upon the ocean green. And Spanish ale shall give you hope. My dark Rosaleen I My own Rosaleen ! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give j'on health, and help, and hope. My dark Rosaleen I Over hills and through dales Have I roamed for your sake; All yesterday I sailed the sails On river and on lake. The Erne, at its highest flood, I dashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen ! Oh ! there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lightened through my blood, My dark Rosaleen I All day long, in unrest. To and fro do I move. The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love I JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN 285 The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My dark Rosalecn ! My own Rosalecn ! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My dark Rosalecn ! Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon. To see j'our bright face clouded so. Like to the mournful moon. But yet will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen ; 'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone Aly dark Rosalecn ! My own Rosalecn ! 'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone. My dark Rosaleen ! Over dews, over sands, Will I fly for your weal: Your holy, delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home in your emerald bowers, From morning's dawn till e'en. You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers. My dark Rosaleen ! My own Rosaleen I You'll think of me through daylight's hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers. My dark Rosaleen ! I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills. Oh. I could kneel all night in prayer. To heal your many ills ! And one beamy smile from you Would float like light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My dark Rosaleen I My own Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew. My dark Rosaleen 1 286 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Oh ! the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal and slogan-cry Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, A'ly dark Rosaleen ! My own Rosaleen 1 The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, Ere you shall fade, ere you can die, My dark Rosaleen 1 THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES (1803-1845) Dream-Pedlary TF there were dreams to sell. What would you buy? Some cost a passing bell ; Some a light sigh. That shakes from Life's fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to sell. Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell. What would you buy? ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1806-1861) From "Sonnets from the Portuguese'* T thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years. Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightwayl was 'ware. So ^Veeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, — "Guess now who holds thee?"— "Death," I said. But, there, The silver answer rang, — "Not Death, but Love." ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 287 Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart I Unlike our uses and our destinies. Our ministering two angels look surprise On one another, as they strike athwart Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art A guest for queens to social pageantries, With gages from a hundred brighter eyes Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part Of chief musician. What hast thou to do With looking from the lattice-lights at me, A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree? The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, the dew, — And Death must dig the level where these agree. VI Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before, Without the sense of that which I forbore,—^ Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine. And sees within my eyes the tears of two. XIV If thou must love me, let it be for naught Except for love's sake only. Do not say "I love her for her smile — her look — her way Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" — For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, — A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love tliereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity. 288 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE XVIII I never gave a lock of hair avi^ay To a man, Dearest, except this to thee, Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully I ring out to the full brown length and say "Take it." My day of youth went yesterday; My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee, Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree, As girls do, any more : it only may Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears, Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral-shears Would take this first, but Love is justified, — Take it thou, — finding pure, from all those years, The kiss my mother left here when she died. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and. if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. A Denial "VSTE have met late — it is too late to meet, ^^ O friend, not more than friend! Death's forecome shroud is tangled round my feet. And if I step or stir, I touch the end. In this last jeopardy Can I approach thee, — I, who cannot move? How shall I answer thy request for love? Look in my face and see. "I might have loved thee in some former days. Oh, then, my spirits had leapt As now they sink, at hearing thy love-praise f ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 289 Before these faded cheeks were overwept, Had this been asked of me, To love thee with my whole strong heart and head, — I should have said still . . . Yes, but smiled and said, 'Look in my face and see !' "But now . . . God sees me, God, who took my heart And drowned it in life's surge. In all your wide warm earth I have no part — A light song overcomes me like a dirge. Could love's great harmony The saints keep step to when their bonds are loose, Not weigh me down? am / a wife to choose? Look in my face and see — "While I behold, as plain as one who dreams. Some woman of full worth. Whose voice, as cadenced as a silver stream's. Shall prove the fountain-soul which sends it forth. One younger, more thought-free And fair and gay, than I, thou must forget, With brighter eyes than these . . . which are not wet — Look in my face and see ! "So farevi^en thou, whom I have known too late To let thee come so near. Be counted happy while men call thee great, And one beloved woman feels thee dear ! — Not I ! — that cannot be, I am lost, I am changed, — I must go farther where The change shall take me worse, and no one dare Look in my face and see." /I Musical Instrmnent ■yX7"HAT was he doing, the great god Pan, ' ' Dovi^n in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban. Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat. And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river. He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep cool bed of the river: The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river. 290 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE High on the shore sat the great god Pan, While turbidly flowed the river ; And hacked and hewed as a great god can, With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river. He cut it short, did the great god Pan, (How tall it stood in the river!) Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man. Steadily from the outside ring. And notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sat by the river. "This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, (Laughed while he sat by the river,) "The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed." Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river. Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan 1 Piercing sweet by the river ! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan ! The sun on the hill forgot to die. And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh as he sits by the river. Making a poet out of a man : The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, — For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river. EDWARD FITZGERALD (1809-1883) From "The Riibdiydt of Omar Khayyam' /^OME, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring ^^ Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing. Whether at Naishapur or Babylon, Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run. The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one. EDWARD FITZGERALD 291 A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness — Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow I Some for the Glories of this World ; and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come ; Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes — or it prospers ; and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face, Lighting a little hour or two — was gone. Think, in this battered caravanserai WHiose portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his way. They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep : And Bahram. that great Hunter — the Wild Ass Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep. I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled ; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropped in her Lap from some once lovely Head. And this reviving Herb whose tender Green Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean — Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen! Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears To-DAY of past Regret and future Fears : To-MORROw ! — Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's Seven thousand Years. For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time hath pressed, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before. And one by one crept silently to rest. And we that now make merry in the Room They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom. Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth Descend — ourselves to make a Couch — for whom? 292 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend ; Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and — sans End I I sent my Soul through the Invisible Some letter of that After-life to spell: And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered, "I Myself am Heaven and Hell." Heaven but the Vision of fulfilled Desire, And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves So late emerged from, shall so soon expire. We are no other than a moving row Of magic Shadow-shapes that come and go Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held In Midnight by the Master of the Show ; But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays Upon this Checker-board of Nights and Days ; Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays. And one by one back in the Closet lays. The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Here or There, as strikes the Player, goes ; And He that tossed you down into the Field, He knows about it all — He knows — HE knows ! The Moving Finger writes ; and, having writ, Moves on : nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line Nor all j'our Tears wash out a Word of it And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling cooped we live and die. Lift not your hands to It for help — for It As impotently moves as you or I. . . . "Whatl out of senseless Nothing to provoke A conscious Something to resent the yoke Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke! What! from his helpless Creature be repaid Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allayed — Sue for a Debt we never did contract. And cannot answer — Oh the sorry trade ! EDWARD FITZGERALD 293 Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin Beset the Road I was to wander in, Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin I Oh Thou, who Man of Baser Earth Hidst make, And even with Paradise devise the Snake : For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blackened — Man's forgiveness give — and take I Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide. And wash the Body whence the Life has died, And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, By some not unfrequented Garden-side. That even my buried Ashes such a snare Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air As not a True-believer passing by But shall be overtaken unaware. Indeed the Idols I have loved so long Have done my credit in the World much wrong: Have drowned my Glory in a shallow Cup, And sold my reputation for a Song. Indeed, indeed. Repentance oft before I swore — but was I sober when I swore? And then, and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore. And much as Wine has played the Infidel, And robbed me of my Robe of Honour — Well, I often wonder what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the stuff they sell. Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose ! That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close I The Nightingale that in the branches sang. Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows I Would but the Desert of the Foimtain yield One glimpse — if dimly, yet indeed, revealed. To which the fainting Traveler might spring'. As springs the trampled herbage of the field ! Would but some winged Angel ere too late Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate, And make the stern Recorder otherwise Enregister, or quite obliterate! 294 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Ah Love 1 could you and I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits — and then Remold it nearer to the Heart's desire I Yon rising Moon that looks for us again — How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; How oft hereafter rising look for us Through this same Garden — and for one in vain I And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass Among the Guests Star-scattered on the Grass, And in your joyous errand reach the spot Where I made One — turn down an empty Glass 1 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (1809-1892) The Lady of Shalott PART I /^N either side the river lie ^-^ Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road runs by To many-towered Camelot ; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver. Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle embowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veiled, Slide the heavy barges trailed By slow horses : and unbailed The shallop flittcth silken-sailed Skimming down to Camelot: ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 295 But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary. Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott." PART II There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she. The Lady of Shalott. And moving through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year. Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there tlie surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls. Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad. An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad Or long-haired page in crimson clad, Goes by to towered Camelot ; And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, 296 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE For often through the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot : Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed ; "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves. The sun came dazzling through the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneeled To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glittered free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot ; And from his blazoned baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung. Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jeweled shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burned like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot ; As often through the purple night:. Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed ; On burnished hooves his war-horse trode ; From imderneath his helmet flowed His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 297 She left the web, she left the loom. She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She looked down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide ; The mirror cracked from side to side; "The curse is come upon me I" cried The Lady of Shalott. In the stormy cast-wind straininpr. The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining. Heavily the low sky raining Over towered Camelot ; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse — Like some bold seer in a trance. Seeing all his own mischance — With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right — The leaves upon her falling light — Through the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot : And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among. They heard her singing her last song. The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turned to towered Camelot ; For ere she reached upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. 298 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by. Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came. Knight and burgher, lord and dame. And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer ; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot : But Lancelot mused a little space ; He said, "She has a lovely face ; God in His mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." The Lotos-Eaters *EAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead! ^^ Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass ;_ Little has yet been changed. I think: The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. II Sixteen years old when she died ! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name ; It was not her time to love ; beside. Her life had many a hope and aim. Duties enough and little cares. And now was quiet, now astir. Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — And the sweet white brow is all of her. ROBERT BROWNING 323 Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire and dew — And, just because I was thrice as old And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was nought to each, must I be told? We were fellow mortals, nought beside? IV No, indeed ! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make. And creates the love to reward the love: I claim 3'ou still, for my own love's sake I Delayed it may be for more lives yet. Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. V But the time will come, — at last it will, When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say. In the lower earth, in the years long still. That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine. And your mouth of your own geranium's red- And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead. VI I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, Given up myself so many times. Gained me the gains of various men. Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me : And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! What is the issue? let us see! I loved you, Evelyn, all the while. My heart seemed full as it could hold? There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep : See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand ! There, that is our secret : go to sleep ! You will wake, and remember, and understand. 324 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Porphyria' s Lover nPHE rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake : I listened with heart fit to break, When glided in Porphyria ; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm ; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied. She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare. And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there. And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair. Murmuring how she loved me — she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever. And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail. Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain : So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud ; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me ; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good : I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around. And strangled her. No pain felt she ; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids : again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck ; her cheek once more ROBERT BROWNING 325 Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss : I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore_ Her head, which droops upon it still : The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead ! Porphyria's love : she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now. And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word ! A Toccata of Galuppi's /^H Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find I ^"^ I can hardly misconceive you ; it would prove me deaf and blind ; But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mindl Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings. What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings, Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings? Ay, because the sea's the street there ; and 'tis arched by .... what you call . . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival : I was never out of England — it's as if I saw it all. Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May? Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to midday, When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say? Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, — On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed. O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head? 326 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Well, and it was graceful of them — they'd break talk off and afiford — She, to bite her mask's black velvet — ^he, to finger on his sword, While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord? What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh, Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions — "Must we die?" Those commiserating sevenths — "Life might last I we can but try I" "Were you happy?" — "Yes" — "And are you still as happy?" "Yes. And you?" — "Then, more kisses !" — "Did / stop them, when a million seemed so few?" Hark 1 the dominant's persistence, till it must be answered to ! So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say! "Brave Galuppi ! that was music I good alike at grave and gay! I can always leave of? talking, when I hear a master play," Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time, one by one, Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone, Death came tacitly and took them where they never see the sun. But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve. While I triumph o'er a secret wrung frorq nature's close reserve. In you come with your cold music, till I creep through every nerve. Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned : "Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned 1 The soul, doubtless, is immortal — where a soul can be dis- cerned. "Yours for instance: you know physics, something of ge- ology, ROBERT BROWNING 327 Mathematics are your pastime ; souls shall rise in their de- Butterflies may dread extinction, — you'll not die, it cannot be I "As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop, Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop ; What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop? "Dust and ashes !" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old. A Grammarian's Funeral Shortly After the Revival of Learning in Europe ¥ ET us begin and carry up this corpse, Singing together. Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes Each in its tether Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, Cared-for till cock-crow : Look out if yonder be not day again Rimming the rock-row ! That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought. Rarer, intenser, Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought. Chafes in the censer. Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop ; Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top. Crowded with culture ! All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels ; Clouds overcome it; No ! yonder sparkle is the citadel's Circling its summit. Thither our path lies ; wind we up the heights ; Wait ye the warning? Our low life was the level's and the night's; He's for the morning. Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 'Ware the beholders 1 This is our master, famous, calm and dead. Borne on our shoulders. 328 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Sleep, crop and herd ! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, Safe from the weather I He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, Singing together, He was a man born with thy face and throat, Lyric Apollo ! Long he lived nameless : how should Spring take note Winter would follow? Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone I Cramped and diminished, Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon ! My dance is finished?" No, that's the world's way : (keep the mountain-side. Make for the city!) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Over men's pity; Left play for work, and grappled with the world Bent on escaping : "What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled? Show me their shaping, Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage, — Give !" — So, he gowned him, Straight got by heart that book to its last page : Learned, we found him. Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead. Accents uncertain : "Time to taste life," another would have said, "Up with the curtain 1" This man said rather, "Actual life comes next? Patience a moment ! Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text. Still there's the comment. Let me know all ! Prate not of most or least. Painful or easy! Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast, Ay, nor feel queasy." Oh, such a life as he resolved to live. When he had learned it. When he had gathered all books had to give ! Sooner, he spurned it. Imagine the whole, then execute the parts — Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, Ere mortar dab brick ! (Here's the town-gate reached : there's the market-place Gaping before us.) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (Hearten our chorus !) ROBERT BROWNING 329 That before living he'd learn how to live — No end to learning: Earn the means first — God surely will contrive Use for our earning. Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes : Live now or never !" He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! Man has Forever." Back to his book then : deeper drooped his head : Calculus racked him : Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead : Tussis attacked him. "Now, master, take a little rest !" — not he ! (Caution redoubled, Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) Not a whit troubled, Back to his studies, fresher than at first, Fierce as a dragon He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) Sucked at the flagon. Oh, if we draw a circle premature, Heedless of far gain, Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure Bad is our bargain ! Was it not great? did not he throw on God, (He loves the burthen) — God's task to make the heavenly period Perfect the earthen? Did not he magnify the mind, show clear Just what it all meant? He would not discount life, as fools do here, Paid by instalment. He ventured neck or nothing — heaven's success Found, or earth's failure : "Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes I Hence with life's pale lure!" That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it: This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it. This low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred's soon hit: This high man, aiming at a million. Misses an unit. That, has the world here — should he need the next. Let the world mind him ! This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed Seeking shall find him. So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, Ground he at grammar ; 330 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife: While he could stammer He settled Hoti's business — let it be 1 — Properly based Ouyi — Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De, Dead from the waist down. Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: Hail to your purlieus. All ye highfliers of the feathered race, Swallows and curlews ! Here's the top-peak ; the multitude below Live, for they can, there : This man decided not to Live but Know — Bury this man there? Here — here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form. Lightnings are loosened. Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send I Lofty designs must close in like effects : Loftily lying. Leave him — still loftier than the world suspects. Living and dying. The Last Ride Together T said — Then, dearest, since 'tis so. Since now at length my fate I know. Since nothing all my love avails. Since all, my life seem'd meant for, fails. Since this was written and needs must be — My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness ! Take back the hope you gave, — I claim Only a memory of the same, — And this beside, if you will not blame ; Your leave for one more last ride with me. My mistress bent that brow of hers. Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fix'd me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenish'd me again ; My last thought was at least not vain : I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride,- So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night? ROBERT BROWNING 331 Hush ! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosom'd, over-bow'd By many benedictions — sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once — And so, you, looking and loving best. Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here ! — Thus leant she and linger'd — joy and fearl Thus lay she a moment on my breast. Then we began to ride. My soul Smooth'd itself out, a long-cramp'd scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this. So might I gain,^ so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell ! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I. Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds? We rode ; it seem'd my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rush'd by on either side. I thought.— rAll labour, yet no less Bear up beneath their uncuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past I I hoped she would love me ; here we ride. What hand and brain went ever pair'd? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave. 332 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you express'd You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much : but then, Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you — poor, sick, old ere yoiir time — Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turn'd a rhyme? Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride. And you, great sculptor — so, you gave A score of years to Art her slave. And that's j'our Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn ! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, j'ou grown gray With notes and nothing else to say. Is this your sole praise from a friend, "Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end 1" I gave my youth : but we ride, in fine. Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being — had I sign'd the bond — Still one must lead some life beyond. Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal. This glory-garland round my soul. Could I descrj' such ? Try and test ! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. And 3'et — she has not spoke so long ! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturn'd Whither life's flower is first discern'd. We, fix'd so. ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree. The instant made eternitJ^ — And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride? ROBERT BROWNING 333 Memorabilia (1792-1822) AH, did j-ou once see Shelley plain^ ■^ And did he stop and speak to you, And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems and new I But you were living before that, And also you were living after ; And the memory I started at — My starting moves your laughter ! I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world no doubt. Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 'Mid the blank miles round about : For there I picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A molted feather, an eagle-feather ! Well, I forget the rest. Parting at Morniyig 1> OUND the cape of a sudden came the sea. And the sun looked over the mountain's rim : And straight was a path of gold for him. And the need of a world of men for me. Song From "In a Gondola" nr HE moth's kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up ; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. The bee's kiss, now ! Kiss me as if you entered gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is rendered up, And passively its shattered cup Over your head to sleep I bow. 334 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Summiim Bonum \ LL the breath and the bloom of the j-ear in the bag of one -^^ bee: All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem: In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea: Breath and bloom, shade and shine, — wonder, wealth, and — how far above them — Truth, that's brighter than gem. Trust, that's purer than pearl, — Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe — all were for me In the kiss of one girl. Prospice "r\ EAR death ? — to feel the fog in my throat, ■^ The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place. The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe ; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form. Yet the strong man must go : For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to "fight ere the guerdon be gained. The reward of it all. I was ever a fightef, so — one fight more. The best and the last ! I would hate that death bandaged my ej-es, and forbore. And bade me creep past. No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old. Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave. The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave. Shall dwindle, shall blend. Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain. Then a light, then thy breast. O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest ! ROBERT BROWNING 335 Epilogue Frojft "Jsolatido" A T the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, ■^^ When you set your fancies free, \\'ill they pass to where — by death, fools think, imprisoned — Low he lies who once so loved j^ou, whom you loved so, — Pity me? Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken I What had I on earth to do With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel — Being — who ? One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break. Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph. Held we fall to rise, are bafHed to fight better. Sleep to wake. No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time Greet the unseen with a cheer ! Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, "Strive and thrive !" cry "Speed, — fight on, fare ever There as here i" EMILY BRONTE (1818-1848) The Prisoner C TILL let my tyrants know, I am not doom'd to wear Year after year in gloom and desolate despair; A messenger of Hope comes every night to me, And offers 'for short life, eternal liberty. He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs. With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars : Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire. And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire. Desire for nothing known in my maturer years. When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears : When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm, I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm. 336 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE But first, a hush of peace — a soundless calm descends ; The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends. Mute music soothes my breast — unutter'd harmony That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me. Then dawns the Invisible ; the Unseen its truth reveals ; My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels ; Its wings are almost free — its home, its harbour found ; Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound. O dreadful is the check — intense the agony — When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see ; When the pulse begins to throb — the brain to think again- The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain. Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less ; The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless ; And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine, If it but herald Death, the vision is divine. Last Lines "^"O coward soul is mine, ^ No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere : I see Heaven's glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. O God within my breast. Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life — that in me has rest, As I — undying Life — have power in Theel Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts : unutterably vain ; Worthless as wither'd weeds. Or idlest froth amid the boundless main, To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by thine infinity; So surely anchor'd on The steadfast rock of immortality. With wide-embracing love Thy Spirit animates eternal years, Pervades and broods above. Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. GP:0RGE ELIOT 337 Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes ceased to be. And Thou were* left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee. There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void : Thou — Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroy 'd. GEORGE ELIOT (1819-1880) "Oh, May I Join the Choir Invisible" /^H, may I join the choir invisible ^"^ Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence ; live In pulses stirred to generosity. In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self. In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues. . . . . . . This is life to come. Which martyred men have made more glorious For us who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony. Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty. Be the sweet presence of a good diffused. And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world. Abridged. CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819-1875) The Sands of Dee "O ^'^^^y' so and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home. And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee !" The western wind was wild and dank with foam. And all alone went she. 338 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land : And never home came she. "Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea : But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee ! The Three Fishers TpHREE fishers went sailing away to the West, Away to the West as the sun went down ; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower. And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work, and women must weep. Though storms be sudden, and waters deep. And the harbor bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town ; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep ; And good-by to the bar and its moaning. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 339 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (1819-1861) "Say Not, the Struggle Naught Availeth" CAY not, the struggle naught availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain. The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain. If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; It may be, in yon smoke concealed. Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only. When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON (1821-1895) The Unrealised Ideal "jVTY only Love is always near, — In country or in town I see her twinkling feet, I hear The whisper of her gown. She foots it ever fair and young, Her locks are tied in haste, And one is o'er her shoulder flung, And hangs below her waist. She ran before me in the meads ; And down this world-worn track She leads me on ; but while she leads She never gazes back. And yet her voice is in my dreams. To witch me more and more ; That wooing voice ! Ah me, it seems Less near me than of yore. 340 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Lightly I sped when hope was high, And youth beguiled the chase ; I follow — follow still ; but I Shall never see her Face. At Her Window II EATING Heart! we come again Where my Love reposes : This is Mabel's window-pane ; These are Mabel's roses. Is she nested? Does she kneel In the twilight stilly, Lily clad from throat to heel, She, my virgin Lily? Soon the wart, the wistful stars. Fading, will forsake her ; Elves of light, on beamy bars. Whisper then, and wake her. Let this friendly pebble plead At her flowery grating ; If she hear me will she heed? Mabel, I am waiting. Mabel will be deck'd anon, Zoned in bride's apparel ; Happy zone ! O hark to yon Passion-shaken carol I Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush. Pipe thy best, thy clearest ; — Hush, her lattice moves, O hush — Dearest Mabel! — dearest . . . MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1? Quiet Work /^NE lesson. Nature, let me learn of thee, ^-^ One lesson which in every wind is blown. One lesson of two duties kept at one, Though the loud world proclaim their enmity- Of toil unsevercd from tranquillity! Of labour, that in lasting fruit outgrows Far noisier schemes, accomplished in repose, Too great for haste, too high for rivalry! MATTHEW ARNOLD 341 Yes ! while on earth a thousand discords ring, Man's fitful uproar minpling with his toil, Still do thy sleepless ministers move on, Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting; Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil, Labourers that shall not fail, when man is gone. Reqtiiescat OTREW on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew. In quiet she reposes : Ah ! would that I did too. Her mirth the world required : She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be. Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound. But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round. Her cabin'd, ample Spirit, It flutter'd and fail'd for breath. To-night it doth inherit The vasty Hall of Death. Dover Beach 'I 'HE sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits ; — on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone ; the clififs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air ! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen ! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. 342 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Sophocles long ago Heard it on the ^gean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar. Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another ! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace nor help for pain ; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. Morality Y\^E cannot kindle when we will ^^ The fire which in the heart resides; The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides. But tasks in hours of insight willed Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled. With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hours of light return All we have built do we discern. Then, when the clouds are ofif the soul, When thou dost bask in Nature's eye. Ask, how she viewed thy self-control, Thy struggling, tasked morality — Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. MATTHEW ARNOLD 343 And she, whose answer thou dost dread. Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, See, on her face a glow is spread, A strong emotion on her cheek ! "Ah, child," she cries, "that strife divine, Whence was it, for it is not mine? "There is no effort on my brow — I do not strive, I do not weep ; I rush with the swift spheres and glow In joy, and when I will, I sleep. Yet that severe, that earnest air, I saw, I felt it once — but where? "I knew not yet the gauge of time, Nor wore the manacles of space; I felt it in some other clime, I saw it in some other place. 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, And lay upon the breast of God." The Scholar-Gipsy /TJ, O, for they call you. Shepherd, from the hill ; ^^ Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes: No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed. Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, Nor the cropped grasses shoot another head. But when the fields are still. And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest. And only the white sheep are sometimes seen Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanched green ; Come, Shepherd, and again begin the quest. Here, where the reaper was at work of late. In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruise. And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves. Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use ; Here will I sit and wait. While to my ear from uplands far away The bleating of the folded flocks is borne. With distant cries of reapers in the corn — All the live murmur of a sumrrter's day. Screened is this nook o'er the high, half-reaped field, And here till sundown. Shepherd, will I be. Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, 344 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep: And air-swept lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, And bower me from the August sun with shade ; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers : And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book — Come, let me read the oft-read tale again : The story of that Oxford scholar poor, Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain, Who, tired of knocking at Preferment's door, One summer morn forsook His friends, and went to learn the Gipsy lore, And roamed the world with that wild brotherhood, And came, as most men deemed, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more. But once, years after, in the country lanes. Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew, Met him, and of his way of life inquired. Whereat he answered that the Gipsy crew. His mates, had arts to rule as they desired The workings of men's brains ; And they can bind them to what thoughts they will : "And I," he said, "the secret of their art. When fully learned, will to the world impart: But it needs Heaven-sent moments for this skill I" This said, he left them, and returned no more, But rumors hung about the country-side. That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray. Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, In hat of antique shape, and cloak of gray. The same the Gipsies wore. Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring ; At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors. On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frocked boors Had found him seated at their entering. But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly: And I myself seem half to know thy looks. And put the shepherds, Wanderer, on thy trace; And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks I ask if thou hast passed their quiet place; Or in my boat I lie Moored to the cool bank in the summer heats, 'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills. And watch the warm green-muffled Cumner hills. And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. MATTHEW ARNOLD 345 For most. I know, thou lov'st retired ground. Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders bhthe, Returning home on summer nights, have met Crossing the stripHng Thames at Bablock-hithe, TraiHng in the cool stream thy fingers wet, As the slow punt swings round : And leaning backwards in a pensive dream. And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers Plucked in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream : And then they land, and thou art seen no more. Maidens who from the distant hamlets come To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, Or cross a stile into the public way. Oft thou hast given them store Of flowers — the frail-leafed, white anemone — Dark bluebells drenched with dews of summer eves, And purple orchises with spotted leaves — But none has words she can report of thee. And, above Godstow Bridge, when, hay-time's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass Where black-winged swallows haunt the glittering Thames, To bathe in the abandoned lasher pass, Have often passed thee near Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown : Marked thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air ; But, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone. At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills, Where at her open door the housewife darns, Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. Children, who early range these slopes and late For cresses from the rills. Have known thee watching, all an April day. The springing pastures and the feeding kine ; And marked thee, when the stars come out and shine, Through the long dewy grass move slow away. In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood, Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edged way Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagged and shreds of gray, Above the forest-ground called Thessaly — The blackbird picking food 346 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; So often has he known thee past him stray Rapt, twirling in thy hand a withered spray. And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall. And once, in winter, on the causeway chill Where home through flooded fields foot-travelers go. Have I not passed thee on the wooden bridge Wrapped in thy cloak and battling with the snow. Thy face towards Hinksey and its wintry ridge? And thou hast climbed the hill And gained the white brow of the Cumner range ; Turned once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall, The line of festal light in Christ Church hall — Then sought thy straw in some sequestered grange. But what — I dream ! Two hundred years are flown Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe That thou wert wandered from the studious walls To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy tribe: And thou from earth art gone Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid ; Some country nook, where o'er thy unknown grave Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave — Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's shade. — No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours. For what wears out the life of mortal men? 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, Exhaust the energy of strongest souls. And numb the elastic powers. Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit. To the just-pausing Genius we remit Our worn-out life, and are — what we have been. Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so? Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire ; Else wert thou long since numbered with the dead — Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire. The generations of thy peers are fled, And we ourselves shall go ; But thou possessest an immortal lot. And we imagine thee exempt from age And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page. Because thou hadst — what we, alas, have not ! MATTHEW ARNOLD 347 For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Fresh, undiverted to the world without, Firm to their mark, not spent on other things ; Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings. O Life unlike to ours! Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, And each half lives a hundred different lives; Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven : and we. Vague half-believers of our casual creeds, Who never deeply felt, nor clearly willed. Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, Whose weak resolves never have been fulfilled; For whom each year we see Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new ; Who hesitate and falter life away, And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day — Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too? Yes, we await it, but it still delays, And then we suffer ; and amongst us One, Who most has suffered, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne ; And all his store of sad experience he Lays bare of wretched days ; Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs. And how the dying spark of hope was fed. And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, And all his hourly varied anodynes. This for our wisest : and we others pine. And wish the long unhappy dream would end, And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear, With close-lipped Patience for our only friend, ■ ■ Sad Patience, too near neighbour to Despair: But none has hope like thine. Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, Roaming the country-side, a truant boy. Nursing thy project in unclouded joy. And every doubt long blown by time away. O born in days when wits were fresh and clear. And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames ; Before this strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims. Its heads o'ertaxed, its palsied hearts, was rife- Fly hence, our contact fear I 348 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood ! Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, Wave us away, and keep thy solitude. Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade. With a free onward impulse brushing through, By night, the silvered branches of the glade — Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, On some mild pastoral slope Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales. Freshen thy flowers, as in former years. With dew, or listen with enchanted ears. From the dark dingles, to the nightingales. But fly our path's, our feverish contact fly! For strong the infection of our mental strife, Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest ; And we should win thee from thy own fair life. Like us distracted, and like us unblest. Soon, soon thy cheer would die. Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfixed thy powers, And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made : And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles I — As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily, The fringes of a southward-facing brow Among the ^gean isles ; And saw the merry Grecian coaster come. Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine. Green bursting figs, and tunnies steef)ed in brine ; And knew the intruders on his ancient home, The young light-hearted Masters of the waves ; And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail. And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, To where the Atlantic raves Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam. Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come ; And on the beach undid his corded bales. MATTHEW ARNOLD 349 Thyrsis A Monody, to commemorate the author's friend, Arthur Hugh Clough, who died at Florence, 1861. T-T 0\V changed is here each spot man makes or fills ! •* In the two Hinkseys nothinpf keeps the same; The village-street its haunted mansion lacks, And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name, And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks — Are ye too changed, ye hills ! See. 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays f Here came I often, often, in old days — Thyrsis and I ; we still had Thyrsis then. Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm, Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames? The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs, The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames? — This winter-evi^ is warm. Humid the air ! leafless, yet soft as spring, The tender purple spray on copse and briers ! And that sweet city with her dreaming spires She needs not June for beauty's heightening, Lovely, all times she lies, lovely to-night ! — Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power Befalls me wandering through this upland dim. Once pass'd I blindfolded here, at any hour; Now seldom come I, since I came with him. That single elm-tree bright Against the west — I miss it! is it gone? We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said, Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead ; While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on. Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here. But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick; And with the country-folk acquaintance made By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd. Ah me ! this many a year My pipe is lost, my shepherd's-holiday 1 Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart Into the world and wave of men depart; But Thyrsis of his own will went away. 350 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest. He loved each simple joy the country yields, He loved his mates ; but yet he could not keep, For that a shadow lower'd on the fields, Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep. Some life of men unblest He knew, which made him droop, and fill'd his head. He went ; his piping took a troubled sound Of storms that rage outside our happy ground; He could not wait their passing, he is dead. So, some tempestuous morn in early June, When the j^ear's primal burst of bloom is o'er. Before the roses and the longest day — When garden-walks and all the grassy floor With blossoms red and white of fallen May And chestnut flowers are strewn — So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry. From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees, Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze : The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I ! Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go? Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on, Soon will the musk carnations break and swell. Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell, And stocks in fragrant blow ; Roses that down the alleys shine afar, And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, And the full moon, and the white evening-star. He hearkens not ! light comer, he is flown I What matters it? next year he will return. And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days, With wliitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern, And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways. And scent of hay new-mown. But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see ; See him come back, and cut a smoother reed, And blow a strain the world at last shall heed — For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee I Alack, for Corydon no rival now ! — But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate, Some good survivor with his flute would go. Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate; MATTHEW ARNOLD 351 And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow, And relax Pluto's brow, And make leap up with joy the beauteous head Of Proserpine, amonp; whose crowned hair Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air, And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead. easy access to the hearer's grace When Dorian shepherds sanpr to Proserpine 1 For she herself had trod Sicilian fields. She knew the Dorian water's gush divine. She knew each lily white which Enna yields, Each rose with blushing face ; She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard 1 Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd ; And we should tease her with our plaint in vain I Well ! wind-dispersed and vain the word will be, Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill 1 Who, if not I, for questing here hath power? I know the wood which hides the daffodil, I know the Fyfield tree, I know what white, what purple fritillaries The grassy harvest of the river-fields Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields. And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries ; 1 know these slopes; who knows them if not I? — But many a dingle on the loved hill-side. With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees, Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises, Hath since our day put by The coronals of that forgotten time; Down each green bank hath gone the plough-boy's team. And only in the hidden brookside gleam Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door, Above the locks, above the boating throng, Unmoor'd our skiffs when through the Wytham flats, Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among. And darting swallows and light water-gnats. We track'd the shy Thames shore? Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass. Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass? — They all are gone, and thou art gone as well ! 352 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Yes, thou art gone ! and round me too the night In,ever-ncaring circle weaves her shade. I see her veil draw soft across the day, I feel her slowly chilling breath invade The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with grey; I feel her finger light Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train; — The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew, The heart less bounding at emotion new, And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again. And long the way appears, which seem'd so short To the less practised eye of sanguine youth ; And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air. The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth, Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and barel Unbreachable the fort Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall ; And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, And near and real the charm of thy repose, And night as welcome as a friend would fall. But hush ! the upland hath a sudden loss Of quiet! — Look, adown the dusk hillside, A troop of Oxford hunters going home. As in old days, jovial and talking, ride! From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they come. Quick! let me fly, and cross Into yon farther field — 'Tis done ; and see, Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify The orange and pale violet evening-sky. Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree ! the Tree ! I take the omen ! Eve lets down her veil. The white fog creeps from bush to bush about. The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright, And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out; I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night. Yet, happ3' omen, hail ! Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale (For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep The morningless and unawakening sleep Under the flowery oleanders pale), Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there ! — Ah. vain ! These English fields, this upland dim, These brambles pale with mist engarlanded, That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him ; To a boon southern country he is fled, And now in happier air, MATTHEW ARNOLD 353 Wandering with the great Mother's train divine (And purer or more subtle soul than thee, I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see) Within a folding of the Apennine, Thou hearest the immortal chants of old !— Putting his sickle to the perilous grain In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king. For thee the Lityerses-song again Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing; Sings his Sicilian fold, His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes — And how a call celestial round him rang. And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang, And all the marvel of the golden skies. There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here Sole in these fields ! yet will I not despair. Despair I will not, while I yet descry Under mild canopy of English air That lonely tree against the western sky. Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear. Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee ! Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay, Woods with anemonies in flower till May, Know him a wanderer still; then why not me? A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, Shy to illumine ; and I seek it too. This does not come with houses or with gold, With place, with honour, and a flattering crew; 'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold— But the smooth-slipping weeks Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired ; Out of the heed of mortals he is gone. He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone; Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound I Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour ! Men gave thee nothing ; but this happy quest, H men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power, If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. And this rude Cumner ground Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time. Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime 1 And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. 354 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE What though the music of thy rustic flute Kept not for long its happy, country tone ; Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat- It fail'd, and thou wast mute ! Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, And long with men of care thou couldst not stay, And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way. Left human haunt, and on alone till night. Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here ! 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, Thyrsis ! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. — Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar Let in thy voice a whisper often come To chase fatigue and fear : Why faintest thou? I wander' d till I died. Roam on! The light ive sought is shining still. Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hill. Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside. From "Empedocles on Etna" "IX^E would have inward peace, '' Yet will not look within; We would have misery cease. Yet will not cease from sin ; We want all pleasant ends, but will use no harsh means ; We do not what we ought. What we ought not, we do, And lean upon the thought That chance will bring us through ; But our own acts for good or ill are mightier powers. Yet, even when man forsakes All sin, — is just, is pure. Abandons all which makes His welfare insecure, — Other existences there are, that clash with ours. Like us, the lightning-fires Love to have scope and play; The stream, like us, desires An unimpeded way ; Like us, the Libyan wind delights to roam at large. MATTHEW ARNOLD 356 Streams will not curb their pride The just man not to entomb, Nor lightnings go aside To give his virtues room ; Nor is that wind less rough which blows a good. Nature, with equal mind, Sees all her sons at play ; Sees man control the wind. The wind sweep man away ; Allows the proudly-riding and the foundering bark. ******* Is it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done ; To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes ; That we must feign a bliss Of doubtful future date. And while we dream on this Lose all our present state, And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose? Not much, I know, you prize What pleasures may be had. Who look on life with eyes Estranged, like mine, and sad : And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you ; Who's loth to leave this life Which to him little yields : His hard-task'd sunburnt wife, His often-labour'd fields ; The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew. I say, Fear not! life still Leaves human effort scope. But since life teems with ill, Nurse no extravagant hope. Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair. Shakespeare ZITHERS abide our question. Thou art free. ^^ We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty. Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 356 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foiled searching of mortality; And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honoured, self-secure, Didst tread on earth unguessed at. — Better so ! All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. From "Lines Written in Kensington Gardens* /^ALM Soul of all things! make it mine ^^ To feel, amid the city's jar. That there abides a peace of thine, Man did not make, and cannot mar. The will to neither strive nor cry, The power to feel with others give. Calm, calm me more ; nor let me die Before I have begun to live. The Buried Life T IGHT flows our war of mocking words ; and yet Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet ! I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. Yes, yes, we know that we can jest. We know, we know, that we can smile ! But there's a something in this breast, To which thy light words bring no rest. And thy gay smiles no anodyne ; Give me thy hand, and hush awhile. And turn those limpid eyes on mine. And let me read there, love ! thy inmost soul. Alas ! is even love too weak To unlock the heart and let it speak? Are even lovers powerless to reveal To one another what indeed they feel? I knew the mass of common men concealed Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed They would by other men be met With blank indifference, or with blame reproved; I knew they lived and moved Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest Of men, and alien to themselves — and yet The same heart beats in every human breast! MATTHEW ARNOLD 357 But we, my love ! doth a like spell benumb Our hearts, our voices? Must we, too, be dumb? Ah, well for us, if even wc, Even for a moment, can get free Our heart, and have our lips unchained ; For that which seals them hath been deep ordained! Fate, which foresaw How frivolous a baby man would be, — By what distractions he would be possessed, How he would pour himself in every strife, And well-nigh change his own identity, — That it might keep from his capricious play His genuine self, and force him to obey Even in his own despite his being's law, Bade through the deep recesses of our breast The unregarded river of our life Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; And that we should not see The buried stream, and seem to be Eddying at large in blind uncertainty, Though driving on with it eternally. But often, in the world's mo'^t crowded streets, But often, in the din of strife. There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life, A thirst to spend our fire and restless force In tracking out our true, original course ; A longing to inquire Into the mystery of this heart which beats So wild, so deep in us, — to know Whence our lives come, and where they go. And many a man in his own breast then delves. But deep enough, alas ! none ever mines. And we have been on many thousand lines, And we have shown, on each, spirit and power; But hardly have we, for one little hour. Been on our own line, have we been ourselves, — Hardly had skill to utter one of all The nameless feelings that course throughout our breast. But they course on forever unexpressed. And long we try in vain to speak and act Our hidden self, and what we say and do Is eloquent, is well — but 'tis not true ! And then we will no more be racked With inward striving, and demand Of all the thousand nothings of the hour Their stupefying power, Ah, yes, and they benumb us at our call I 358 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn. From the soul's subterranean depth upborne As from an infinitely distant land. Come airs, and floating echoes and convey A melancholy into all our day. Only — but this is rare — When a beloved hand is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours. Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafened ear Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed, — A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain. And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. A man becomes aware of his life's flow. And hears its winding murmur, and he sees The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. And there arrives a lull in the hot race Wherein he doth forever chase The flying and elusive phantom, rest. An air of coolness plays upon his face, And an unwonted calm pervades his breast; And then he thinks he knows The hills where his life rose. And the sea where it goes. WILLIAM (JOHNSON) CORY (1823-1892) Heraclitus nPHEY told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept as I remember'd how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest. Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake ; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take. COVENTRY PATMORE 359 Remember "VrOU come not. as aforetime, to the headstone every day, And I, who died, I do not chide because, my friend, you play; Only, in playing, think of him who once was kind and dear. And if you see a beauteous thing, just say, he is not here. COVENTRY PATMORE (1823-1896) JV inter T singularly moved 5 To love the lovely that are not beloved. Of all the Seasons, most Love Winter, and to trace The sense of the Trophonian pallor on her face. It is not death, but plenitude of peace ; And the dim cloud that does the world enfold Hath less the characters of dark and cold Than warmth and light asleep, And correspondent breathing seems to keep With the infant harvest, breathing soft below Its eider coverlet of snow. Nor is in field or garden anything But, duly look'd into, contains serene The substance of things hoped for, in the Spwng, And evidence of Summer not yet seen. On every chance-mild day That visits the moist shaw, The honeysuckle, 'sdaining to be crost In urgence of sweet life by sleet or frost, 'Voids the time's law With still increase Of leaflet new, and little, wandering spray; Often, in sheltering brakes. As one from rest disturb'd in the first hour, Primrose or violet bewilder'd wakes, And deems 'tis time to flower; Though not a whisper of her voice he hear, The buried bulb does know The signals of the year, And hails far Summer with his lifted spear. The gorse-field dark, by sudden, gold caprice, Turns, here and there, into a Jason's fleece ; Lilies, that soon in Autumn slipp'd their gowns of green, And vanish'd into earth. And came again, ere Autumn died, to birth. Stand full-array'd, amidst the wavering shower, And perfect for the Summer, less the flower ; 360 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE In nook of pale or crevice of crude bark, Thou canst not miss, If close thou spj', to mark The ghostly chrysalis, That, if thou touch it, stirs in its dream dark; And the flush'd Robin, in the evenings hoar, Does of Love's Day, as if he saw it, sing; But sweeter yet than dream or song of Summer or Spring Are Winter's sometimes smiles, that seem to well From infancy ineffable; Her wandering, languorous gaze, So unfamiliar, so without amaze. On the elemental, chill adversity. The uncomprehended rudeness ; and her sigh And solemn, gathering tear. And look of exile from some great repose, the sphere Of ether, moved by ether only, or By something still more tranquil. The Toys IVTY little Son, who looked from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, I struck him and dismissed With hard words and unkissed, — His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed. But found him slumbering deep. With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan. Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-veined stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach. And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells. And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art. To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I prayed To God, I wept, and said : Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death. And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 361 Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, "I will be sorry for their childishness." Departure TT was not like your great and gracious ways I Do you, that have naught other to lament. Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon. You went. With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frightened eye, Upon your journey of so many days Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon ; And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise. Well, it was well To hear you such things speak. And I could tell What made your eyes a glowing gloom of love, As a warm South-wind sombers a March grove. And it was like your great and gracious ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, And frightened eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you passed : 'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM (1824-1889) TPHESE little songs Found here and there, Floating in air By forest and lea, 362 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Or hill-side heather, In houses and throngs, Or down by the sea — Have come together, How I can't tell : . . . But the best in the songs. Whatever it be, To you, and to me. And to no one belongs. The Fairies TTP the airy mountain. Down tlie rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men ; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together ; Green jacket, red cap. And white owl's feather I Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. High on the hill-top The old king sits ; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses : Or going up with music On cold starry nights. To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. SYDNEY DOBELL 363 They took her h'ghtly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake. By the craggy hill-side. Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men ; Wee folk, good folk. Trooping all together ; Green jacket, red cap. And white owl's feather ! SYDNEY DOBELL (1824-1874) The Orphan's Song J had a little bird, I took it from the nest; I prest it, and blest it, And nurst it in my breast. I set it on the ground, I danced round and round. And sang about it so cheerly. With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird, And oh but I love thee dearly 1" I make a little feast Of food soft and sweet, I hold it in my breast, And coax it to eat; 364 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE I pit, and I pat. I call it this and that. And sing about it so cheerly, With "Hey my little bird^ and ho my little bird. And oh but I love thee dearly!" I may kiss, I may sing, But I can't make it feed, It taketh no heed _ Of any pleasant thing. I scolded, and I socked. But it minded not a whit. Its little mouth was locked. And I could not open it. Tho' with pit, and with pat. And with this, and with that, I sang about it so cheerly, With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird, And oh but I love thee dearly !" But when the day was done, And the room was at rest. And I sat all alone With my birdie in my breast, And the light had fled, And not a sound was heard. Then my little bird Lifted up its head. And the little mouth Loosed its sullen pride. And it opened, it opened. With a yearning strong and wide. Swifter than I speak I brought it food once more, But the poor little beak Was locked as before. I sat down again. And not a creature stirred, I laid the little bird Again where it had Iain ; SYDNEY DOBELL 365 And again when nothing stirred, And not a word I said. Then my little bird Lifted up its head, And the little beak Loosed its stubborn pride, And it opened, it opened. With a yearning strong and wide. It lay in my breast, It uttered no cry, *Twas famished, 'twas famished. And I couldn't tell why. I couldn't tell why. But I saw that it would die, For all that I kept dancing round and round, And sing above it so cheerly, With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird. And oh but I love thee dearly!" I never look sad, I hear what people say, I laugh when they are gay And they think I am glad. My tears never start, I never say a word. But I think that my heart Is like that little bird. Every day I read. And I sing, and I play, But thro' the long day It taketh no heed. It taketh no heed Of any pleasant thing, I know it doth not read, I know it doth not sing. With my mouth I read. With my hands I play. My shut heart is shut, Coax it how you may. You may coax it how you may While the day is broad and bright, But in the dead night When the guests are gone away. 36S THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And no more the music sweet Up the house doth pass. Nor the dancing feet Shake the nursery glass ; And I've heard my aunt Along the corridor, And my uncle gaunt Lock his chamber door; And upon the stair All is hushed and still, And the last wheel Is silent in the square ; And the nurses snore, And the dim sheets rise and fall, And the lamplight's on the wall, And the mouse is on the floor; And the curtains of my bed Are like a heavy cloud, And the clock ticks loud, And sounds are in my head ; And little Lizzie sleeps Softb' at my side. It opens, it opens. With a yearning strong and wide I It yearns in my breast, It utters no cry, 'Tis famished, 'tis famished. And I feci that I shall die, I feel that I shall die. And none will know why. Tho' the pleasant life is dancing round and round And singing about me so cheerly. With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird, And oh but I love thee dearly!" The Ballad of Keith of Ravelston 'T'HE murmur of the mourning ghost That keeps the shadowy kine, "O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line I" SYDNEY DOBELL 367 Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And through the silver meads; Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, The song that sang she I She sang her song, she kept her kine, She sat beneath the thorn. When Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode through the Monday morn. His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line ! Year after year, where Andrew came. Comes evening down the glade. And still there sits a moonshine ghost Where sat the sunshine maid. Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine ; Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line ! 1 lay my hand upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold, The burnie that goes babbling by Says naught that can be told. Yet, stranger ! here, from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine ; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line ! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood — Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? The ancient stile is not alone, 'Tis not the burn I hear 1 She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, _ The sorrows of thy line! 368 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI (1828-1882) The Blessed Damozel '■""HE blessed damozel leaned out From the Rold bar of Heaven ; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even ; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seveu. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift, For service sweetly worn ; Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn. Herseemed she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers ; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers ; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years. (To one, it is ten years of years. . . . Yet now, and in this place, Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair Fell all about my face. . . . Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.) It was the rampart of God's house That she was standing on ; By God built over the sheer depth The which is Space begun ; So high, that looking downward thence She scarce could see the sun. It lies in Heaven, across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge. Around her, lovers, newly met 'Mid deathless love's acclaims, Spoke evermore among themselves Their heart- remembered names; DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 369 And the souls mounting up to God Went by her like thin flames. And still she bowed herself and stooped Out of the circling charm ; Until her bosom must have made The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm. From the fixed place of Heaven she saw Time like a pulse shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove Within the gulf to pierce Its path ; and now she spoke as when The stars sang in their spheres. The sun was gone now ; the curled moon Was like a little feather Fluttering far down the gulf; and now She spoke through the still weather. Her voice was like the voice the stars Had when they sang together. (Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song, Strove not her accents there, Fain to be hearkened ? When those bells Possessed the mid-day air, Strove not her steps to reach my side Down all the echoing stair?) "I wish that he were come to me, For he will come," she said. "Have not I prayed in Heaven? — on earth, Lord, Lord, has he not prayed? Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid? "When round his head the aureole clings, And he is clothed in white, I'll take his hand and go with him To the deep wells of light ; As unto a stream we will step down, And bathe there in God's sight "We two will stand beside that shrine. Occult, withheld, untrod. Whose lamps are stirred continually With prayer sent up to God; 370 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And see our old prayers, granted, melt Each like a little cloud. "We two will lie i' the shadow of That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove Is sometimes felt to be, While every leaf that His plumes touch Saith His Name audibly. "And I myself will teach to him, I myself, lying so, The songs I sing here ; which his voice Shall pause in, hushed and slow. And find some knowledge at each pause, Or some new thing to know." (Alasl we two, we two, thou say'sti Yea, one wast thou with me That once of old. But shall God lift To endless vmity The soul whose likeness with thy soul Was but its love for thee?) "We two," she said, "will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is. With her five handmaidens, whose names Are five sweet symphonies, Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret and Rosalys. "Circlewise sit they, with bound locks And foreheads garlanded ; Into the fine cloth white like flame Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead. "He shall fear, haply, and be dumb : Then will I lay my check To his, and tell about our love, Not once abashed or weak : And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me spea'' "Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, To Him round whom all sotds Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their aureoles : DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 371 And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles. "There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me : — Only to live as once on earth ^^'ith Love, only to be, As then awhile, for ever now Together, I and he." She gazed and listened and then said, Less sad of speech than mild, — "All this is when he comes." She ceased. The light thrilled towards her, filled With angels in strong level flight. Ller eyes prayed, and she smiled. (I saw her smile.) But soon their path Was vague in distant spheres : And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.) TJie So7inet A sonnet is a moment's monument, — Memorial from tlie Soul's eternity To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be, Whether for lustral rite or dire portent, Of its own arduous fulness reverent: Carve it in ivory or in ebony. As Day or Night may rule ; and let Time see Its flowering crest impearled and orient. A Sonnet is a coin : its face reveals The soul, — its converse, to what Power 'tis due : — Whether for tribute to the august appeals Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue. It serve ; or, 'mid the dark wharf's cavernous breath, In Charon's palm it pay the toll to Death. Sonnets from "The House of Life" IV LOVESIGHT ■^X^'HEN do I see thee most, beloved one? ^^ When in the light the spirits of mine eyes Before thy face their altar, solemnize The worship of that Love through thee made known? 372 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,) Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies, And my soul only sees thy soul its own? O love, my love! if I no more should see Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, Nor images of thine eyes in any spring, — How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, The wind of Death's imperishable wing? HEART S HOPE By what word's power, the key of paths untrod, Shall I the difficult deeps of Love explore, Till parted waves of Song yield up the shore Even as that sea which Israel crossed dryshod? For lo ! in some poor rhythmic period. Lady. I fain would tell how evermore Thy soul I know not from thy body, nor Thee from myself, neither our love from God. Yea, in God's name, and Love's, and thine, would I Draw from one loving heart such evidence As to all hearts all things shall signify; Tender as dawn's first lull-fire, and intense As instantaneous penetrating sense. In Spring's birth-hour, of other Springs gone by. MID-RAPTURE Thou lovely and beloved, thou my love ; Whose kiss seems still the first ; whose summoning eyes. Even now, as for our love-world's new sunrise. Shed very dawn ; whose voice, attuned above All modulation of the deep-bowered dove. Is like a hand laid softly on the soul ; Whose hand is like a sweet voice to control Those worn tired brows it hath the keeping of: — What word can answer to thy word, — what gaze To thine, which now absorbs within its sphere My worshipping face, till I am mirrored there Light-circled in a heaven of deep-drawn rays? What clasp, wliat kiss mine inmost heart can prove, O lovely and beloved, O my love? DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 373 THE DARK GLASS Not I myself know all my love for thee: How should I reach so far, who cannot weigh To-morrow's dower by page of yesterday? Shall birth and death, and all dark names that be As doors and windows bared to some loud sea. Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with spray; And shall my sense pierce love, — the last relay And ultimate outpost of eternity? Lo! what am I to Love, the lord of all? One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand, — One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand. Yet through thine eyes he grants me clearest call And veriest touch of powers primordial That any hour-girt life may understand. BODY S BEAUTY Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told (The witch he loved before the gift of Eve,) That, ere the snake's, her sweet tongue could deceive, And her enchanted hair was the first gold. And still she sits, young while the earth is old, And, subtly of herself contemplative. Draws men to watch the bright web she can weave, Till heart and body and life are in its hold. The rose and poppy are her flowers : for where Is he not found, O Lilith ! whom shed scent And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare? Lo I as that youth's eyes burned at thine, so went Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent, And round his heart one strangling golden hair. A Superscription T OOK in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable. Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. Mark me, how still I am ! But should there dart 374 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE One moment through thy soul the soft surprise Of that winged Peace which hills the breath of sighs, — Then shalt thou see mc smile, and turn apart Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. The Ballade of Dead Ladies, from the French of Francois Villon, 1450 * I ""ELL me now in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman ? Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, Neither of them the fairer woman? Where is Echo, beheld of no man. Only heard on river and mere, — She whose beauty was more than human? . . . But where are the snows of yester-year? Where's Heloise, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeilard, I ween, Lost manhood and put priesthood on? (From Love he won such dule and teen!) And where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that Buridan should steer Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine? . . . But where are the snows of yester-j'ear ? White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, With a voice like any mermaiden, — Bertha Broad foot, Beatrice, Alice, And Ermengarde the lady of Maine, — • And that good Joan whom Englishmen At Rouen doomed and burned her there, — Mother of God, where are they then? . . . But where are the snows of yester-year? Nay, never ask this week, fair lord. Where they are gone, nor yet this year. Except with this for an overword, — But where are the snows of yester-year? One Girl {A Combination from ''Sappho") I T IKE the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost ■"^ bough, A-top on the topmost twig, — which the pluckers forgot, somehow, — GEORGE MEREDITH 375 Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now. II Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found, Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and wound. Until the purple blossom is trodden into the ground. GEORGE MEREDITH (1828-1909) Love in the Valley TJNDER yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward. Couched with her arms behind her golden head, Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly. Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her. Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow. Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me : Then would she hold me and never let me go? Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, Swift as the swallow along the river's light Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets, Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight, Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won ! When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded. More love should I have, and much less care. When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror. Loosening her laces, combing down her curls. Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, I should miss but one for many boys and girls. Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows. Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure. Even as in a dance ; and her smile can heal no less : Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hail- stones Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless. 376 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar. Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: So were it with me if forgetting could be willed. Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, Tell it to forget the source that keeps it filled. Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, Arm in arm, all against the raying West, Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches ; Brave in her shape, and sweeter unpossessed. Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking Whispered the world was ; morning light is she. Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless ; Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free. Happy, happy time, when the white star hovers Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, Threading it with color, like yewberries the yew. Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. Maiden still the morn is ; and strange she is, and secret ; Strange her eyes ; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells. Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feathered bosom Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset Rich, deep like love in beauty without end. When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams, Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams. When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lily Pure from the night, and splendid for the day. Mother of the dews, dark eye-lashed twilight, Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim. Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark, Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him. GEORGE MEREDITH 377 Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet, Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers. All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands. My sweet leads : she knows not why, but now she loiters, Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands. Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, Coming the rose : and unaware a cry Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, Covert and the nightingale ; she knows not why. Kerchiefed head and chin she darts between her tulips, Streaming like a willow gray in arrowy rain : Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angel She will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again. Black the driving rain cloud breasts the iron gateway: She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth. So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunder Saw I once a white dove, sole light of earth. Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden, Trained to stand in rows, and asking if they please. I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones : O my wild ones I they tell me more than these. You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose, Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they. They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness, You are of life's, on the banks that line the way. Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me. Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest? Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes. Luring her to love: she sleeps; the starry jasmine Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths. Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades; Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray leaf; Yellow with stonecrop ; the moss-mounds are yellow; Blue-necked the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf. Green-yellow bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle ; Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine: Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens. Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine. 378 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE This I may know : her dressing and undressing Such a change of light shows as when the skies in sport Shift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunder Slips a ray of sun; or sweeping into port White sails furl ; or on the ocean borders White sails lean along the waves leaping green. Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesight Guarded she would be like the sun were she seen. Front door and back of the mossed old farmhouse Open with the morn, and in a breezy link Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadowed orchard. Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink. Busy in the grass the early sun of summer Swarms, and the blackbird's mellow fluting notes Call my darling up with round and roguish challenge : Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats I Cool was the woodside ; cool as her white dairy Keeping sweet the cream-pan ; and there the boys from school, Cricketing below, rushed brown and red with sunshine ; O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool! Spying from the farm, herself she fetched a pitcher Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak. Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe. Said, "I will kiss you" : she laughed and leaned her cheek. Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roof Through the long noon coo, crooning through the coo. Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadway Sometimes pipes a chaffinch ; loose droops the blue. Cows flap a slow tail knee-deep in the river, Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly. Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere. Lightning may come, straight rains and tiger sky. O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful ! O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced ! O the treasure-tresses one another over Nodding ! O the girdle slack about the waist ! Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarlet Quick amid the wheat-ears : wound about the waist, Gathered, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness ! O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced. Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk drops, Clipped by naked hills, on violet shaded snow : Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise, Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow. GEORGE MEREDITH 379 Nightlong on black print-branches our bccch-tree Gazes in this whiteness : nightlong could I. Here may life on death or death on life be painted. Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die ! Gossips count her faults ; they scour a narrow chamber Where there is no window, read not heaven or her. "When she was a tiny," one aged woman quavers, Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear. Faults she had once as she learned to run and tumbled : Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete. Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy Earth and air, may have faults from head to feet. Hither she comes ; she comes to me ; she lingers. Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger; Yet am I the light and living of her eyes. Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming, Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames. — Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting, Arms up, she dropped : our souls were in our names. Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise. Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye. Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher. Felt the girdle loosened, seen the tresses fly. Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset. Swift with the to-morrow, green-winged Spring I Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants. Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing. Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April Spreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, you. Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields. Youngest green transfused in silver shining through: Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry: Fair as in image my seraph love appears Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids: Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears. Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out : heaven is my need. Every woodland tree is flushing like_ the dogwood, Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October ; Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown ; Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam: All seem to know what is for heaven alone. 380 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Lucifer in Starlight ^^N a starr'd night Prince Lucifer uprose. ^^ Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend Above the rolHng ball in cloud part screen'd, Where sinners hugg'd their sceptre of repose. Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. And now upon his western wing he lean'd, Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careen'd. Now the black planet shadow'd Arctic snows. Soaring thru wider zones that prick'd his scars With memory of the old revolt from Awe, He reach'd the middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he look'd, and sank. Around the ancient track march'd, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law. From "Modern Love" JJ Y this he knew she wept with waking eyes : That, at his hand's light quiver by her head, The strange low sobs that shook their common bed Were called into her with a sharp surprise. And strangled mute, like little gaping snakes, Dreadfully venomous to him. She lay Stone-still, and the long darkness flowed away With muffled pulses. Then as midnight makes Her giant heart of Memory and Tears Drink the pale* drug of silence, and so beat Sleep's heavy measure, they from head to feet Were moveless, looking through their dead black years, By vain regret scrawled over the blank wall. Like sculptured effigies they might be seen Upon their marriage-tomb, the sword between ; Each wishing for the sword that severs all. XLI How many a thing which we cast to the ground, When others pick it up becomes a gem I We grasp at all the wealth it is to them ; And by reflected light its worth is found. Yet for us still 'tis nothing ! and that zeal Of false appreciation quickly fades. This truth is little known to human shades, How rare from their own instinct 'tis to feel I They waste the soul with spurious desire. GEORGE MEREDITH 381 That is not the ripe flame upon the bough. We two have taken up a Hfeless vow To rob a hving passion : dust for fire ! Madam is grave, and eyes the clock that tells Approaching midnight. We have struck despair Into two hearts. O, look we like a pair Who for fresh nuptials joyfully yield all else? XLVII We saw the swallows gathering in the sky. And in the osier-isle we heard their noise. We had not to look back on summer joys, Or forward to a summer of bright dye : But in the largeness of the evening earth Our spirits grew as we went side by side. The hour became her husband and my bride. Love that had robbed us so, thus blessed our dearth.! The pilgrims of the year waxed very loud In multitudinous chatterings, as the flood Full brown came from the West, and like pale blood Expanded to the upper crimson cloud. Love that had robbed us of immortal things. This little moment mercifully gave, Where I had seen across the twilight wave The swan sail with her young beneath her wings. XLIX He found her by the ocean's moaning verge. Nor any wicked change in her discerned ; And she believed his old love had returned, Which was her exultation, and her scourge. She took his hand, and walked with him, and seemed The wife he sought, though shadow-like and dry. She had one terror, lest her heart should sigh, And tell her loudly she no longer dreamed. She dared not say, "This is my breast : look in." But there's a strength to help the desperate weak. That night he learned how silence best can speak The awful things when Pity pleads for Sin. About the middle of the night her call Was heard, and he came wondering to the bed. "Now kiss me, dear! it may be, now!" she said. Lethe had passed those lips, and he knew all. L Thus piteously Love closed what he begat: The union of this ever-diverse pair! These two were rapid falcons in a snare. Condemned to do the flitting of the bat. Lovers beneath the singing sky of May, They wandered once ; clear as the dew on flowers : 382 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE But they fed not on the advancing hours : Their hearts held cravings for the buried day. Then each applied to each that fatal knife, Deep questioning, which probes to endless dole. Ah, what a dusty answer gets the soul When hot for certainties in this our life! — In tragic hints here see what evermore Moves dark as yonder midnight ocean's force, Thumping like ramping hosts of warrior horse, To throw that faint thin line upon the shore 1 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI (1830-1894) A Birthday ly/TY heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot ; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs arc bent with thickest fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me. Raise me a dais of silk and down, Hang it with vair and purple dyes ; Carve it in doves, and pomegranates. And peacocks with a hundred eyes ; W^ork it in gold and silver grapes. In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys ; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me. Up-HUl "r\OES the road wind up-hi!I all the way? Yes, to tlie very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn till night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI 383 Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come. Song ■^l/'HEN I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree : Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet ; And if thou wilt, remember. And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain ; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain : And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember And haply may forget. Rest f\ earth, lie heavily upon her eyes : ^"^ Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth ; Lie close around her ; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies. Hush'd in and curtain'd with a blessed dearth Of all that irk'd her from the hour of birth ; W^ith stillness that is almost Paradise. Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, Silence more musical than any song; Even her very heart has ceased to stir : Until the morning of Eternity Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; And when she wakes she will not think it long. Remember |> EMEMBER me when I am gone away. Gone far away into the silent land, When you can no more hold me by the hand. Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. 384 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSB Remember me when no more day by day You tell nie of our future that you plann'dl Only remember me ; you understand It will be late to counsel then 'or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad. THOMAS EDWARD BROWN (1830-1897) My Garden A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot I ■^^ Rose plot, Fringed pool, Ferned grot — The veriest school Of peace ; and yet the fool Contends that God is not — Not God ! in gardens ! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have a sign : 'Tis very sure God walks in mine. LEWIS CARROLL (Pseud, of C. L. Dodgson) (1832-1898) Jabberwocky ' ''T'WAS brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves. And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son ! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch !" He took his vorpal sword in hand : Long time the manxome foe he sought — So rested he by the tum-tum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And as in uf!ish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame. Came w^hiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came I One, two ! One, two 1 And through and througf The vorpal blade went snicker-snack ! SIR EDWIN ARNOLD 385 He left it dead, and with its head He went gakimphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy I O frabjous day! Callooh 1 Callayl" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe ; All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe. SIR EDWIN ARNOLD (1832-1904) We Are the Voices of the JFhisper'uig JVind "\X^E are the voices of the wandering wind, '' Which moan for rest and rest can never find; Lo ! as the wind is, so is mortal life, A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife. Wherefore and whence we are ye cannot know, Nor where life springs nor whither life doth go ; We are as ye are, ghosts from the inane, What pleasure have we of our changeful pain? What pleasure hast thou of thy changeful bliss? Nay, if love lasted, there were joy in this; But life's way is the wind's way, all these things. Are but brief voices breathed on shifting strings. JAMES THOMSON (1834-1882) From "The City of Dreadful Night" TpHE chambers of the mansions of my heart. In every one whereof thine image dwells. Are black with grief eternal for thy sake. The inmost oratory of my soul, Wherein thou ever dwellest quick or dead, Is black with grief eternal for thy sake. I kneel beside thee and I clasp the cross, With eyes forever fixed upon that face. So beautiful and dreadful in its calm. 386 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE I kneel here patient as thou liest there ; As patient as a statue carved in stone, Of adoration and eternal grief. While thou dost not awake I cannot move ; And something tells me thou wilt never wake, And I alive feel turning into stone. The Vine TPHE wine of Love is music, And the feast of Love is song: And when Love sits down to the banquet, Love sits long: Sits long and arises drunken. But not with the feast and the wine ; He reeleth with his own heart. That great, rich Vine. Give a Man a Horse He Can Ride ^^IVE a man a horse he can ride, ^■^ Give a man a boat he can sail ; And his rank and wealth, his strength and health Nor sea nor shore shall fail. Give a man a pipe he can smoke, Give a man a book he can read ; And his home is bright with a calm delight, Though the rooms be poor indeed. Give a man a girl he can love, As L O my Love, love thee ; And his hand is great with the pulse of Fate, At home, on land, on sea. WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) Prelude to "The Earthly Paradise" f\^ Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, I cannot ease the burden of your fears. Or make quick-coming death a little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years. Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day. WILLIAM MORRIS 387 But rather, when aweary of your mirth, From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, Grudge every minute as it passes by, Made the more mindful that the sweet days die, — Remember me a little then, I pray. The idle singer of an empty day. The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our bread, These idle verses have no power to bear ; So let me sing of names remembered. Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead, Or long time take their memory quite away From us poor singers of an empty day. Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme Beats with light wing against the ivory gate. Telling a tale not too importunate To those who in the sleepy region stay. Lulled by the singer of an empty day. Folk say, a wizard to a northern king At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show, That through one window men beheld the spring, And through another saw the summer glow, And through a third the fruited vines a-row. While still, unheard, but in its wonted way, Piped the drear wind of that December day. So with this Earthly Paradise it is. If ye will read aright, and pardon me, Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss Midmost the beating of the steely sea, Where tossed about all hearts of men must be : Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay, Not the poor singer of an empty day. Love is Enough T OVE is enough: though the world be a-waning. And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder. Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass'd over, Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter; The wind shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover. 388 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The Nyviph's Song to Hylas, from "The Life and Death of Jason'* T know a little garden-close Set thick with lily and red rose. Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night. And have one with me wandering. And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there. And though the apple boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God, Her feet upon the green grass trod. And I beheld them as before ! There comes a murmur from the shore, And in the place two fair streams are. Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea ; The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee. The shore no ship has ever seen, Still beaten by the billows green. Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry. For which I cry both day and night. For which I let slip all delight, That maketh me both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskilled to find. And quick to lose what all men seek. Yet tottering as I am, and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place; To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me Anigh the murmuring of the sea. Song of Orpheus, from "The Life and Death of Jason'* C\ surely now the fisherman ^^ Draws homeward through the water wan Across the bay we know so well, And in the sheltered chalky dell The shepherd stirs : and now afield JOHN LIECESTER WARREN, LORD DE TABLEY 389 They drive the team, with white wand peeled, Muttering across the barley-head At daily toil and dreary-head. And midst them all, perchance, my love Is waking, and doth gently move And stretch her soft arms out to me. Forgetting thousand leagues of sea; And now her body I behold, Unhidden but by hair of gold, And now tlie silver waters kiss. The crown of all delight and bliss. And now I see her bind her hair And don upon her raiment fair, And now before the altar stand. With incense in her outstretched hand. To supplicate the Gods for me; Ah ! one day landing from the sea, Amid the maidens shall I hear Her voice in praise, and see her near, Holding the gold-wrapt laurel crown, 'Midst of the shouting, wondering town! JOHN LEICESTER WARREN, LORD DE TABLEY (1835-1895) From "Orestes'' T ET us go up and look him in the face — We are but as he made us ; the disgrace Of this, our imperfection, is his own — And unabashed in that fierce stare and Glaze Front him and say, "We come not to atone. To cringe and moan : God, vindicate thy way. Erase the staining sorrow we have known, Thou, whom ill things obey; And give our clay Some master bliss imperial as thine own : Or wipe us quite away. Far from the ray of thine eternal throne. Dream not we love this sorrow of our breath, Hope not we wince or palpitate at death ; Slay us, for thine is nature and thy slave : Draw down her clouds to be our sacrifice, And heap unmeasured mountain for our grave, With peaks of fire and ice. 390 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Flicker one cord of lightning, north to south. And mix in awful glories wood and cloud; We shall have rest, and find Illimitable darkness for our shroud ; We shall have peace, then, surely, when thy mouth Breathes us away into the darkness blind, Then only kind. From "Hymn to Astarte" "^nyHAT foreland fledged with myrrh, * Vocal with myriad bees, What pine-sequestered spur, What lone declivities, Will draw thee to descend. Creation's cradle-friend? The sun feeds at thy smiles, The wan moon glows thereby. The daedal ocean isles Terraced in rosemary, The brushwood in the bed Of the dry torrent head. The rolling river brink With plumy sedges grey, The ford where foxes drink, The creek where others play — Year upwards — all of them — To grasp thy raiment's hem. SIR WILLIAM SCHWENK GILBERT (1836-1911) The Yarn of the "Nancy Bell" jnpWAS on the shores that round our coast •*■ From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone, on a piece of stone, An elderly naval man. His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he, !A.nd I heard this wight on the shore recite. In a singular minor key: "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig. And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmitc And the crew of the captain's gig." SIR WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT 391 And he shook his fists and he tore his hair Till I really felt afraid. For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking And so I simply said : "Oh, elderly man, it's little I know, Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be "At once a cook and a captain bold And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight and a midshipmite, And a crew of the captain's gig." Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn. And having got rid of a thumping quid, He spun this painful yarn : " 'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian sea. And there on a reef we came to grief. Which has often occurred to me. "And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'Here !' to the muster roll. "There was me and the cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight an' a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig. "For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink. Till a-hungry we did feel. So, we drawed a lot, and. accordin', shot The captain for our meal. "The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate. And a delicate dish he made; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed. "And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, .^»nd he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig. 392 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSfc. "Then only the cook and me was left. And the delicate question, 'which Of us goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich. "For I loved that cook as a brother, I did. And the cook he worshipped me ; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see. " 'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom. 'Yes, that,' says I, " 'you'll be,' — " 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I, And 'exactly so,' says he. "Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook me. While I can — and will — cook you!' "So, he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot. And some sage and parsley, too. " 'Come here,' says he. with a proper pride. Which his smiling features tell, ''Twill soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you'll smell.' "And he stirred it round and round and round. And he sniffed at the foaming froth ; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth. "And I cat that cook in a week or less. And — as I eating be The last of his chops, why I almost drops. For a wcsscl in sight I see. ******* "And I never larf, and I never smile, And I never lark nor plaj'. But I set and croak, and a single joke I have — which is to say: "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold. And the mate of the N'ancv brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a mi'l^liipmite. And the crew of the captain's gig!" THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON 393 To the Terrestrial Globe By a Miserable Wretch O OLL on, thou ball, roll on I Through pathless realms of Space Roll on ! What though I'm in a sorry case? What though I cannot meet my bills? What though I suflter toothache's ills? What though I swallow countless pills? Never \ou mind I Roll onl Roll on, thou ball, roll onl Through seas of inky air Roll on I It's true I've got no shirts to wear; It's true my butcher's bill is due ; It's true my prospects all look blue— - But don't let that unsettle you I Never you mind ! Roll on ! {It rolls on) THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON (1836-1914) From "The Coming of Love" T5ENEATH the loveliest dream there coils a fear: Last night came she whose eyes are memories now; Her far-off gaze seemed all forgetful how I.ove dimmed them once, so calm they shone and clear. "Sorrow," I said, "has made me old, my dear; 'Tis I, indeed, but grief can change the brow: Beneath my load a seraph's neck might bow,_ Vigils like mine would blanch an angel's hair." Oh, then I saw, I saw the sweet lips move ! I saw the love-mists thickening in her eyes — I heard a sound as if a murmuring dove Felt lonely in the dells of Paradise ; But when upon my neck she fell, my love. Her hair smelt sweet of whin and woodland spice. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (1837-1909) From "The Triumph of Time" T will go back to the great sweet mother, — ■■■ ATothf^r and lover of men, the Sea. I will go down to her. T and none other. Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me; 394 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast; O fair white mother, in days long past Born without sister, born without brother, Set free my soul as thy soul is free. fair green-girdled mother of mine. Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain. Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine. Thy large embraces are keen like pain. Save me and hide me with all thy w-aves, Find me one grave of thy thousand graves. Those pure cold populous graves of thine. Wrought without hand in a world without stain. 1 shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ; My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside; Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were. Filled full with life to the eyes and hair. As a rose is fulfilled to the rose-leaf tips With splendid summer and perfume and pride. This woven raiment of nights and days, Were it once cast off and unwound from me, Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, Alive and aware of thy waves and thee ; Clear of the whole world, hidden at home. Clothed with the green, and crowned with the foam, A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, A vein in the heart of the streams of the Sea. Fair mother, fed with the lives of men. Thou art subtle and cruel of heart, men say; Thou hast taken, and shalt not render again; Thou art full of thy dead, and cold as they. But death is the worst that comes of thee; Thou art fed with our dead, O Mother, O Sea, But when hast thou fed on our hearts? or when Having given us love, hast thou taken away? O tender-hearted, O perfect lover. Thy lips are bitter, and sweet thine heart. The hopes that hurt and the dreams that hover, Shall they not vanish away and apart? But thou, thou art sure, thou art older than earth ; Thou art strong for death and fruitful of birth; Thy depths conceal and thy gulfs discover; From the first thou wert ; in the end thou art. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 39J Chorus from ''Atalanta in Calydon" T\rHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, ' ' The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus, For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, Maiden most perfect, lady of light, With a noise of winds and many rivers. With a clamor of waters, and with might : Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet. Over the splendour and speed of thy feet; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her. Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring 1 For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; For the risen stars and the fallen cling toher, _ And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing. For winter's rains and ruins are over. And all the season of snows and sins ; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins ; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten. And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins. The full streams feed on flower of rushes, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot. The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, 396 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Follows with dancing and fills with delight The Maenad and the Bassarid ; And soft as lips that laugh and hide The laughing leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid. The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes ; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. The Gardeyi of Prosperine ILJERE. where the world is quiet. Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams, T watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing. For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams. I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap : I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers, And everything but sleep. ' Here life has death for neighbour. And far from eye or car Wan waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice. No heather-flower or vine. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 397 But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes, Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whefeout she crushes For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born ; And like a soul belated. In hell and heaven unmated, Bj' cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven^ Nor weep for pains in hell ; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes ; And well though love reposes. In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch and portal. Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands ; Her languid lips are sweeter Than Love's, who fears to greet her. To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands. She waits for each and other. She waits for all men born ; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn ; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings J And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things ; Dead dreams of days forsaken. Blind buds that snows have shaken, 398 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, , And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow ; Time stoops to no man's lure ; And Love, grown faint and fretful. With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be, That no life lives forever; That dead men rise up never ; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light : Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight : Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night. Ave At que Vale IN MEMORY OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE Nous devrions pourtant lui porter quelques fleurs ; Les morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes douleurs, Et quand Octobre souffle, cmondeur des vieux arbres. Son vent melancolique a I'entour de leurs marbres, Certe, ils doivent trouver les vivants bien ingrats. Les Flctirs du Mai. I CH.M.L I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel. Brother, on this that was the veil of thee? Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel. Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave. Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve? ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 399 Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat And full of bitter summer, but more sweef To thee than gleanings of a northern shore Trod by no tropic feet? II For always thee the fervid languid glories Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies ; Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories, The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave That knows not where is that Leucadian grave Which hides too deep the supreme head of song. Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong. Blind gods that cannot spare, in Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us : Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous. Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime ; The hidden harvest of luxurious time, Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech : And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep • And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each. Seeing as men sow men reap. IV O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping. That were athirst for sleep and no more life _ And no more love, for peace and no more strife! Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping Spirit and body and all the springs of song. Is it well now where love can do no wrong. Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang Behind the unopening closure of her lips? Is it not well where soul from body slips And flesh from bone divides without a pang As dew from flower-bell drips? It is enough : the end and the beginning Are one thing to thee, who art past the end. O hand unclasped of unbeholden friend. For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, 400 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE No triumph and no labour and no lust, Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust. O quiet eyes wherein the light saith nought, Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night With obscure finger silences your sight, Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, Sleep, and have sleep for light. VI Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet. Hast thou found place at the great knees and feet Of some pale Titan-woman like a lover, Such as thy vision here solicited. Under the shadow of her fair vast head, The deep division of prodigious breasts. The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, The weight of awful tresses that still keep The savor and shade of old-world pine-forests Where the wet hill-winds weep? VII Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision? O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom, Hast thou found sown, what gathered in the gloom? What of despair, of rapture, of derision, What of life is there, what of ill or good? Are the fruits gray like dust or bright like blood? Does the dim ground grow any seed of ours. The faint fields quicken and terrene root, In low lands where the sun and moon are mute And all the stars keep silence? Are there flowers At all, or any fruit? VIII Alas, but though my flying song flies after, O sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet. Some dim derision of mysterious laughter From the blind tongueless warders of the dead, Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine's veiled head. Some little sound of unregarded tears Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes. And from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs — These only, these the hearkening spirit hears, Sees only such things rise. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 401 IX Thou art far too far for wings of words to follow. Far too far off for thought or any prayer. What ails us with thee, who art wind and air? What ails us gazing- where all seen is hollow? Yet with some fancy, yet with some desire, Dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire. Our dreams pursue our dead and do not find. Still, and more swift than they, the thin flame flies, The low light fails us in elusive skies, Still the foiled earnest ear is deaf, and blind Are still the eluded eyes. X Not thee, O never thee, in all time's changes. Not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul, The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll I lay my hand on, and not death estranges My spirit from communion of thy song — These memories and these melodies tliat throng Veiled porches of a Muse funereal — These I salute, these touch, these clasp and fold As though a hand were in my hand to hold, Or througli mine ears a mourning musical Of many mourners rolled. XI I among these, I also, in such station As when the pyre was charred, and piled the sods, And offering to the dead made, and their gods, The old mourners had, standing to make libation, I stand, and to the gods and to the dead Do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom. And what of honey and spice my seed-lands bear, And what I may of fruits in this chilled air, And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb A curl of severed hair. XII But by no hand nor any treason stricken, Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King, The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing. Thou liest and on this dust no tears could quicken. There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear Down the opening leaves of holy poet's pages. Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns; But bending us-ward with memorial urns The most high Muses that fulfil all ages Weep, and our God's heart yearns. 403 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE For, sparing of his sacred strength, not often Among us darkling here the lord of light Makes manifest his music and his might In hearts that open and in lips that soften With the soft flame and heat of songs that shine. Thy lips indeed he touched with bitter wine, And nourished them indeed with bitter bread ; Yet surelj' from his hand thy soul's food came, The fire that scarred thy spirit at his flame Was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed Who feeds our hearts with fame. Therefore he too now at thy soul's sunsetting, God of all suns and songs, he too bends down To mix his laurel with thy cypress crown And save thy dust from blame and from forgetting. Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and art, Compassionate, with sad and sacred heart, Mourns thee of many his children the last dead. And hallows with strange tears and alien sighs Thine unmelodious mouth and sunless eyes And over thine irrevocable head Sheds light from the under skies. And one weeps with him in the ways Lethean, And stains with tears her changing bosom chill; That obscure Venus of the hollow hill. That thing transformed which was the Cytherean, With lips that lost their Grecian laugh divine Long since, and face no more called Erycine A ghost, a bitter and luxurious god. Thee also with fair flesh and singing spell Did she, a sad and second prey, compel Into the footless places once more trod, And shadows hot from hell. XVI And now no sacred staff shall break in blossom, No choral salutation lure to light A spirit sick with perfume and sweet niglit And love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom. There is no help for these things ; none to mend, And none to mar ; not all our songs, O friend. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 403 Will make death clear or make life durable. Hovvbcit with rose and ivy and wild vine^ And with wild notes about this dust of thine At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell And wreathe an unseen shrine. Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live And to give thanks is good, and to forgive. Out of the mystic and the mournful garden Where all day through thine hands in barren braid Wove the sick flowers of secrecy and shade, Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants gray, Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted, Passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that started, Shall death not bring us all as thee one day Among the days departed? For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother, Take at my hands this garland, and farewell. Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother, With sadder than the Niobean womb, And in the hollow of her breasts a tomb. Content thee, howsoe'er, \yhose days are done : There lies not any troublous thing before. Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more, For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, All waters as the shore. From Prologue to "Tristram of Lyonesse' T OVE, that is first and last of all things made. The light that has the living world for shade. The spirit that for temporal veil has on The souls of all men woven in unison. One fiery raiment with all lives inwrought And lights of sunny and starry deed and thought, And always through new act and passion new Shines the divine same body and beauty through, The body spiritual of fire and light That is to worldly noon as noon to night; Love, that is flesh upon the spirit of man 404 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And spirit within the flesh whence breath began; Love, that keeps all the choir of lives in chime ; Love, that is blood within the veins of time ; That wrought the whole world without stroke of hand. Shaping the breadth of sea. the length of land. And with the pulse and motion of his breath Through the great heart of the earth strikes life and death The sweet twain chords that made the sweet tune live Through day and night of things alternative, Through silence and through sound of stress and strife, And ebb and flow of dying death and life; Love, that sounds loud or light in all men's ears, Whence all men's eyes take fire from sparks of tears, That binds on all men's feet or chains or wings ; Love, that is root and fruit of terrene things; Love, that the whole world's waters shall not drown. The whole world's fiery forces not burn down ; Love, that what time his own hands guard his head The whole world's wrath and strength shall not strike dead; Love, that if once his own hands make his grave The whole world's pity and sorrow shall not save ; Love that for very life shall not be sold. Nor bought nor bound with iron nor with gold ; So strong that heaven, could love bid heaven farewell, Would turn to fruitless and unflowering hell ; So sweet that hell, to hell could love be given, Would turn to splendid and sonorous heaven ; Love that is fire within thee and light above, And lives by grace of nothing but of love ; Through many and lovely thoughts and much desire Led these twain to the life of tears and fire; Through many and lovely days and much delight Led these twain to the lifeless life of night. Yea, but what then? albeit all this were thus, And soul smote soul and left it ruinous, And love led love as eyeless men lead men, Through chance by chance to deathward — Ah, what then? Hath love not likewise led them further yet, Out through the years where memories rise and set, Some large as suns, some moon-like warm and pale. Some starry-sighted, some through clouds that sail Seen as red flame through special float of fume. Each with the blush of its own spectral bloom On the fair face of its own coloured light. Distinguishable in all the host of night. Divisible from all the radiant rest And separable in splendour? Hath the best Light of love's all, of all that burn and move, ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 405 A better heaven than heaven is? Hath not love Made for all these their sweet particular air To shine in, their own beams and names to bear, Their ways to wander and their wards to keep, Till story and song and glory and all things sleep? Hath he not plucked from death of lovers dead Their musical soft memories, and kept red The rose of their remembrance in men's eyes, The sunsets of their stories in his skies. The blush of their dead blood in lips that speak Of their dead lives, and in the listener's cheek That trembles with the kindling pity lit In gracious hearts for some sweet fever-fit, A fiery pity enkindled of pure thought By tales that make their honey out of nought, The faithless faith that lives without belief Its light life through, the griefless ghost of grief? Yea, as warm night refashions the sere blood In storm-struck petal or in sun-struck bud, With tender hours and tempering dew to cure The hunger and thirst of day's distemperature And ravin of the dry discolouring hours. Hath he not bid relume their- flameless flowers With summer fire and heat of lamping song. And bid the short-lived things, long dead, live long, And thought remake their wan funereal fames. And the sweet shining signs of women's names That mark the months out and the weeks anew He moves in changeless change of seasons through To fill the days up of his dateless year Flame from Queen Helen to Queen Guenevere? For first of all the sphery signs whereby Love severs light from darkness, and most high, In the white front of January there glows The rose-red sign of Helen like a rose : And gold-eyed as the shore flower shelterless Whereon the sharp-breathed sea blows bitterness, A storm-star that the seafarers of love Strain their wind-wearied eyes for glimpses of. Shoots keen through February's grey frost and damp The lamplike star of Hero for a lamp; The star that Marlowe sang into our skies With mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes ; And in clear March across the rough blue sea The signal sapphire of Alcyone Makes bright the blown brows of the windfoot year; And shining like a sunbeam-smitten tear Full ere it fall, the fair next sign in sight Burns opal-wise with April-coloured light 406 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE When air is quick with song and rain and flame, My birth-month star that in love's heaven hath name IseuU, a Hght of blossom and beam and shower, My singing sign that makes the song-tree flower ; Next like a pale and burning pearl beyond The rose-white sphere of flower-named Rosamond Signs the sweet head of Maytime ; and for June Flares like an angered and storm-reddening moon Her signal sphere, whose Carthaginian pyre Shadowed her traitor's flying sail with fire ; Next, glittering as the wine-bright jacinth-stone, A star south-risen that first to music shone, The keen girl-star of golden Juliet bears Light northward to the month whose forehead wears Her name for flower upon it, and his trees Mix their deep English song with Veronese; And like an awful sovereign chrysolite Burning, the supreme fire that blinds the night, The hot gold head of Venus kissed by Mars, A sun-flower among small sphered flowers of stars, The light of Cleopatra fills and burns The hollow of heaven whence ardent August yearns ; And fixed and shining as the sister-shed Sweet tears for Phaethon disorbed and dead. The pale bright autumn's amber-coloured sphere, That through September sees the saddening year As love sees change through sorrow, hath to name Francesca's ; and the star that watches flame The embers of the harvest overgone Is Thisbe's, slain of love in Babylon, Set in the golden girdle of sweet signs A blood-bright ruby ; last save one light shines An Eastern wonder of sphery chrysopras. The star that made men mad, Angelica's ; And latest named and lordliest, with a sound Of swords and harps in heaven that ring it round, Last love-light and last love-song of the year's, Gleams like a glorious emerald Guenevere's. A Match ¥F love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf. Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes. Green pleasure or gray grief ; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 407 If I were what the words are, And love were h'ke the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon ; If I were what the words are. And love were like the tune. If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death. We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath ; If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death. If you were thrall to sorrow. And I were page to joy. We'd play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons And tears of night and morrow And laughs of maid and boy; If you were thrall to sorrow. And I were page to joy. If you were April's lady And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for day with flowers, Till day like night were shady And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May. If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We'd hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein ; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain. 408 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The Oblation A SK nothing more of me, sweet ; All 1 can give j-oii, I give. Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet : Love that should help you to live, Song that should spur you to soar. All things were nothing to give Once to have sense of you more, Touch you and taste of you, sweet, Think you and breathe you and live, Swept of j'our wings as they soar Trodden by chance of your feet. I that have love and no more Give you but love of you, sweet: He that hath more, let him give ; He that hath wings let him soar ; Mine is the heart at your feet Here, that must love you to live. THOMAS HARDY (1840- ) In the Moonlight A lonely workman, standing there ■^^ In a dream, why do yon stare and stare At her grave, as no other grave there were? "If your great gaunt eyes so importune Her soul by the shine of this corpse-cold moon. Maybe you'll raise her phantom soon !" "Why, fool, it is what I would rather see Than all the living folk there be ; But alas, there is no such joy for me!" "Ah — she was one you loved, no doubt. Through good and evil, through rain and drought, And when she passed, all your sun went out?" "Nay: she was the woman I did not love, Whom all the others were ranked above. Whom during her life I thought nothing of." WILFRED SCAWEN BLUNT 409 The Man He Killed «]LTAD he and I but met _ By some old ancient inn, We should have sat us down to wet Right many a nipperkin I "But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at him as he at me, And killed him in his place. "I shot him dead because — Because he was my foe. Just so : my foe of course he was ; That's clear enough ; although "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps. Off-hand like — just as I — Was out of work — had sold his traps — No other reason why. "Yes ; quaint and curious war is ! You shoot a fellow down You'd treat if met where any bar is, Or help to half-a-crown." WILFRED SCAWEN BLUNT (1840- ) To One Who JVould Make a Confession /^H! leave the past to bury its own dead. The past is naught to us, the present all. What need of last year's leaves to strew Love's bed? What need of ghost to grace a festival? I would not, if I could, those days recall. Those days not ours. For us the feast is spread, The lamps are lit, and music plays withal. Then let us love and leave the rest unsaid. This island is our home. Around it roar Great gulfs and oceans, channels, straits and seas. What matter in what wreck we reached the shore, So we both reached it? We can mock at these. Oh! leave the past, if past indeed there be; I would not know it ; I would know but thee. 410 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE To Manon, on His Fortune in Loving Her J did not choose thee, dearest. It was Love That made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blind As a rude shepherd's who to some lone grove His offering brings and cares not at whose shrine He bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine; The rest was Love's. He took me by the hand, And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine, And spoke the words I might not understand. I was unwise in all but the dear chance Which was my fortune, and the blind desire Which led my foolish steps to Love's abode, And youth's sublime unreason'd prescience Which raised an altar and inscribed in fire Its dedication: To the Unknou:tv God. From "Esther'^ A little honey! Ay, a little sweet, A little pleasure when the years were young, A joj'ous measure trod by dancing feet, A tale of folly told by a loved tongue, — These are the things by which our hearts are wrung More than by tears. Oh, I would rather laugh. So I had not to choose those tales among Which was most laughable. Man's nobler self Resents mere sorrow. I would rather sit With just the common crowd that watch the play And mock at harlequin and the clown's wit, And call it tragedy and go my way. I should not err, because the tragic part Lay not in these, but sealed in my own heart. AUSTIN DOBSON (1840- ) A Garden Song TLTERE, in this sequestered close Bloom the hyacinth and rose; Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and degrees. AUSTIN DOBSON 411 All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place ; Peach, and apricot, and fig Here will ripen, and grow big; Here is store and overplus, — More had not Alcinoiis ! Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen ; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival ; All is quiet else — afar Sounds of toil and turmoil are. Here be shadows large and long; Here be spaces meet for song; Grant, O garden-god, that I, Now that none profane is nigh, — Now that mood and moment please. Find the fair Pierides ! The Ladies of St. James's A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN Phyllida amo ante alias. — Virgil 'HE ladies of St. JameL;'s T Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them. With a "Stand by! Clear the wayl' But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon. The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs ; They sit all night at Ombre, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She dons her russet gown. And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down. The ladies of St. James's ! They are so fine and fair, You'd think a box of essences Was broken in the air: 412 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE But Phyllida, my Phyllidal The breath of heath and furze When breezes blow at morning, Is not so fresh as hers. The ladies of St. James's 1 They're painted to the eyes ; Their white it stays for ever Their red it never dies : But Phyllida, my Phyllidal Her color comes and goes; It trembles to a lily, — It wavers to a rose. The ladies of St. James's I You scarce can understand The half of all their speeches, Their phrases are so grand: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her shy and simple words Are clear as after rain-drops The music of the birds. The ladies of St. James's ! They have their fits and freaks ; They smile on you — for seconds, They frown on you — for weeks : But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Come either storm or shine, From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide, Is always true — and mine. My Phyllida! my Phyllida! I care not though they heap The hearts of all St. James's, And give me all to keep ; I care not whose the beauties Of all the world may be. For Phvllida— for Phyllida Is all the world to me 1 The Ballade of Prose and Rhyme "^X^IIEN the ways are heavy with mire and rut, '^ In November fogs, in December snows, When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,- There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, AUSTIN DOBSON 413 And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb, And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme I When the brain gets dry as an empty nut, When the reason stands on its squarest toes. When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut," — There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows, And the young year draws to the "golden prime," And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose, — Then hey — for the ripple of laughing rhyme I In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut, In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes," In a starched procession of "If" and "But," — There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever a soft glance softer grows. And the light hours dance to the trysting-time, And the secret is told "that no one knows,"— Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme 1 In the work-a-day world, — for its needs and woes, There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme! In After Days (Rondeau) T N after days when grasses high O'er top the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim to honoured dust, I shall not question nor reply. I shall not see the morning sky; I shall not hear the night-wind sigh; I shall be mute, as all men must In after days ! But yet, now living, fain were I That some one then should testify, Saying — "He held his pen in trust To Art, not serving shame or lust." Will none? — Then let my memory die In after days! 414 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Triolet T intended an Ode. And it turned to a Sonnet. It began a la mode, I intended an Ode ; But Rose crossed the road In her latest new bonnet ; I intended an Ode ; And it turned to a Sonnet. ROBERT BUCHANAN (1841-1901) Judas Iscariot ''T'WAS the soul of Judas Iscariot, Strange, and sad, and tall, Stood all alone at dead of night Before a lighted hall. And the world was white with snow, And his foot-marks black and damp, And the ghost of the silver moon arose. Holding her yellow lamp. And the icicles were on the eaves. And the walls were deep with white,_ And the shadows of the guests within Pass'd on the window light. The shadows of the wedding-guests Did strongly come and go, And the body of Judas Iscariot Lay stretch'd along the snow. The body of Judas Iscariot Laj' stretched along the snow; 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Ran swiftly to and fro. To and fro, and np and down. He ran so swiftly there. As round and round the frozen Pole Glideth the lean white bear. . . . 'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head, And the lights burnt bright and clear — "Oh, who is that," the Bridegroom said, "Whose weary feet I hear?" ROBERT BUCHANAN 415 'Twas one looked from the lighted hall. And answer'd soft and slow, "It is a wolf runs up and down With a black track in the snow." The Bridegroom in his robe of white Sat at the table-head — "Oh, who is that who moans without?" The blessed Bridegroom said. 'Twas one look'd from the lighted hall. And answer'd fierce and low, " 'Tis the soul of Judas Iscariot Gliding to and fro." 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Did hush itself and stand. And saw the Bridegroom at the door With a light in his hand. The Bridegroom stood in the open door, And he was clad in white, And far within the Lord's Supper Was spread so broad and bright. The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and look'd. And his face was bright to see — "What dost thou here at the Lord's Supper With thy body's sins?" said he. 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Stood black, and sad, and bare — "I have wander'd many nights and days ; There is no light elsewhere." 'Twas the wedding guests cried out within, And their eyes were fierce and bright — "Scourgethe soul of Judas Iscariot Away into the night I" The Bridegroom stood in the open door, And he waved his hands and slow. And the third time that he waved his hands The air v/as thick with snow. And of every flake of falling snow. Before it touch'd the ground. There came a dove, and a thousand doves Made sweet sound. 416 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Floated away full fleet, And the wings of the doves that bare it oflF Were like its winding-sheet. 'Twas the bridegroom stood at the open door, And beckon'd, smiling sweet ; 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Stole in, and fell at his feet. "The Holy Supper is spread within, And the many candles shine, And I have waited long for thee Before I pour'd the wine." The supper wine is pour'd at last, The lights burn bright and fair, Iscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet, And dries them with his hair. F. W. H. MYERS (1843-1901) The Inner Light T 0, if some pen should write upon your rafter Mene and Mene in the folds of flame, Think you could any memories thereafter Wholly retrace the couplet as it came? Lo. if some strange, intelligible thunder Sang to the earth the secret of a star. Scarce could ye catch, for terror and for wonder, Shreds of the story that was pealed so far. Scarcely I catch the words of His revealing. Hardly I hear Him, dimly understand, Only the Power that is within me pealing Lives on my lips and beckons to my hand. Whoso has felt the Spirit of the Highest Cannot confound nor doubt Him nor deny: Yea, with one voice, O world, though thou deniest. Stand thou on that side, for on this am I. Rather the earth shall doubt when her retrieving Pours in the rain and rushes from the sod. Rather than he for whom the great conceiving Stirs in his soul to quicken into God. ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY 417 Ay, though thou then shouldst strike from him his glory, Blind and tormented, maddened and alone. Even on the cross would he maintain his story, Yes, and in hell would whisper, I have known. ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY (1844-1881) Ode "liyE are the music makers, '^' And we are the dreamers of dreams. Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams ; — World-losers and world-forsakers. On whom the pale moon gleams : Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties _ We build up the world's great cities. And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown ; And three with a new song's measure Can trample a kingdom down. We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing. And Babel itself in our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth ; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth. . . . Abridged. Song H [AS summer come without the rose, ^ Or left the bird behind? Is the blue changed above thee, O world ! or am I blind ? Will you change every flower that grows, Or only change this spot. Where she who said, I love thee, Now says, I love thee not? 418 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The skies seemed true above thee, The rose true on the tree ; The bird seemed true the summer through, But all proved false to me. World ! is there one good thing in you, Life, love, or death — or what? Since lips that sang, I love thee, Have said, I love thee not? I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall Into one flower's gold cup ; I think the bird will miss me, And give the summer up. O sweet place ! desolate in tall Wild grass, have you forgot How her lips toyed to kiss me, Now that they kiss me not? Be false or fair above me. Come back with any face, Summer! — do I care what you do? You cannot change one place — The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, The grave I make the spot — Here, where she used to love me, Here, where she loves nie not. Song Tmade another garden, yea, For my new love ; I left the dead rose where it lay, And set the new above. Why did the summer not bf gin ? Why did my heart not haste? My old love came and walked therein. And laid the garden waste. She entered with her weary smile. Just as of old ; She looked around a little while. And shivered at the cold. Her passing touch was death to all, Her passing look a blight : She made the white rose-petals fall, And turned the red rose white. ROBERT BRIDGES 419 Her pale robe, clinging to the grass, Seemed like a snake That bit the grass and ground, alas ! And a sad trail did make. She went up slowly to the gate ; And there, just as of yore, She turned back at the last to wait, And say farewell once more. Song from "Chartivel" TJATH any loved you well, down there, ■*■ Summer or winter through? Down there, have you found any fair Laid in the grave with you? Is death's long kiss a richer kiss Than mine was wont to be — Or have you gone to some far bliss And quite forgotten me? What soft enamouring of sleep Hath you in some soft way? What charmed death holdeth you with deep Strange lure by night and day? A little space below the grass, Out of the sun and shade ; But worlds away from me, alas, Down there where you are laid? My bright hair's waved and wasted gold, What is it now to thee — Whether the rose-red life I hold Or white death holdeth me? Down there you love the grave's own green, And evermore you rave Of some sweet seraph you have seen Or dreamt of in the grave. . . . Abridged. ROBERT BRIDGES (1844- ) ¥ love all beauteous things, 1 seek and adore them; God hath no better praise, And man in his hasty days Is honoured for them. 420 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE I, too, will somethingr make And joy in the making; Altho' to-morrow it seem Like the empty words of a dream Remembered on waking. I have loved flowers that fade ; Within whose magic tents Rich hues have marriage made With sweet vmmemoried scents : A honej'moon delight, — A joy of love at sight, That ages in an hour : — My song be like a flower I I have loved airs that die Before their charm is writ Along a liquid sky Trembling to welcome it. Notes, that with pulse of fire Proclaim the spirit's desire, Then die, and are nowhere : — My song be like an air ! Die, song, die like a breath, And wither as a bloom : Fear not a flowery death, Dread not an airy tomb ! Fly with delight, fly hence ! 'Twas thine love's tender sense To feast, now on thy bier Beauty shall shed a tear. Elegy on a Lady JFhom Grief for the Death of Her Betrothed Killed A SSEMBLE, all ye maidens, at the door, "^ And all ye loves, assemble, far and wide Proclaim the bridal, that proclaimed before Hath been deferred to this late eventide : For on this night the bride. The days of her betrothal over. Leaves the parental hearth for evermore : To-night the bride goes forth to meet her lover. Reach down the wedding vesture, that has lain Yet all unvisited, the silken gown : Bring out the bracelets, and the golden chain ROBERT BRIDGES 421 Her dearer friends provided: sere and brown Bring out the festal crown. And set it on her forehead lightly: Though it be withered, twine no wreath again ; This only is the crown she can wear rightly. Cloak her in ermine, for the night is cold, And wrap her warmly, for the night is long, In pious hands the flaming torches hold. While her attendants, chosen from among Her faithful virgin throng, May lay her in her cedar litter, Decking her coverlet with sprigs of gold, Roses, and lilies white that best befit her. Sound flute and tabor, that the bridal be Not without music, nor with these alone; But let the viol lead the melody, With lesser intervals, and plaintive moan Of sinking semitone ; And, all in choir, the virgin voices Rest not from singing in skilled harmony The song that aye the bridegroom's ear rejoices. Let the priests go before, arrayed in white, And let the dark-stoled minstrels follow slow. Next they that bear her, homeward on this night, And then the maidens, in a double row, Each singing soft and low. And each on high a torch upstaying: Unto her lover lead her forth with light. With music, and with singing, and with praying. 'Twas at this sheltering hour he nightly came, And found her trusty window open wide, And knew the signal of the timorous flame. That long the restless curtain would not hide Her form that stood beside ; As scarce she dare to be delighted. Listening to that sweet tale, that is no shame To faithful lovers, that their hearts have plighted. But now for many davs the dewy grass Has shown no markings of his feet at morn : And watching she has seen no shadow pass The moonlit walk, and heard no music borne Upon her ear forlorn. In vain has she looked out to greet him ; He has not come, he will not come, alas ! So let us bear her out where she must meet him. 422 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Now to the river bank the priests are come : The bark is ready to receive its freight: Let some prepare her place therein, and some Embark the htter with its slender weight: The rest stand by in state, And sing her a safe passage over; While she is oared across to her new home Into the arms of her expectant lover. And thou, O lover, that art on the watch, Where, on the banks of the forgetful streams, The pale indifferent ghosts wander, and snatch The sweeter moments of their broken dreams, — Thou, when the torchlight gleams. When thou shall see the slow procession, And when thine ears the fitful music catch, Rejoice, for thou art near to thy possession. Nightingales "D EAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come, ■"^ And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom Ye learn your song : Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there. Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long! Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, A throe of the heart. Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, For all our art. Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then. As night is withdrawn From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, Dream, while the innumerable choir of day Welcome the dazun. A Passer -By ■^^ HITHER, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, ~ Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding. Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? Ah, soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, ANDREW LANG 423 When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling', Wilt thou glide on the blue Pacific, or rest In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling. I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air : I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, And anchor queen of the strange shipping there. Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare; Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped, grandest Peak, that is over the feathery palms more fair Than thou, so upright, so stately, and still thou standest. And yet, O splendid ship, unhail'd and nameless, I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, Thy port assured in a happier land than mine*. But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine. As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding. From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding. ANDREW LANG (1844-1891) The Odyssey A S one that for a weary space has lain ■^ Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, Where that ^sean isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain. And only shadows of wan lovers pine. As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again — So gladly, from the songs of modern speech Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, And through the music of the languid hours They hear like Ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey. Lost Love 'Y\7"HO wins his Love shall lose her, Who loses her shall gain, For still the spirit wooes her, A soul without a stain ; And Memory still pursues her With longings not in vain ! 424 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE He loses her who gains her, Who watches day by day The dnst of time that stains her, The griefs that leave her gray, The flesh that yet enchains her Whose grace hath passed away I Oh, happier he who gains not The Love some seem to gain : The joy that custom stains not Shall still with him remain, The loveliness that wanes not, The Love that ne'er can wane. In dreams she grows not older The lands of Dream among, Though all the world wax colder. Though all the songs be sung. In dreams doth he behold her Still fair and kind and young. Ballade of Middle Age ^^UR youth began with tears and sighs, ^^ With seeking what we could not find; Our verses all were threnodies, In elegiacs still we whined ; Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind, We sought and knew not what we sought. We marvel, now we look behind : Life's more amusing than we thought! Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise ! Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind I What? not content with seas and skies, With rainy clouds and southern wind, With common cares and faces kind, With pains and joys each morning brought? Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find Life's more amusing than we thought ! Though youth "turns spectre-thin and dies," To mourn for youth we're not inclined ; We set our souls on salmon flies, We whistle where we once repined. Confound the woes of human-kind I By Heaven we're "well deceived," I wot; Who hum, contented or resigned. "Life's more amusing than we thought"! EUGENE LEE-HAMILTON 425 ENVOY O note vicciim, worn and lined Our faces show, but that is naught ; Our hearts are young 'neath wrinkled rind: Life's more amusing than we thought ! EUGENE LEE-HAMILTON (1845-1907) Idle Charon nPHE shores of Styx are lone forevermore, And not one sliadow}'^ form upon the steep Looms through the dusk, as far as eyes can sweep. To call the ferry over as of j^ore ; But tintless rushes, all about the shore, Have hemm'd the old boat in, where, lock'd in sleep, Hoar-bearded Charon lies ; while pale weeds creep With tightening grasp all round the unused oar. For now in the world of Life strange rumors run That now the Soul departs not with the breath, But that the Body and the Soul are one ; And in the loved one's mouth, now, after death, The widow puts no obol, nor the son, To pay the ferry in the world beneath. Baudelaire A Paris gutter of the good old times, Black and putrescent in its stagnant bed, Save where the shamble oozings fringe it red, Or scaffold trickles, or nocturnal crimes. It holds dropped gold ; dead flowers from tropic climes ; Gems true and false, by midnight maskers shed ; Old pots of rouge ; old broken phials that spread Vague fumes of musk, with fumes from slums and slimes. And everywhere, as glows the set of day, There floats upon the winding fetid mire The gorgeous iridescence of decay : A wavy film of colour, gold and fire, Trembles all through it as you pick your way, And streaks of purple that are straight from Tyre. GRANT ALLEN (1848-1901) A Prayer A crowned Caprice is god of this world: -'*• On his stony breast are his white wings furled. No ear to listen, no eye to see, No heart to feel for a man hath he. 426 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE But his pitiless arm is swift to smite ; And his mute lips utter one word of might, Mid the clash of gentler souls and rougher, "Wrong must thou do, or wrong must suffer." Then grant, oh ! dumb blind god, at least that we Rather the sufferers than the doers be. EDMUND GOSSE (1849- ) To Austin Dobs on ■J^EIGHBOUR of the near domain, Stay awhile your passing wain! Though to give is more your way, Take a gift from me to-day! From my homely store I bring Signs of my poor husbanding; — Here a spike of purple phlox, Here a spicy bunch of stocks. Mushrooms from my moister fields, Apples that my orchard 3'ields, — Nothing, — for the show they make, Something, — for the donor's sake ; Since for ten years we have been Best of neighbours ever seen ; We have fronted evil weather, Nip of critic's frost, together ; We have shared laborious days. Shared the pleasantness of praise ; Brother not more close to brother. We have cheered and helped each other : Till so far the fields of each Into the other's stretch and reach. That perchance when both are gone Neither may be named alone. Impression TN these restrained and careful times Our knowledge petrifies our rhymes ; Ah ! for that reckless fire men had When it was witty to be mad ; When wild conceits were piled in scores, And lit by flaming metaphors, When all was crazed and out of tune, — Yet throbbed with music of the moon. WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 427 If we could dare to write as ill As some whose voices haunt us still, Even we, perchance, might call our own Their deep enchanting undertone. We are too diffident and nice, Too learned and too over-wise, Too mucli afraid of faults to be The flutes of bold sincerity. For, as this sweet life passes by. We blink and nod with critic eye ; _ We've no words rude enough to give Its charm so frank and fugitive. The green and scarlet of the Park, The undulating streets at dark. The brown smoke blown across the blue, This colored city we walk through ; — The pallid faces full of pain, The field-smell of the passing wain, The laughter, longing, perfume, strife, The daily spectacle of life; — Ah ! how shall this be given to rhyme, By rhymesters of a knowing time? Ah ! for the age when verse was clad, Being godlike, to be bad and mad. WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY (1849-1903) Invictus f\\JT of the night that covers me, ^'^ Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. 428 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate : I am the captain of my soul. From "In Hospital" Operation "VOU are carried in a basket, Like a carcass from the shambles. To the theatre, a cockpit Where they stretch you on a table. Then they bid you close your eyelids. And they mask you with a napkin. And the anaesthetic reaches Hot and subtle through your being. And you gasp and reel and shudder In a rushing, swaying rapture, While the voices at your elbow Fade — receding — fainter — farther. Lights about you shower and tumble, And your blood seems crystallizing — Edged and vibrant, yet within you Racked and hurried back and forward. Then the lights grow fast and furious, And you hear a noise of waters. And you wrestle, blind and dizzy. In an agony of effort. Till a sudden lull accepts you. And you sound an utter darkness . . . And awaken . . . with a struggle . . . On a hushed, attentive audience. "J Late Lark Twitters from the Quiet Skies** A late lark twitters from the quiet skies ; And from the west. Where the sun, his day's work ended. Lingers as in content. There falls on the old, gray city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace. WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 429 The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-fjolden haze. The spires Shine, and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun. Closing his hencdiction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night — Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep. So be my passing! My task accomplished and the long day done. My wages taken, and in my heart Some late lark singing, Let me be gathered to the quiet west, The sundown splendid and serene, Death. From "London Voluntaries" T\ OWN through the ancient Strand The Spirit of October, mild and boon And sauntering, takes his way This golden end of afternoon. As though the corn stood yellow in all the land And the ripe apples dropped to the harvest moon. Lo ! the round sun, half down the western slope — Seen as along an enlarged telescope — Lingers and lolls, loath to be done with day: Gifting the long, lean, lanky street And its abounding confluences of being With aspects generous and bland : Making a thousand harnesses to shine As with new ore from some enchanted mine. And every horse's coat so full of sheen He looks new-tailored, and every 'bus feels clean, And never a hansom but is worth the feeing; And every jeweller within the pale Offers a real Arabian Night for sale; And even the roar Of the strong streams of toil that pause and pour Eastward and westward sounds suffused — Seems as it were bemused And blurred, and like the speech Of lazy seas upon a lotus-eating beach — With this enchanted lustrousness. This mellow magic that (as a man's caress Brings back to some faded face beloved before 430 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE A heavenly shadow of the grace it wore Ere the poor eyes were minded to beseech) Old things transfigures, and you hail and bless Their looks of long-lapsed lovcIinc?s once more; Till the sedate and mannered elegance Of Clement's is all tinctured with romance; The while the fanciful, formal, finicking charm Of Bride's, that madrigal in stone, Glows flushed and warm And beauteous with a beauty not its own ; And the high majesty of Paul's Uplifts a voice of living light, and calls — Calls to his millions to behold and see How goodly this his London Town can be! For earth and sky and air Are golden everywhere, And golden with a gold so suave and fine The looking on it lifts the heart like wine. Trafalgar Square (The fountains volleying golden glaze) Gleams like an angel market. . . . Out of the poisonous East, Over a continent of blight. Like a maleficent Influence released From the most squalid cellarage of hell. The Wind-Fiend, the abominable — ■ The hangman wind that tortures temper and light — Comes slouching, sullen and obscene, Hard on the skirts of the embittered night: And in a cloud unclean Of excremental humours, roused to strife By the operation of some ruinous change Wherever his evil mandate run and range Into a dire intensity of life, A craftsman at his bench, he settles down To the grim job of throttling London Town. . . . And Death the while — Death, with his well-worn, lean, professional smile. Death in his threadbare working trim — Comes to your bedside, unannounced and bland, And with expert, inevitable hand Feels at your windpipe, fingers you in the lung, Or flicks the clot well into the labouring heart : Thus signifying unto old and young, However hard of mouth or wild of whim, 'Tis time — 'tis time by his ancient watch — to part With books and women and talk and drink and art: And j'ou go humbly after him THEOPHILE MARZIALS 431 To a mean suburban lodging: on the way To what or where Not Death, who is old and very wise, can say : And you — how should you care So long as, unreclaimed of hell, The Wind-Fiend, the insufiferable, Thus vicious and thus patient sits him down To the black job of lurking London Town? Abridged. THEOPHILE MARZIALS C1850- ) A Tragedy CHE was only a woman, famished for loving, ^ Mad with devotion, and such slight things ; And he was a very great musician,^ And used to finger his fiddle-strings. Her heart's sweet gamut is cracking and breaking For a look, for a touch, — for such slight tliinc-s ; But he's such a very great musician Grimacing and fingering his fiddle-strings. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850-1894) Romance T will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me, Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. I will make mj' kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night. And this shall be for music when no one else is near, The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear I That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire. Happy Thought 'T'HE world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. 432 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE In the HigJilands TN tile highlands, in the country places, Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the yoimg fair maidens Quiet eyes ; Where essential silence cheers and blesses. And for ever in the hill-recesses Her more lovely music Broods and dies. — O to mount again where erst I haunted ; Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, And the low green meadows Bright with sward ; And when even dies, the million-tinted. And the night has come, and planets glinted, Lo, the valley hollow Lamp-bestarred ! O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence. Quiet breath ! Lo 1 for there, among the flowers and grasses. Only the mightier movement sounds and passes ; Only winds and rivers. Life and Death. Requiem TTNDER the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave f pr me : Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea. And the hunter home from the hill. PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON (1850-1887) TT must have been for one of us, my own, To drink this cup and eat this bitter bread. Had not my tears upon thy face been shed, Thy tears had dropped on mine; if I alone Did not walk now, thy spirit would have known ALICE MFA'NELL 433 My loneliness; and did my feet not tread This weary path and steep, thy feet had bled For mine, and thy mouth had for mine made moan : And so it comforts me, yea, not in vain. To think of thine eternity of sleep; To know thine ej'es are tearless though mine weep : And when this cup's last bitterness I drain. One thought shall still its primal sweetness keep, — Thou hadst the peace and I the undying pain. ALICE MEYNELL (1853- ) Renouncement T must not think of thee ; and, tired j'et strong, I shun the love that lurks in all delight — The love of thee — and in the blue heaven's height. And in the dearest passage of a song. Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet iDright ; But it must never, never come in sight ; I must stop short of thee the whole day long. But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, Must doff my will as raiment laid away, — With the first dream that comes with the first sleep I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart. The Lady of the Lambs CHE walks — the lady of my delight — A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep. She feeds them on the fragrant height. And folds them in for sleep. She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep. Her dreams are innocent at night; The chastest stars may peep. She wallcs — the lady of my delight — A shepherdess of sheep. 434 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap. She is so circumspect and right; She has her soul to keep. She walks — the lady of my delight — A shepherdess of sheep. "FIONA MACLEOD" (1856-1905) (Pseud, of IVilliain Sharp) Mo-lennav-a-chree "C* ILIDH, Eilidh, Eilidh, dear to me, dear ana sweet, In dreams I am hearing the sound of your little running feet— The sound of your running feet that like the sea-hoofs beat A music by day an' night, Eilidh, on the sands of my heart, my Sweet ! Eilidh, blue i' the eyes, flower-sweet as children are. And white as the canna that blows with the hill-breast wind afar, Whose is the light in thine eyes — the light of a star? — a star That sitteth supreme where the starry lights of heaven a glory Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh, put off your wee hands from the heart o' me, It is pain they are making there, where no more pain should be: For little running feet, an' wee white hands, an' croodlin' as of the sea, Bring tears to my eyes, Eilidh, tears, tears, out of the heart o' me — Mo-lennav-a-chree, Mo-lennav-a-chree ! OSCAR WILDE (1856-1900) Helas T^O drift with every passion, till my soul ■"• Is a strinpcd lute on which all winds can play, Is it for this that I have given away Mine ancient wisdom and austere control? Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll, Scrawled over on some boyish holiday With idle songs for pipe or virelay. Which do but mar the secret of the whole. OSCAR WILDE 435 Surely there was a time I might have trod The sunlight heights, and from life's dissonance Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God I Is that time dead ? Lo ! with a little rod I did but touch the honey of romance, And must I lose a soul's inheritance? The Ballad of Reading Gaol XJE did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed. He walked amongst the Trial Men In a suit of shabby gray; A cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay; But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day. I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky. And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by. I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring. And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, "That fellow's got to STmng." Dear Christ ! the very prison walls Suddenly seemed to reel. And the sky above my head became Like a casque of scorching steel ; And, though I was a soul in pain. My pain I could not feel. I only knew what hunted thought Quickened his step, and why He looked upon the garish day With such a wistful eye ; The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die 436 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword 1 Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old ; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold : The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long. Some sell, and others buy ; Some do the deed with many tears. And some without a sigh : For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die. He does not die a death of shame On a day of dark disgrace, Nor have a noose about his neck, Nor a cloth upon his face, Nor drop feet foremost through the floor Into an empty space. He does not sit with silent men Who watch him night and day; Who watch him when he tries to weep, And when he tries to pray; Who watch him lest himself should rob The prison of its prey. He does not wake at dawn to see Dread figures throng his room. The shivering Chaplain robed in white. The Sheriff stern with gloom. And the Governor all in shiny black. With the yellow face of Doom. He does not rise in piteous haste To put on convict-clothes, While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes Each new and nerve-twitched pose. Fingering a watch whose little ticks Are like horrible hammer-blows. OSCAR WILDE 437 He does not know that sickening thirst That sands one's throat, before The hangman with his gardener's gloves Slips through the padded door, And binds one with three leathern thongs, That the throat may thirst no more. He does not bend his head to hear The Burial Office read. Nor, while the terror of his soul Tells him he is not dead, Cross his own coffin, as he moves Into the hideous shed. He does not stare upon the air Through a little roof of glass : He does not pray with lips of clay For his agony to pass ; Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek That kiss of Caiaphas. H Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard, In the suit of shabby gray: His cricket cap was on his head. And his step seemed light and gay, But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day. I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every wandering cloud that trailed Its raveled fleeces by. He did not wring his hands, as do Those witless men who dare To try to rear the changelingHope In the cave of black Despair: He only looked upon the sun, And drank the morning air. He did not wring his hands nor weep, Nor did he peek or pine, But he drank the air as though it held Some healthful anodyne ; With open mouth he drank the sun As though it had been wine! 438 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And I and all the souls in pain, Who tramped the other ring, Forgot if we ourselves had done A great or little thing, And watched with gaze of dull amaze The man who had to swing. And strange it was to see him pass With a step so light and gay, And strange it was to see him look So wistfully at the day, And strange it was to think that he Had such a debt to pay. For oak and elm have pleasant leaves That in the spring-time shoot : But grim to see is the gallows-tree, With its adder-bitten root, And, green or dry, a man must die Before it bears its fruit ! The loftiest place is that seat of grace For which all wordlings try: But who would stand in hempen band Upon a scaffold high, And through a murderer's collar take His last look at the sky? It is sweet to dance to violins When Love and Life are fair: To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes Is delicate and rare : But it is not sweet with nimble feet To dance upon the air ! So with curious eyes and sick Surmise We watched him day by day, And wondered if each one of us Would end the self-same way, For none can tell to what red Hell His sightless soul may stray. At last the dead man walked no more Amongst the Trial Men, And I knew that he was standing up In the black dock's dreadful pen, And that never would I see his face In God's sweet world again. OSCAR WILDE 439 Like two doomed ships that pass in storm, We had crossed each other's way: But we made no sign, we said no word, We had no word to say ; For we did not meet in the holy night, But in the shameful day. A prison wall was round us both, Two outcast men we were : The world had thrust us from its heart. And God from out his care : And the iron gin that waits for Sin Had caught us in its snare, ni In Debtor's Yard the stones are hard. And the dripping wall is high, So it was there he took the air Beneath the leaden sky, And by each side a Warder walked, For fear the man might die. Or else he sat with those who watched His anguish night and day; Who watched him when he rose to weep, And when he crouched to pray ; Who watched hira lest himself should rob Their scaffold of its prey. The Governor was strong upon The Regulations Act : The Doctor said that Death was but A scientific fact : And twice a day the Chaplain called. And left a little tract. And twice a day he smoked his pipe. And drank his quart of beer: His soul was resolute, and held No hiding-place for fear ; He often said that he was glad The hangman's hands were near. But why he said so strange a thing No Warder dared to ask : For he to whom a watcher's doom Is given as his task, Must set a lock upon his lips. And make his face a mask. 440 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Or else he might be moved, and try To comfort or console : And what should Human Pity do Pent up in Murderers' Hole? What word of grace in such a place Could help a brother's soul? With slouch and swing around the ring We trod the Fools' Parade ! We did not care : we knew we were The Devil's Own Brigade : And shaven head and feet of lead Make a merry masquerade. We tore the tarry rope to shreds With blunt and bleeding nails ; We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, And cleaned the shining rails : And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, And clattered with the pails. We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, We turned the dusty drill : We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, And sweated on the mill : But in the heart of every man Terror was lying still. So still it lay that everj^ day Crawled like a weed-clogged wave : And we forgot the bitter lot That waits for fool and knave, Till once, as we tramped in from work. We passed an open grave. With yawning mouth the yellow hole Gaped for a living thing ; The very mud cried out for blood To the thirsty asphalt ring: And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair. Some prisoner had to swing. Right in we went, with soul intent On Death and Dread and Doom : The hangman, with his little bag, Went shuffling through the gloom : And each man trembled as he crept Into his numbered tomb. OSCAR WILDE 441 That night the empty corridors Were full of forms of Fear, And up and down the iron town Stole feet we could not hear, And through the bars that hide the stars White faces seemed to peer. He lay as one who lies and dreams In a pleasant meadow-land, The watchers watched him as he slept, And could not understand How one could sleep so sweet a sleep With a hangman close at hand. But there is no sleep when men must weep Who never yet have wept : So we — the fool, the fraud, the knave — That endless vigil kept, And through each brain on hands of pain Another's terror crept. Alas ! it is a fearful thing To feel another's guilt I For. right within, the sword of Sin Pierced to its poisoned hilt. And as molten lead were the tears we shed For the blood we had not spilt. The Warders with their shoes of felt Crept by each padlocked door. And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, Gray figures on the floor, And wondered why men knelt to pray Who never prayed before. All through the night we knelt and prayed, Mad mourners of a corse ! The troubled plumes of midnight were The plumes upon a hearse : And bitter wine upon a sponge Was the savor of Remorse. The gray cock crew, the red cock crew, But never came the day; And crooked shapes of terror crouched In the corners where we lay : And each evil sprite that walks by night Before us seemed to play. 442 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE They glided past, they glided fast, Like travelers through a mist : They mocked the moon in a rigadoon Of delicate turn and twist, And with formal pace and loathsome grace The phantoms kept their tryst. With mop and mow, we saw them go, Slim shadows hand and hand : About, about, in ghostly rout They trod a saraband : And the damned grotesques made arabesques, Like the wind upon the sand ! With pirouettes of marionettes They tripped on pointed tread : But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear, As their grisly masque they led, And loud they sang, and long they sang. For they sang to wake the dead. "Oho!" they cried, "The world is xinde. But fettered limbs go lame! And once, or tzmce, to throw the dice Is a gentlemanly game. But he does not win who plays ixnth Sin In the Secret House of Shame." No things of air these antics were. That frolicked with such glee : To men whose lives were held in gyves. And whose feet might not go free. Ah ! wounds of Christ ! they were living things, Most terrible to see. Around, around, they waltzed and wound; Some wheeled in smirking pairs ; With the mincing step of a demirep Some sidled up the stairs : And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, Each helped us at our prayers. The morning wind began to moan, But still the night went on ; Through its giant loom the web of gloom Crept till each thread was spun : And, as we prayed, we grew afraid Of the Justice of the Sun. OSCAR WILDE 443 The moaning wind went wandering round The weeping prison-wall : Till like a wheel of turning steel We felt the minutes crawl : O moaning wind ! what had we done To have such a seneschal? At last I saw the shadowed bars, Like a lattice wrought in lead, Move right across the whitewashed wall That faced my three-planked bed. And I knew that somewhere in the world God's dreadful dawn was red. At six o'clock we cleaned our cells. At seven all was still, But the sough and swing of a mighty wing The prison seemed to fill, For the Lord of Death with icy breath, Had entered in to kill. He did not pass in purple pomp, Nor ride a moon-white steed. Three yards of cord and a sliding board Are all the gallows' need : So with rope of shame the Herald came To do the secret deed. We were as men who through a fen Of filthy darkness grope : We did not dare to breathe a prayer, Or to give our anguish scope : Something was dead in each of us, And what was dead was Hope. For Man's grim Justice goes its way. And will not swerve aside : It slays the weak, it slays the strong. It has a deadly stride : With iron heel it slays the strong, The monstrous parricide 1 We waited for the stroke of eight: Each tongue was thick with thirst: For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate That makes a man accursed, And Fate will use a running noose For the best man and the worst. 444 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE We had no other thing to do, Save to wait for the sign to come : So, Hke things of stone in a valley lone, Quiet we sat and dumb : But each man's heart beat thick and quick. Like a madman on a drum 1 With sudden shock, the prison-clock Smote on the shivering air, And from all the jail rose up a wail Of impotent despair, Like the sound that frightened marshes hear From some leper in his lair. And as one sees most dreadful things In the crystal of a dream. We saw the greasy hempen rope Hooked to the blackened beam, And heard the prayer the hangman's snare Strangled into a scream. And all the woe that moved him so That he gave that bitter crj', And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, None knew so well as I : For he who lives more lives than one More deaths than one must die. IV There is no chapel on the day On which they hang a man : The Chaplain's heart is far too sick, Or his face is far too wan. Or there is that written in his ej'es Which none should look upon. So they kept us close till nigh on noon. And then they rang the bell, And the Warders with their jingling keys Opened each listening cell. And down the iron stair we tramped. Each from his separate Hell. Out into God's sweet air we went, But not in wonted way, For this man's face was white with fear, And that man's face was gray. And I never saw sad men who looked So wistfully at the daj'. OSCAR WILDE 445 I never saw sad men who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tout of blue We prisoners call the sky, And at every careless cloud that passed In happy freedom by. But there were those amongst us all Who walked with downcast head, And knew that, had each got his due, They should have died instead : He had but killed a thing that lived. Whilst they had killed the dead. For he who sins a second time Wakes a dead soul to pain. And draws it from its spotted shroud. And makes it bleed again. And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, And makes it bleed in vain ! Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb With crooked arrows starred. Silently we went round and round The slippery asphalt yard ; Silently we v/ent round and round And no man spoke a word. Silently we went round and round, And through each hollow mind The Memory of dreadful things Rushed like a dreadful wind, And Honor stalked before each man, And Terror crept behind. The Warders strutted up and down, And kept their herd of brutes. Their uniforms were spick and span, Thej' wore their Sunday suits, But we knew the work they had been at, By the quicklime on their boots. For where a grave had opened wide. There was no grave at all : Only a stretch of mud and sand By the hideoTis prison-wall. And all the while the burning lime That the man should have his pall. 446 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE For he has a pall, this wretched man, Such as few men can claim : Deep down below a prison-yard, Naked for greater shame, He lies, with fetters on each foot, Wrapped in a sheet of flame ! And all the while the burning lime Eats flesh and bone away, It eats the brittle bone by night, And the soft flesh by day, It eats the flesh and bone by turns. But it eats the heart alway. For three long years they will not sow Or root or seedling there : For three long years the unblessed spot Will sterile be and bare, And look upon the wondering sky With unreproachful stare. They think a murderer's heart would taint Each simple seed they sow. It is not true ! God's kindly earth Is kindlier than men know. And the red rose would but blow more red, The white rose whiter blow. Out of his mouth a red, red rose! Out of his heart a white 1 For who can say by what strange way Christ brings his will to light. Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore Bloomed in the great Pope's sight? But neither milk-white rose nor red May bloom in prison air ; The shard, the pebble, and the flint, Are what they give us there : For flowers have been known to heal A common man's despair. So never will wine-red rose or white Petal by petal, fall On that stretch of mud and sand that lies By that hideous prison-wall, To tell the men who tramp the yard That God's Son died for all. OSCAR WILDE 447 Yet though the hideous prison-wall Still hems him round and round, And a spirit may not walk by night That is with fetters bound, And a spirit may but weep that lies In such unholy ground, He is at peace — this wretched man — At peace, or will be soon : There is no thing to make him mad, Nor does Terror walk at noon, For the lampless Earth in which he lies Has neither Sun nor Moon. They hanged him as a beast is hanged : They did not even toll A requiem that might have brought Rest to his startled soul. But hurriedly they took him out, And hid him in a hole. They stripped him of his canvas clothes. And gave him to the flies : They mocked the swollen purple throat. And the stark and staring ryes : And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud In which their convict lies. The Chaplain would not kneel to pray By his dishonoured grave : Nor mark it with that blessed Cross That Christ for sinners gave. Because the man was one of those Whom Christ came down to save. Yet all is well ; he has but passed To Life's appointed bourne : And alien tears will fill for him Pity's long-broken urn, For his mourners will be outcast men, And outcasts always mourn. I know not whether Laws be right, Or whether Laws be wrong ; AH tVi'>t wp know who He in jail Is that the wall is strong; And that each day is like a year, A year whose days are long. 448 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE But this I know, that every Law That men have made for Man, Since first Man took his brother's life, And this sad world began, But straws the wheat and saves the chafT With a most evil fan. This too I know — and wise it were H each could know the same — That every prison that men build Is built with bricks of shame, And bound with bars lest Christ should see How men their brothers maim. With bars they blur the gracious moon, And blind the goodly sun : And they do well to hide their Hell, For in it things are done That Son of God nor son of Man Ever should look upon ! The vilest deeds like poison weeds Bloom well in prison-air : It is only what is good in Man That wastes and withers there : Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate, And the Warder is Despair. For they starve the little frightened child. Till it weeps both night and day : And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, And gibe the old and gray. And some grow mad, and all grow bad, And none a word may say. Each narrow cell in which we dwell Is a foul and dark latrine. And the fetid breath of living Death Chokes up each grated screen. And all, but Lust, is turned to dust In Humanity's machine. The brackish water that we drink Creeps with a loathsome slime. And the bitter bread they weigh in scales Is full of chalk and lime. And Sleep will not lie down, but walks Wild-ej^ed, and cries to Time. OSCAR WILDE 449 But though lean Hunger and green Thirst Like asp with adder fight, We have httlc care of prison fare, For what chills and kills outright Is that every stone one lifts by day Becomes one's heart by night. With midnight always fn one's heart, And twilight in one's cell, We turn the crank, or tear the rope, Each in his separate Hell. And the silence is more awful far Than the sound of a brazen bell. And never a human voice comes near To speak a gentle word : And the eye that watches through the door Is pitiless and hard : And by all forgot, we rot and rot, With soul and body marred. And thus we rust Life's iron chain. Degraded and alone : And some men curse, and some men weep. And some men make no moan : But God's eternal Laws are kind And break the heart of stone. And every human heart that breaks, In prison-cell or yard, Is as that broken box that gave Its treasure to the Lord, And filled the unclean leper's house With the scent of costliest nard. Ah ! happy they whose hearts can break And peace of pardon win!_ How else may man make straight his plan And cleanse his soul from Sin? How else but through a broken heart May Lord Christ enter in? And he of the swollen purple throat. And the stark and staring eyes, Waits for the holy hands that took The Thief to Paradise ;_ And a broken and a contrite heart The Lord will not despise. 450 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The man in red who reads the Law Gave him three weeks of life. Three little weeks in which to heal His soul of his soul's strife, And cleanse from every blot of blood The hand that held the knife. And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, The hand that held the steel : For only blood can wipe out blood, And only tears can heal : And the crimson stain that was of Cain Became Christ's snow-white seal. In Reading gaol by Reading town There is a pit of shame. And in it lies a wretched man Eaten by teeth of flame, In a burning winding-sheet he lies And his grave has got no name. And there, till Christ call forth the dead. In silence let him lie : No need to waste the foolish tear, Or heave the windy sigh : The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die. And all men kill the thing they love, By all let this be heard. Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word. The coward does it with a kiss. The brave man with a sword 1 Requ'iescat THREAD lightly, she is near, Under the snow ; Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust. She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. OSCAR WILDE 451 Lily-like, white as snow. She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone* Lie on her breast; I vex my heart alone, She is at rest. Peace, peace ; she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet ; All my life's buried here — Heap earth upon it. Sonnet to Liberty ■^"OT that I love thy children, whose dull eyes •'■^ See nothing but their own unlovely woe, Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know, — But that the roar of thy Democracies, Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies, Mirror my wildest passions like the sea And give my rage a brother 1 Liberty 1 For this sake only do thy dissonant cries Delight my discreet soul, else might all kings By bloody knout or treacherous cannonades Rob nations of their rights inviolate And I remain unmoved — and yet, and yet. These Christs that die upon the barricades, God knows it I am with them, in some things. On the Recent Sale by Auction of Keats' Love Letters 'T'HESE are the letters which Endymion wrote To one he loved in secret and apart. And now the brawlers of the auction mart Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note. Aye ! for each separate pulse of passion quote The merchant's price. I think they love not art Who break the crystal of a poet's heart That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat. Is it not said that many years ago. In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran With torches through the midnight, and began To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw Dice for the garments of a wretched man. Not knowing the God's wonder, or His woe. 452 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The Harlot's House "fX^E caupht the tread of dancing feet, ' ' We loitered down the moonlit street, And stopped beneath the Harlot's house. Inside, above the din and fray, We heard the loud musicians play The "Treues Liebes Herz," of Strauss. Like strange mechanical grotesques, Making fantastic arabesques, The shadows raced across the blind. We watched the ghostly dances spin To sound of horn and violin, Like black leaves wheeling in the wind. Like wire-pulled automatons. Slim silhouetted skeletons Went sidling through the slow quadrille. Then took each other by the hand, And danced a stately saraband ; Their laughter echoed thin and shrill. Sometimes a clock-work puppet pressed A phantom lover to her breast. Sometimes they seemed to try to sing. Sometimes a horrible marionette Came out, and smoked its cigarette Upon the steps, like a live thing. Then turning to my love I said, "The dead are dancing with the dead, The dust is whirling with the dust." But she, she heard the violin, And left my side and entered in : Love passed into the house of lust. Then suddenly the tune went false, The dancers wearied of the waltz, The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl. And down the long and silent street, The dawn with silver-sandalled feet. Crept like a frightened girl. JOHN DAVIDSON 453 JOHN DAVIDSON (1857-1909) A Ballad of a Nun pROM Eastertide to Eastertide •'■ For ten long: years her patient knees Engraved the stones — the fittest bride Of Christ in all the diocese. She conquered every earthly lust; The abbess loved her more and more; And, as mark of perfect trust, Made her the keeper of the door. High on a hill the convent hung, Across a duchy looking down. Where everlasting mountains flung Their shadows over tower and town. The jewels of their lofty snows In constellations flashed at night; Above their crests the moon arose ; The deep earth shuddered with delight. Long ere she left her cloudy bed. Still dreaming in the orient land. On many a mountain's happy head Dawn lightly laid her rosy hand. The adventurous sun took Heaven by storm ; Clouds scattered largesses of rain ; The sounding cities, rich and warm, Smouldered and glittered in the plain. Sometimes it was a wandering wind. Sometimes the fragrance of the pine, Sometimes the thought how others sinned, That turned her sweet blood into wine. Sometimes she heard a serenade Complaining sweetly far away: She said, "A young man woos a maid"; And dreamt of love till break of day. Then would she ply her knotted scourge Until she swooned ; but evermore She had the same red sin to purge. Poor, passionate keeper of the door! 4o4 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE For still night's starry scroll unfurled, And still the day came like a flood : It was the greatness of the world That made her long to use her blood. In winter-time when Lent drew nigh, And hill and plain were wrapped in snow, She watched beneath the frosty sky The nearest city nightly glow. Like peals of airy bells outworn Faint laughter died above her head In gusts of broken music borne: "They keep the Carnival," she said. Her hungry heart devoured the town : "Heaven save me by a miracle ! Unless God sends an angel down, Thither I go though it were Hell." She dug her nails deep in her breast, Sobbed, shrieked, and straight withdrew the bar: A fledgling flying from the nest, A pale moth rushing to a star. Fillet and veil in strips she tore ; Her golden tresses floated wide ; The ring and bracelet that she wore As Christ's betrothed, she cast aside. "Life's dearest meaning I shall probe ; Lo ! I shall taste of love at last! Away!" She doffed her outer robe. And sent it sailing down the blast. Her body seemed to warm the wii;id ; With bleeding feet o'er ice she ran ; "I leave the righteous God behind ; I go to worship sinful man." She reached the sounding city's gate ; No question did the warder ask : He passed her in : "Welcome, wild mate 1" He thought her some fantastic mask. Half-naked through the town she went; Each footstep left a bloody mark ; Crowds followed her with looks intent ; Her bright eyes made the torches dark. JOHN DAVIDSON 455 Alone and watching in the street There stood a grave youth nobly dressed ; To him she knelt and kissed his feet ; Her face her great desire confessed. Straight to his house the nun he led : "Strange lady, what would you with me?" "Your love, your love, sweet lord," she said ; "I bring you my virginity." He healed her bosom with a kiss ; She gave him all her passion's hoard ; And sobbed and murmured ever, "This Is life's great meaning, dear, my lord. "I care not for my broken vow ; Though God should come in thunder soon, I am sister to the mountains now. And sister to the sun and moon." Through all the towns of Belmarie She made a progress like a queen. "She is," they said, "whate'er she be, The strangest woman ever seen. "From fairyland she must have come, Or else she is a mermaiden." Some said she was a ghoul, and some A heathen goddess born again. But soon her fire to ashes burned ; Her beauty changed to haggardness ; Her golden hair to silver turned ; The hour came of her last caress. At midnight from her lonely bed She rose, and said, "I have had my will." The old ragged robe she donned, and fled Back to the convent on the hill. Half-naked as she went before, She hurried to the city wall, Unnoticed in the rush and roar And splendour of the carnival. No question did the warder ask: Her ragged robe, her shrunken limb, Her dreadful eyes! "It is no mask; It is a she-wolf, gaunt and grim !" 456 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE She ran across the icy plain ; Her worn blood curdled in the blast ; Each footstep left a crimson stain ; The white-faced moon looked on aghast. She said between her chattering jaws, "Deep peace is mine, I cease to strive; Oh, comfortable convent laws, That bury foolish nuns alive 1 "A trowel for mj^ passing-bell, A little bed within the wall, A coverlet of stones; how well I there shall keep the Carnival !" Like tired bells chiming in their sleep. The wind faint peals of laughter bore : She stopped her ears and climbed the steep, And thundered at the convent door. It opened straight ; she entered in, And at the wardress' feet fell prone: "I come to purge away my sin ; Bury me, close me up in stone." The wardress raised her tenderly ; She touched her wet and fast-shut eyes : "Look, sister ; sister, look at me : Look, can j'ou see through my disguise?" She looked and saw her own sad face. And trembled, wondering, "Who art thou?" "God sent me down to fill your place : I am the Virgin Mary now." And with the word, God's mother shone : The wanderer whispered, "Mary, hail !" The vision helped her to put on Bracelet and fillet, ring and veil. "You are sister to the mountains now, And sister to the day and night ; Sister to God." And on the brow She kissed her thrice, and left her sight. While dreaming in her cloudy bed. Far in the crimson orient land. On many a mountain's happy head Dawn lightly laid her rosy hand. JOHN DAVIDSON 457 Butterflies AT sixteen years she knew no care; How could she, sweet and pure as light? And there pursued her everywhere Butterflies all white. A lover looked. She dropped her eyes That glowed like pansies wet with dew ; And lo, there came from out the skies Butterflies all blue. Before she guessed her heart was gone; The tale of love was swiftly told; And all about her wheeled and shone Butterflies all gold. Then he forsook her one sad morn ; She wept and sobbed, "Oh, love, come back!" There only came to her forlorn Butterflies all black. From "The Testament of John Davidson" "^"ONE should outlive his power. . . . Who kills Himself subdues the conqueror of kings: Exempt from death is he who takes his life: My time has come. . . . By my own will alone The ethereal substance, which I am, attained, And now by my own sovereign will, forgoes, Seif-consciousness ; and thus are men supreme. No other living thing can choose to die. This franchise and this high prerogative I show the world : — Men are the Universe Aware at last, and must not live in fear, Slaves of the seasons, padded, bolstered up, Clystered and drenched and dieted and drugged ; Or hateful victims of senilitj'. Toothless and like an infant checked and schooled; Or in the dungeon of a sick room drained By some tabescent horror in their prime ; But when the tide of life begins to turn, Before the treason of the ebbing wave Divulges refuse and the barren shore, Upon the very period of the flood, Stand out to sea and bend our weathered sail, Against the sunset, valiantly resolved To win the heaven of eternal night. 458 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE From "Fleet Street Eclogues'' AT early dawn through London you must go Until you come where long black hedgerows grow, With pink buds pearled, with here and there a tree. And gates and stiles; and watch good country folk; And scent the spicy smoke Of withered weeds that burn where gardens be ; And in a ditch perhaps a primrose see. The rocks shall stalk the plough, larks mount the skies, Blackbirds and speckled thrushes sing aloud, Hid in the warm white cloud Mantling the thorn, and far away shall rise The milky low of cows and farmyard cries. From windy heavens the climbing sun shall shine, And February greet you like a maid In russet-cloak arrayed ; And you shall take her for your mistress fine, And pluck a crocus for her valentine. E. NESBIT (MRS. HUBERT BLAND) (1858- ) TF on some balmy summer night You rowed across the moon-path white. And saw the shining sea grow fair With silver scales and golden hair — What would you do? I would be wise And shut my ears and shut my eyes, Lest I should leap into the tide And clasp the sea-maid as I died. But, if you thus were strong to flee From sweet spells woven of moon and sea. Are you quite sure that you would reach, Without one backward look the beach? I might look back, my dear, aijd then Row_ straight into the snare again ; Or, if I safely got away — Regret it to my dying day. WILLIAM WATSON (1858- ) Song A PRIL, April, ■^^ Laugh thy girlish laughter ; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears I WILLIAM WATSON 459 April, that mine ears Like a lover grcetest, If I tell thee, sweetest. All my hopes and fears, April, April, Laugh thy golden laughter, But, the moment after, Weep thy golden tears ! From "JVordsworth's Grave' 'T'HE old rude church, with bare, bald tower, is here; Beneath its shadow high-born Rotha flows ; Rotha, remembering well who slumbers near, And with cool murmur lulling his repose. Rotha, remembering well who slumbers near. His hills, his lakes, his streams are with him yet. Surely the heart that reads her own heart clear Nature forgets not soon : 'tis we forget. We that with vagrant soul his fixity Have slighted; faithless, done his deep faith wrong; Left him for poorer loves, and bowed the knee To misbegotten strange new gods of song. Yet, led by hollow ghost or beckoning elf Far from her homestead to the desert bourn, The vagrant soul returning to herself Wearily wise, must needs to him return. To him and to the powers that with him dwell :— Inflowings that divulged not whence they came ; And that secluded Spirit unknowable. The mystery we make darker with a name : The Somewrhat which we name but cannot know, Even as We name a star and only see His quenchless flashings forth, which ever show And ever hide him, and which are not he. Poet who sleepest by this wandering wave! When thou wast born, what birth-gift hadst thou then? To thee what wealth was that the Immortals gave, The wealth thou gavest in thy turn to men? 460 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Not Milton's keen, translunar music thine ; Not Shakespeare's cloudless, boundless human view; Not Shelley's flush of rose on peaks divine ; Nor yet the wizard twilight Coleridge knew. What hadst thou that could make so large amends For all thou hadst not and thy peers possessed, Motion and fire, swift means to radiant ends? — Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest. From Shelley's dazzling glow or thunderous haze, From Byron's tempest-anger, tempest-mirth. Men turned to thee and found — not blast and blaze, Tumult of tottering heavens, but peace on earth. Nor peace that grows by Lethe, scentless flower. There in white languors to decline and cease ; But peace whose names are also rapture, power, Clear sight, and love : for these are parts of peace. Abridged. From "Epigrams" 'X'HE beasts in field are glad, and have not wit To know why leap'd their hearts when spring-time shone. Man looks at his own bliss, considers it. Weighs it with curious fingers ; and 'tis gone. * I ""HINK not thy wisdom can illume away The ancient tanglement of night and day. Enough, to acknowledge both, and both revere : They see not clearliest who see all things clear. A/JOMENTOUS to himself as I to mc Hath each man been that ever woman bore ; Once, in a lightning-flash of sympathy, I felt this truth, an instant, and no more. {After Reading "Tambcrlaine the Great") T close your Marlowe's page, my Shakespeare's ope. How welcome — after gong and cymbal's din — The continuity, the long slow slope And vast curves of the gradual violin ! WILLIAM WATSON 461 (Shelley and Harriet IVesthrook) A great star stoop'd from heaven and loved a flower ■^^ Grown in earth's garden — loved it for an hour: Let eyes which trace his orhit in the spheres Refuse not, to a ruin'd rosebud, tears. {To a foolish IVise Man) TPHE world's an orange — thou hast suck'd its juice ; But wherefore all this pomp and pride and puffing? Somehow a goose is none the less a goose Though moon and stars be minc'd to yield it stuffing. J tit limn TPHOU burden of all songs the earth hath sung, Thou retrospect in Time's reverted eyes, Thou metaphor of everything that dies, That dies ill-starred, or dies beloved and young And therefore blest and wise, — O be less beautiful, or be less brief. Thou magic splendour, strange, and full of fear I In vain her pageant shall the Summer rear? At thy mute signal, leaf by golden leaf. Crumbles the gorgeous year. Ah, ghostly as remembered mirth, the tale Of Summer's bloom, the legend of the Spring! And thou, too. flutterest an impatient wing, Thou presence yet more fugitive and frail. Thou most unbodied thing. Whose very being is thy going hence. And passage and departure all thy theme ; Whose life doth still a splendid dying seem, And thou at height of thy magnificence A figment and a dream. Stilled is the virgin rapture that was June, And cold is August's panting heart of fire; And in the storm-dismantled forest-choir For thine own elegy thy winds attune Their wild and wizard lyre : And poignant grows the charm of thy decay, The pathos of thy beauty, and the sting, Thou parable of greatness vanishing! For me, thy woods of gold and skies of grey With speech fantastic ring. 462 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE For me, to dreams resigned, there come and go, 'Twixt mountains draped and hooded night and morn, Elusive notes in wandering wafture borne, From undiscoverable lips that blow An immaterial horn ; And spectral seem thy winter-boding trees, Thy ruinous bowers and drifted foliage wet— O Past and Future in sad bridal met, O voice of everything that perishes, And soul of all regret! Nightmare {Written During Apparent Im- minence of JFar) TN a false dream I saw the Foe prevail. The war was ended : the last smoke had rolled Away: and we, erewhile the strong and bold, Stood broken, humbled, withered, weak and pale, And moaned, "Our greatness is become a tale To tell our children's babes when we are old. They shall put by their playthings to be told How England once, before the years of bale, Throned above trembling, puissant, grandiose, calm, Held Asia's richest jewel in her palm; And with unnumbered isles barbaric she The broad hem of her glistening robe impearled ; Then, when she wound her arms about the world, And had for vassal the obsequious sea." To the Sultan /^ALIPH. I did thee wrong. I hailed thee late "Abdul the Damned", and would recall my word. It merged thee with the unillustrious herd Who crowd the approaches to the infernal gate — Spirits gregarious, equal in their state As is the innumerable ocean bird, Gannet or gull, whose wandering plaint is heard On Ailsa or lona desolate. For, in a world where cruel deeds abound, The merely damned are legion: with such souls Is not each hollow and cranny of Tophet crammed? Thou, with the brightest of Hell's aureoles Dost shine supreme, incomparably crowned, Immortally, beyond all mortals, damned. ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN 463 ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN (1859- ) From "A Shropshire Lad'* **TS my team ploughing, That I was used to drive And hear the harness jingle When I was man alive?" Ay, the horses trample, The harness jingles now; No change though you lie under The land you used to plough. "Is football playing Along the river shore, With lads to chase the leather, Now I stand up no more?" Ay, the ball is flying. The lads play heart and soul; The goal stands up, the keeper Stands up to keep the goal. "Is my girl happy, That I thought hard to leave, And has she tired of weeping As she lies down at eve?" Ay. she lies down lightly, She lies not down to weep : Your girl is well contented. Be still, my lad, and sleep, "Is my friend hearty, Now I am thin and pine, And has he found to sleep in A better bed than mine?" Yes, lad, I lie easy, I lie as lads would choose; I cheer a dead man's sweetheart, Never ask me whose. The Power of Malt "^^"W^, if 'tis dancing you would be. There's brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, 464 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh, mail}' a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God's ways to man. Ale, man, ale's the stuiif to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think : Look into the pewter pot To see the world as the world's not. With Rue My Heart Is Laden "17[^ITH rue my heart is laden ' ' For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipt maiden And many a lightfoot lad. By brooks too broad for leaping The lightfoot boys are laid ; The rose-lipt girls are sleeping In fields where roses fade. FRANCIS THOMPSON (1860-1907) The Hound of Heaven T fled Him, down the nights and down the days ; I fled Him, down the arches of the j^ears ; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes I sped; And shot, precipitated Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears, From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. But with unhurrying chase, And unperturbed pace. Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, They beat — and a Voice beat More instant than the Feet — "All things betray thee, who betrayest Me." I pleaded, outlaw-wise, By many a hearted casement, curtained red, Trellised with intertwining charities ; (For, though I knew His love Who followed, Yet was I sore adread Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside) ; FRANCIS THOMPSON 465 But, if one little casement parted wide, The gust of His approach would clash it to. Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue. Across the margent of the world I fled, And troubled the gold gateways of the stars, Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars ; Fretted to dulcet jars And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon. I said to dawn. Be sudden ; to eve, Be soon ; With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over From this tremendous Lover I Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see ! I tempted all His servitors, but to find My own betrayal in their constancy. In faith to Him their fickleness to me. Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit. To all swift things for swiftness did I sue; Clung to the whistling mane of every wind. But whether they swept, smoothly fleet, The long savannahs of the blue ; Or whether, Thunder-driven, They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven Flashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet : — Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue. Still with unhurrying chase, And unperturbed pace. Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, Came on the following Feet, And a Voice above their beat — "Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me." I sought no more that after which I strayed In face of man or maid; But still within the little children's eyes Seems something, something that replies ; They at least are for me, surely for me I I turned me to them very wistfully; But, just as their young eyes grew sudden fair With dawning answers there, Their angel plucked them from me by the hair. "Come then, ye other children, Nature's— share With me" (said I) "your delicate fellowship; Let me greet you lip to lip. Let me twine you with caresses, Wantoning With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses, Banqueting With her in her wind-walled palace. Underneath her azure dais. Quaffing, as your taintless way is. 466 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE From a chalice Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring." So it was done : I in their delicate fellowship was one- Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies. I knew all the swift importings On the wilful face of skies, I knew how the clouds arise Spumed of the wild sea-snortings ; All that's born or dies Rose and drooped with — made them shapers Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine — With them joyed and was bereaven. I was heavy with the even, When she lit her glimmering tapers Round the day's dead sanctities. I laughed in the morning's eyes. I triumphed and I saddened with all weather, Heaven and I wept together, And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine; Against the red throb of its sunset-heart I laid my own to beat, And share commingling heat ; But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's gray cheek. For ah ! we know not what each other says, These thmgs and I ; in sound / speak — Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth ; Let her, if she would owe me. Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me The breasts o' her tenderness : Never did any milk of hers once bless My thirstmg mouth. Nigh and dry draws the chase, With unperturbed pace. Deliberate speed, majestic instancy; And past those noised Feet A voice comes yet more fleet — "Lo ! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me." Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke ! My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, And smitten me to my knee ; I am defenseless utterly. I slept, methinks, and woke, And. slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash lustihood of my young powers, I shook the pillaring hours FRANCIS THOMPSON 467 And pulled my life upon me ; grimed with smears I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years — My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. Yea, faileth now each dream The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist; Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, Are yielding; cords of all too weak account For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. Ah I is Thy love mdeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah ! must — Designer infinite ! — Ah 1 must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust: And now my heart is as a broken fount. Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever From the dank thoughts that shiver Upon the sighful branches of my mind. Such is; what is to be? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind? I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds: Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds From the hid battlements of Eternity; Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again. But not ere him who summoneth I first have seen, enwound With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned; His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. Whether man's heart or life it be that yields Thre harvest, must Thy harvest fields Be dunged with rotten death? Now of that long pursuit Comes on at hand the bruit ; That Voice is round me like a bursting sea. "And is thy earth so marred, Shattered in shard on shard? Lo, all things fly thee, for thou flyest Me! Strnnpe. piteous, futile thing. Wherefore should any set thee love apart? Seeing none but I makes much of naught" ("He said), "And human love needs human meriting: How hast thou merited — Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot? Alack, thou knowest not 468 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE How little worthy of any love thou art! Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee Save Me, save only Me? All which I took from thee, I did but take, Not for thy harms, But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms. All which thy child's mistake Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home ; Rise, clasp My hand, and come 1" Halts by me that footfall: Is my gloom, after all. Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly? "Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, I am He Whom thou seekest ! Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me." To a Snowflake "^l/'HAT heart could have thought you? — Past our devisal (O filigree petal!) Fashioned so purely Fragilely, surely, From what Paradisal Imagineless metal, Too costly for cost? Who hammered you, wrought you, From argentine vapour? — "God was my shapcr, Passing surmisal. He hammered, He wrought me, From curled silver vapour, To lust of His Mind : — Thou could'st not have thought me I So purely, so palely, Tinily. surely. Mightily, frailly Insculped and embossed, With His hammer of wind And His graver of frost." Arab Love-Song TTHE hunched camels of the night Trouble the bright And silver waters of the moon. The maiden of the moon will soon Through Heaven stray and sing, Star gathering. FRANCIS THOMPSON 469 Now while the dark about our love is strewn, Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come! And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb. Leave thy father, leave thy mother And thy brother ; Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart 1 Am I not thy father and thy brother. And thy mother? And thou — what needest with thy tribe's black tents Who hast the red pavilion of my heart? Daisy ■^X/TIERE the thistle lifts a purple crown "^ Six foot out of the turf. And the harebell shakes on the windy hill — O the breath of the distant surf! — The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea. And with the sea-breeze hand in hand Came innocence and she. Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs. Two children did we stray and talk Wise, idle, childish things. She listened with big-lipped surprise. Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine : Her skin was like a grape, whose veins Run snow instead of wine. She knew not those sweet words she spake, Nor knew her own sweet way; But there's never a bird, so sweet a song Thronged in whose throat that day. Oh, there were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the spray; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills Was the daisy-flower that day! Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face She gave me tokens three : — A look, a word of her winsome mouth, And a wild raspberry. 470 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE A berry red, a guileless look, A still word, — strings of sand ! And yet they made my wild, wild heart Fly down to her little hand. For standing artless as the air, And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes. The fairest things have fleetest end, Their scent survives their close: But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose. She looked a little wistfully. Then went her sunshine way: — The sea's eye had a mist on it. And the leaves fell from the day. She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me The pang of all the partings gone And partings yet to be. She left me marvelling why my soul Was sad that she was glad ; At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad. Still, still I seemed to see her, still Look up with soft replies. And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes. Nothing begins, and nothing ends. That is not paid with moan ; For we are born in others' pain. And perish in our own. ROBINSON KAY LEATHER Advice to a Boy "DOY, should you meet a pretty wench unseen, alone, at twilight hour, ask not her name ; for on the crowded street at noon she ill could brook the glare and gaze, CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS 471 and Jack and Bill would call her plain, and it were nothing but a dream, and j'ou would wake. Ask no forget-me-not. nor name a tr>'Sting-place, for she will change, and you will change: but if upon your memory no single detail you imprint, perchance will come into your mind her witchery all unawares, at twilight hour. CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS (i860- ) Recessional I^OW along the solemn heights ■^^ Fade the Autumn's altar-lights ; Down the great earth's glimmering chancel Glide the days and nights. Little kindred of the grass, Like a shadow in a glass Falls the dark and falls the stillness ; We must rise and pass. We must rise and follow, wending Where the nights and days have ending, — Pass in order pale and slow Unto sleep extending. Little brothers of the clod. Soul of fire and seed of sod. We must fare into the silence At the knees of God. Little comrades of the sky Wing to wing we wander by Going, going, going, going, Softly as a sigh. Hark, the moving shapes confer, Globe of dew and gossamer, Fading and ephemeral spirits In the dusk astir. Moth and blossom, blade and bee. Worlds must go as well as we, In the long procession joining Mount, and star, and sea. 472 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Toward the shadowy brink we climb Where the round year rolls sublime, Rolls, and drops, and falls forever In the vast of time; Like a plummet plunging deep Past the utmost reach of sleep, Till remembrance has no longer Care to laugh or weep. An Epitaph on a Husbandman "LIE who would start and rise Before the crowing cocks — No more he lifts his eyes. Whoever knocks. He who before the stars Would call the cattle home, — They wait about the bars For him to come. Him at whose hearty calls The farmstead woke again The horses in their stalls Expect in vain. Busy, and blithe, and bold. He labotired for the morrow, — The plough his hands would hold Rusts in the furrow. His fields he had to leave, His orchards cool and dim ; The clods he used to cleave Now cover him. But the green, growing things Lean kindly to his sleep, — White roots and wandering strings. Closer they creep. Because he loved them long And with them bore his part, Tenderly now they throng About his heart. JUSTIN HUNTLF.Y McCARTHY 473 The Cricket ^^H, to be a cricket, ^^ That's the thing! To scurry in the grass And to have one's fling! And it's oh, to be a cricket In the warm thistle-thicket, Where the sun-winds pass, Winds a-wing, And the bumble-bees hang humming Hum and swing. And the honey-drops are coming! Abridged. The Frosted Pane /^NE night came Winter noiselessly and leaned ^^ Against my window-pane. In the deep stillness of his heart convened The ghosts of all his slain. Leaves and ephemera, and stars of earth. And fugitives of grass, — White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth. He drew them on the glass. JUSTIN HUNTLEY McCARTHY (i860- ) To Ofjiar Khayyam /^MAR, dear Sultan of the Persian Song, ^^ Familiar Friend whom I have loved so long. Whose Volume made my pleasant Hiding-place From this fantastic World of Right and Wrong. My Youth lies buried in thy Verses : lo, I read, and as the haunted Numbers flow. My Memory turns in anguish to the Face That leaned o'er Omar's pages long ago. Alas for Me, alas for all who weep And wonder at the Silence dark and deep That girdles round this little Lamp in space No wiser than when Omar fell asleep. Rest in thy Grave beneath the crimson rain Of heart-desired Roses. Life is vain, And vain the trembling Legends we may trace Upon the open Book that shuts again. 474 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE // / Were King ( After Villon) TF I were king — ah, love, if I were king! "*• What tributary nations would I bring To stoop before j^our sceptre and to swear Allegiance to your lips and eyes and hair. Beneath your feet what treasures I would fling : — The stars should be your pearls upon a string, The world a ruby for your finger ring, And you should have the sun and moon to wear If I were king. Let these wild dreams and wilder words take wing, Deep in the woods I hear a shepherd sing A simple ballad to a sylvan air, Of love that ever finds your face more fair. I could not give you any godlier thing If I were king. BLISS CARMAN (1861- ) Spring Song lY^'AKE me over, Mother April, ■*• When the sap begins to stir ! . . . When thy flowery hand delivers All the mountain-prisoned rivers. And thy great heart beats and quivers To revive the days that were, Make me over. Mother April, When the sap begins to stir ! . . . Set me in the urge and tide-drift Of the streaming hosts a-wine! Breast of scarlet, throat of yellow. Raucous challenge, wooings mellow— Every migrant is my fellow. Making northward with the spring. Set me in the urge and tide-drift Of the streaming hosts a-wing! . . . Make me over. Mother April, When the sap begins to stir! Fashion me from swamp or meadow, Garden plot or ferny shadow, Hyacirth or humble burr! Make me over. Mother April, When the sap begins to stir! ■% BLISS CARMAN 475 Let me hear the far, low summons, When the silver winds return ; Rills that run and streams that stammer, Goldenwing with his loud hammer, Icy hrooks that brawl and clamor, Where the Indian willows burn ; Let me hearken to the calling, When the silver winds return. . . . For I have no choice of being, When the sap begins to climb,— Strong insistence, sweet intrusion, Vasts and verges of illusion, — So I win, to time's confusion. The one perfect pearl of time, Joy and joy and joy forever. Till the sap forgets to climb! . . . Let me taste the old immortal Indolence of life once more ; Not recalling nor foreseeing,^ Let the great slow joys of being Well my heart through as of yore I Let me taste the old immortal Indolence of life once more I Give me the old drink for rapture. The delirium to drain, All my fellows drank in plenty At the Three Score Inns and Twenty From the mountains to the main ! Give me the old drink for rapture, The delirium to drain ! Only make me over, April,_ When the sap begins to stir ! Make me man or make me woman, Make me oaf or ape or human. Cup of flower or cone of fir; Make me anything but neuter When the sap begins to stir I Abridged. Ballad of John Camplejohn "■^XTHAT do you sell, John Camplejohn, ^^ In Bav-Street bv the sea?" "Oh, turtle-shell is what I sell In great variety. 476 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "Trinkets and combs and rosaries, All keepsakes of the sea; 'Tis choose and buy what takes the eye In such a treasury." "'Tis none of these, John Camplejohn, Tho' curious they be : But something more I'm looking for, In Bay-Street by the sea, "Where can I buy the magic charm Of the Bahamian Sea, That fills mankind with peace of mind And soul's felicity? "Now what do you sell, John Camplejohn, In Baj^-Strcet b}^ the sea, Tinged ' with that true and native blue. Of lapis lazuli? "Look from j'our door and tell me now The colour of the sea — Where can I buy the wondrous dye And take it home with me? "And where can I buy that rustling sound In this city by the sea. Of the plumy palms in their high blue calms; Or the stately poise and free? "Of the bearers who go up and down Silent as mystery, Burden on head, with naked tread In the white streets by the sea? "And where can I buy, John Camplejohn, In Bay-Street by the sea? The sunlight's fall on the old pink wall Or the gold of the orange tree?" "Ah, that is more than I've heard tell In Bay-Street by the sea, Since I began, my roving man, A trafficker to be. "As sure as I'm John Camplejohn, And Bay-Street's by the sea. Those things for gold have not been sold Within my memory. KATHERINE TYNAN HINKSON 477 "But what would you give, my roving man, From countries over the sea, For the things you name the life of the same. And the power to bid them be?" "I'd give my hand, John Camplejohn, In Bay-Street by the sea, For the smallest dower of that dear power, To paint the things I see." "My roving man, I never heard, On any land or sea, Under the sun, of any one \ Could sell that power to thee." "'Tis sorry news, John Camplejohn, If this be destiny. That every mart should know that art. Yet none can sell it me. "But look you here's the Grace of God ; There's neither price nor fee, Duty nor toil, that can control The power to love and see. "To each his luck, John Camplejohn, No less, and as for me. Give me the pay of an idle day In Bay-Street by the sea." Envoy Have little care that Life is brief. And less that Art is long. Success is in the silences Though fame is in the song. . . . Abridged. KATHERINE TYNAN HINKSON (1861- ) The Desire /^TVE me no mansions ivory white ^^ Nor palaces of pearl and gold; Give me a child for all delight. Just four years old. 478 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Give me no w?ngs of rosy shine Nor snowy raiment, fold on fold. Give me a little boy all mine, Just four years old. Give me no gold and starry crown Nor harps, nor palm branches unrolled; Give me a nestling head of brown, Just four years old. Give me a cheek that's like the peach, Two arms to clasp me from the cold ; And all my heaven's within my reach, Just four years old. Dear God, You give me from Your skies A little paradise to hold. As Mary once her Paradise, Just four years old. SIR OWEN SEAMAN (1861- ) To a Boy-Poet of the Decadence (Showing curious reversal of epigram — "La na- ture I'a fait sanglier; la civilisation I'a reduit a I'etat de cochon.") T5UT, my good little man, you have made a mistake If you really are pleased to suppose That the Thames is alight with the lyrics you make ; We could all do the same if we chose. From Solomon down, we may read, as we run. On the ways of a man and a maid ; There is nothing that's new to us under the sun. And certainly not in the shade. The erotic affairs that yon fiddle aloud Are as vulgar as coin of the mint; And you merely distinguish yourself from the crowd By the fact that you put 'em in print. You're a 'prentice, my boy, in the primitive stage, And you itch, like a boy, to confess: When you know a hit more of the arts of the age You will probably talk a bit less. MAURICE HEWLETT 479 For your dull little vices we don't care a fig, It is this that we deeply deplore : You were cast for a common or usual pig, But you play the invincible bore. MAURICE HEWLETT (1861- ) Flos Virginum T\7"HERE is a holier thin^ ^ In a fair world apparell'd for our bliss Than the pure influence That dwells in a girl's heart And beams from her quiet eyes? Earth has no ministering So lovely, so acceptable or wise, Withal so frail as this ; Which, if man win, it needeth all his art, Lest uncouth violence, Rough mastery, or the tyrannies of earth, Should maim or shatter out With ill-timed speech or flout Her wistful-tender'd balm at very birth. Her Motherhood to be She hides in her child-bosom, as a seed That creepeth to be flower Long ere it f eeleth light : She nurtureth her lover. Within her arms made free. Upon her heart made restful, given over To her most gentle deed. He lieth watcht upon by her grave sight ; And she liveth her hour. Contented to be Mother to this child, Given before her time Assurance whence to climb Up to her real throne of Godhead mild. . . , Ah. frailer than a breath. Sullied sooner, more fatally than glass ! If such most desolate Pitiful lot be hers. That a bnite-sonl possess And goad her to her death : Death were more welcome than the piteousness 480 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Of life, for she would pass Up to the stars, the silent messengers Of God who from his seat Wecpeth for beauty driven down by dearth Of love to peak and fail, To wrmg hands and turn pale. Eyeing dismay'd the shock of her soul's worth. SIR HENRY NEWBOLT (1862- ) Drake's Drum (Sir Francis Drake, I540?-I596) T^ RAKE, he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?). Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe. An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin*, He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), Rovin' though his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease. An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. "Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore. Strike et when your powder's runnin' low ; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago." Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe ; Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin', They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago ! Messmates TJ" E gave us all a good-by cheerily At the first dawn of day; We dropped him down the side full drearily When the light died away. ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON 481 It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there, And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there, Where the Trades and the tides roll over him And the great ships go by. He's there alone with green seas rocking him, For a thousand miles around ; He's there alone with dumb things mocking him, And we're homeward bound. It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there. While the months and the years roll over him And the great ships go by. I wonder if the tramps come near enough, As thej' thrash to and fro, And the battleships' bells ring clear enough To be heard down below ; If through all the lone watch that he's a-keeping there. And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there. The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him When the great ships go by. ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON (1862- ) Prelude XJUSHED is each shout: The reverent people vrait. To see the sacred pomp stream out Beside the temple gate- The bull with garlands hung. Stern priests in vesture grim: With rolling voices swiftly sung-H Peals out the jocund hymn. In front, behind, beside. Beneath the chimney towers, Pass boys that fling the censer wide, And striplings scattering flowers. Victim or minister I dare not claim to be. But in the concourse and the stir, There shall be room for me. The victim feels the stroke : The priests are bowed in prayer : — I feed the porch with fragrant smoke. Strew roses on the stair. 482 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE NORMAN GALE (1862- ) J Love-Song C\ to think, to think as I see her stand there ^^ With the rose that I plucked, in her glorious hair, In the robe that I love, So demure and so neat, I am lord of her lips and her eyes and her feet. O to think, O to think when the last hedge is leapt, When the blood is awakened that dreamingly slept, I shall make her heart throb In its cradle of lace. As the lord of her hair and her breast and her face. to think, O to think when our wedding-bells ring. When our love's at the summer but life's at the spring, I shall guard her asleep As my hound guards her glove, Being lord of her life and her heart and her love! A Creed /^OD sends no message by me. I am mute ^^ When Wisdom crouches in her farthest cave; 1 love the organ, but must touch the lute. . . . No controversies thrust me to the ledge Of dangerous schools and doctrines hard to learn ; Give me the whitethroat whistling in the hedge. Why should I fret myself to find out nought? Dispute can blight the soul's eternal corn And choke its richness with the tares of thought. I am content to know that God is great. And Lord of fish and fowl, of air and sea, — Some little points are misty. Let them wait . . . Abridged. VICTOR PLARR (1863- ) Epitaphiiim Citharistria OTAND not uttering sedately Trite oblivious praise above her I Rather say you saw her lately Lightly kissing her last lover. ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON 483 Whisper not "There is a reason Why we bring her no white blossom :" Since the snowy bloom's in season, Strow it on her sleeping bosom : Oh, for it would be a pity To o'erpraise her or to flout her: She was wild, and sweet, and witty — Let's not say dull things about her. ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON (1863- ) Requiescat "DURY me deep when I am dead, Far from the woods where sweet birds sing; Lap me in sullen stone and lead, Lest my poor dust should feel the Spring. Never a flower be near me set. Nor starry cup nor slender stem, Anemone nor violet, Lest my poor dust remember them. And you — wherever you may fare — Dearer than birds, or flowers, or dew — Never, ah me, pass never there. Lest my poor dust should dream of you. SIR ARTHUR T. QUILLER-COUCH (1863- ) The Splendid Spur "^"OT on the neck of prince or hound, Nor on a woman's finger twined. May gold from the deriding ground Keep sacred that we sacred bind : Only the heel Of splendid steel Shall stand secure on sliding fate, When golden navies weep their freight The scarlet hat, the laureled stave Are measures, not the springs, of worth; In a wife's lap, as in a grave, Man's airy notions mix with earth. Seek other spur Bravely to stir The dust in this loud world, and tread Alp-high among the whispering dead. 484 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Trust in thyself, — then spur amain: So shall Charybdis wear a grace, Grim ^tna laugh, the Libyan plain Take roses to her shriveled face. This orb — this round Of sight and sound — Count it the lists that God hath built For haughty hearts to ride a-tilt. HERBERT P. HORNE (1864- ) A Song "KE not too quick to carve our rhyme And hearts, upon the tree of Time; Lest one swift year prove, in its run. They were but lines, and poorly done. That longest lived, which longest grows In stillness, and by sure degrees : So rest you. Sweet ; That, going hence with calmer feet, We may be friends, when friends are foes, And old days merely histories. Upon Returning a Silk Handkerchief TWINGED with my kisses go, go thou to her, And bid her bind thee round her faultless throat; Till thou, close-lying o'er the charmed stir Of her white breast, grow warm and seem to float Away into the golden noon, the still. Deep sunlight of her. Oh, sleep on ! 'Tis thine. Love's summer day. No, not June'sthronged hours So glad are, when the songs of birds fulfil Earth, and the breezes in the grass decline, Held by the scent of many thousand flowers. Yet loose that flood of kisses, which thou hast, Into her bosom, and through all her hair ; Whispering, it is my utmost wealth amassed For her, being fairest : nor do thou forbear, Until she feel my spirit, like a blush, Steal by her shoulder and frail neck ; for when The gorgeous scarlet, burning, shall have moved Over her cheek, the little after-hush Will tell to her, that I am happy then, God I for how short a time, and she is loved. WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 485 Loved? Wheretore loved that never, but in thought, May be possessed? Is it, that thus might grow From out a look, a touch, long past to naught, My Beatrice, and my perfect love ; and so Dwell with me here, although the while I guess, 'Tis but a dream, which only does me wrong? O wretched truth ! and yet the hour, that girds My pensive nature with her loveliness. Would bitter be, as 'tis unto this Song To wed these thoughts too stern for dainty words. Would 'twere no dream, this dream ; this long, devout, Untiring worship, vainly yet essayed ; This absolute love ; then were the torturing doubt. The troubled ocean of the soul allayed : Desire would have her lust, and we have ease. Here, from her everlasting thirst ; nor pine Vainly ; but feel the fret, the harrowed breath. The throbbing heart, that will not, will not cease, Stilled into marble, Greek-like, calm, divine, Remembering not the past. Stay 1 This is Death. Sonnet If I could come again to that dear place Where once I came, where Beauty lived and moved, Where, by the sea, I saw her face to face. That soul alive by which the world has loved ; If, as I stood at gaze among the leaves, She would appear again, as once before. While the red herdsman gathered up his sheaves And brimming waters trembled up the shore ; If, as I gazed, her Beauty that was dumb. In that old time, before I learned to speak. Would lean to me and revelation come, Words to the lips and colour to the cheek, Joy with its searing-iron would burn me wise. I should know all ; all powers, all mysteries. WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS (1865- ) The Lake Isle of Innisfree T will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, •■• And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made : Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. 486 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings ; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always, night and day, I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core. 'When You Are Old" T\7'HEN you are old and gray and full of sleep, ^^ And nodding by the fire, take down this book. And slowly read and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace. And loved your beauty with love false or true ; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face. And bending down beside the glowing bars Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. The Cap and Bells A jester walked in the garden; The garden had fallen still; He bade his soul rise upward And stand at her window-sill. It rose in a straight blue garment. When owls began to call : It had grown wise-tongued by thinking Of a quiet and light foot-fall; But the young queen would not listen ; She rose in her pale night gown ; She drew in the heavy casement And push'd the latches down. He bade his heart go to her, When the owls call'd out no more: In a red and quivering garment It sang to her through the door. ARTHUR SYMONS 487 It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming Of a flutter of flower-like hair; But she took up her fan from the table And waved it off on the air. "I have cap and bells," he pondered, "I will send them to her and die"; And when the morning whiten'd He left them where she went by. She laid them upon her bosom, Under a cloud of her hair. And her red lips sang them a love-song, Till stars grew out of the air. She open'd her door and her window. And the heart and the soul came through. To her right hand came the red one. To her left hand came the blue. They set up a noise like crickets, A chattering wise and sweet. And her hair was a folded flower. And the quiet of love in her feet. ARTHUR SYMONS C1865- )" At the Stage-Door IT ICKING my heels in the street. Here at the edge of the pavement I wait, and my feet Paw at the ground like the horses' hoofs in the street. Under the archway sheer, Sudden and black as a hole in the placarded wall. Faces flicker and veer, Wavering out of the darkness into the light, Wavering back into night; Under the archway, suddenly seen, the curls And thin, bright faces of girls. Roving eyes, and smiling lipg, and the glance Seeking, finding perchance. Here at the edge of the pavement, there by the wall. One face, out of them all. Steadily, face after face, Cheeks with the blush of the paint yet lingering, eyes Still with their circle of black . . . But hers, but hers? 488 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Rose-leaf cheeks, and flower-soft lips, and the grace Of the vanishing Spring come back, And a child's heart blithe in the sudden and sweet surprise, Subtly expectant, that stirs In the smile of her heart to my heart, of her eyes to my eyes. Asking Forgiveness T did not know ; child, child, I did not know, Who now in lonely wayfare go, Who wander lonely of you, O my child, And by myself exiled. I did not know, but, O white soul of youth, So passionate of truth, So amorous of duty, and so strong To suffer, all but wrong. Is there for me no pity, who am weak? Spare me this silence, speak I I did not know: I wronged you; I repent: But will you not relent? Must I still wander, outlawed, and go on The old weary ways alone, As in the old, intolerable days Before I saw your face, The doubly darkened ways since you withdraw Your light, that was my law? I charge you by your soul, pause, ere you hurl Sheer to destruction, girl. A poor_ soul that had midway struggled out. Still midway clogged about, And for the love of you had turned his back Upon the miry track. That had been as a grassy wood->vay, dim With violet-beds, to him. I wronged you, but I loved you ; and to me Your love was purity ; I rose, because you called me, and I drew Nearer to God, in you. I fall, and if you leave me, I must fall To that last depth of all. Where not the miracle of even your eyes Can bid the dead arise. I charge you that you save not your own sense Of lilied innocence. By setting, at the roots of that fair stem, A murdered thing, to nourish them. RUDYx\RD KIPLING 489 After Love 'X'O part now, and, parting now, Never to meet again ; To have done for ever, I and thou, With joy, and so with pain. It is too hard, too hard to meet If we must love no more; Those other meetings were too sweet That went before. And I would have, now love is over, An end to all, an end : I cannot, having been your lover, Stoop to become j'our friend I RUDYARD KIPLING (1865- ) Mandalay "D Y the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, ■^ There's a Burma girl a-settin', an' I know she thinks o' me ; For the wind is in the palm trees, an' the temple bells they say: "Come you back, you British soldier ; come you back to Man- dalay !" Come j'^ou back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay: Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Man- dalay ? Oh, the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! 'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green. An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat — jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' \yhite cheroot. An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: Bloomin' idol made o' mud — Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd — Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud I On the road to Mandalay — 490 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo!" With 'er arm upon my shoulder, an' 'er cheek agin my cheek, We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak. In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that *eavy you was *ar£ afraid to speak ! On the road to Mandalay — But that's all shove be'ind me — long ago an' fur away. An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Benk to Mandalay ; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells : "If you've 'eard the East a-callin', why, you won't 'eed nothin' else." . No ! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells An' the sunshine an' the palm trees an' the tinkly temple bells ! On the road to Mandalay — I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gutty pavin'-stones. An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones ; Though I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and — Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land ! On the road to Mandalay — Ship me somewheres east of Suez where the best is like the worst. Where there aren't no Ten Commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be— By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea — On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Man- dalay ! Oh, the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! RUDYARD KIPLING 491 Danny Deever ■y\^HAT are the busies blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade. ^^ To turn you out, to turn you out," the Color-Sergeant said. "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on- Parade. "I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch," the Color-Sergeant said. For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can 'ear the Dead March play, The regiment's in 'ollow square — they're hangin' him to-day ; They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away. An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. "What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-on- Parade. "It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Color-Sergeant said. "What makes that front-rank man fall down?" says Files- on-Parade. "A touch o' sun, a touch o* sun," the Color-Sergeant said. They're hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin* of 'im round. They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground ; An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound — O they're hangin* Danny Deever in the mornin' ! " 'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine," said Files-on-Parade.^ "'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night," the Color-Sergeant said. "I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade. " 'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the Color-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place, For 'e shot a comrade sleepin' — you must look 'im in the face; Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace, While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. "What's that so black agin the sun?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny fightin' 'ard fur life," the Color-Sergeant said. "What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny's soul that's passin' now," the Color-Sergeant said. For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quick- step play, The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin* us away; Ho ! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day. After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. 492 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Recessional /^ OD of our fathers, known of old — ^^ Lord of our far-fiung battle line — Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine — Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies — The Captains and the Kings depart — Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice. An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. Lest we forget — lest we forget ! Far-called, our navies melt away — On dune and headland sinks the fire — Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Ls one with Nineveh and Tyre ! iudge of the Nations, spare us yet, ,est we forget — lest we forget ! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe — Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law — Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. Lest we forget — lest we forget I For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard — All valiant dust that builds on dust. And guarding calls not Thee to guard, — For frantic boast and foolish word. Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! amen. ^'he Vampire, as Suggested by the Painting by Philip Burne-Jones \ fool there was and he made his prayer (I'A'cn as you and I!) To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair (We called her the woman who did not care), But the fool he called her his lady fair (Even as you and I!) RUDYARD KIPLING 493 Oh the years we waste and the tears we waste, And the work of our head and ha)id, Belong to the woman zvho did not know {And now zve know that she never could know) And did not understand. A fool there was and his goods he spent ( Even as you and I ! ) Honor and faith and a sure intent (And it wasn't the least what the lady meant), But a fool must follow his natural bent (Even as you and I!) Oh the toil we lost and the spoil we lost. And the excellent things we planned, Belong to the woman who didn't know why (And now we know she never knew why) And did not understand. The fool was stripped to his foolish hide (Even as you and I!) Which she might have seen when she threw him aside, — (But it isn't on record the lady tried) So some of him lived but the most of him died — (Even as you and I!) And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame That stings like a white-hot brand. It's coming to know that she never knew why (Seeing at last she cotild never know why) And never could understand. The Story of Uriah "Now there were two men in one city; the one rich and the other poor." TACK BARRETT went to Quetta, Because they told him to. He left his wife at Simla On three-fourths his monthly screw: Jack Barrett died at Quetta Ere the next month's pay he drew. Jack Barrett went to Quetta, He didn't understand The reason of his transfer From the pleasant mountain-land : The season was September, And it killed him out of hand. 494 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Jack Barrett went to Quetta And there p^ave up the ghost, Attempting two men's duty In that very healthy post ; And Airs. Barrett mourned for him Five lively months at most. Jack Barrett's bones at Quetta luijoy profound repose; But I shouldn't be astonished If no7V his spirit knows The reason of his transfer From the Himalaj^an snows. And, when the Last Great Bugle Call Adown the Hurnai throbs. When the last grim joke is entered In the big black Books of Jobs, And Quetta's graveyards give again Their victims to the air, I shouldn't like to be the man Who sent Jack Barrett there. L'Envoi 'X'HERE'S a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, And the ricks stand grey to the sun, Singing: — 'Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover And your English summer's done.' You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, And the thresh of the deep-sea rain ; You have heard the song — how long! how long? Pull out on the trail again ! Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, We've seen the seasons through, And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail. Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun Or South to the blind Horn's hate ; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or West to the Golden Gate ; Where the blindest blufifs hold good, dear lass. And the wildest tales are true. And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And life runs large on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. RUDYARD KIPLING 495 The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old, And the twice-breathed airs blow damp ; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp; With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail — the trail that is al- ways new. There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, Or the way of a man with a maid ; But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea In the heel of the North-East Trade. Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, And the drum of the racing screw. As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail. As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new? See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore. And the fenders grind and heave, And the derricks clack and grate as the tackle hooks the crate. And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It's 'Gang-plank up and in,' dear lass. It's 'Hawsers warp her through !' And it's 'All clear aft' on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail. We're backing down on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. Oh, the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied. And the syrens hoot their dread ! When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless, viewless deep > To the sob of the questing lead ! It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, With the Gunfleet Sands in view. Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. Oh. the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame. And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame 1 496 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass. Her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're sagging south on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. Then home, get her home where the drunken rollers comb, And the shouting seas drive by, And the engines stamp and ring and the wet bows reel and swing. And the Southern Cross rides high 1 Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, That blaze in the velvet blue. They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, They're God's own guides on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start — We're steaming all too slow, And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow ! You have heard the call of the oflf-shore wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain — You have heard the song — how long! how long? Pull out on the trail again I The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass. And the Deuce knows what we may do — But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're down, hull-down on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. HERBERT TRENCH (1865- ) A Charge JF thou hast squandered years to grave a gem Commissioned by thy absent Lord, and while 'Tis incomplete, Others would bribe thy needy skill to them — Dismiss them to the street ! LAURENCE HOPE 497 Siiouldst thou at last discover Beauty's grove, At last be panting on the fragrant verge, But in the track, Drunk with divine possession, thou meet Love — Turn, at her bidding, back. When round thy ship in tempest Hell appears, And every specter mutters up more dire To snatch control And loose to madness thy deep-kenneled Fears — Then to the helm, O Soul! Last, if upon the cold, green-mantling sea, Thou cling, alone with Truth, to the last spar, Both castaway. And one must perish — let it not be he Whom thou art sworn to obey. "I Heard a Soldier'* ¥ HEARD a soldier sing some trifle Out in the sun-dried veldt alone: He lay and cleaned his grimy rifle Idly, behind a stone. "If after death, love, comes a waking. And in their camp so dark and still The men of dust hear bugles, breaking Their halt upon the hill, "To me the slow and silver pealing That then the last high trumpet pours Shall softer than the dawn come stealing, For, with its call, comes yours !" What grief of love had he to stifle, Basking so idly by his stone. That grimy soldier with his rifle Out in the veldt, alone? LAURENCE HOPE (ADELA NICOLSON) (1865-1904) Ashore TDUT I came from the dancing place, The night-wind met me face to face — 498 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE A wind off the harbor, cold and keen, "I know," it whistled, "where thou hast been." A faint voice fell from the stars above — "Thou? whom we lighted to shrines of Lovel" I found when I reached my lonely room A faint sweet scent in the unlit gloom. And this was the worst of all to bear, For some one had left white lilac there. The flower you loved, in times that were. LIONEL JOHNSON (1867-1902) Cadwith IMI'Y windows open to the autumn night, •^ ■*• In vain I watched for sleep to visit me ; How should sleep dull mine ears, and dim my sight, Who saw the stars and listened to the sea? Ah, how the city of our God is fair I If, without sea, and starless though it be. For joy of the majestic beauty there Men shall not miss the stars, nor mourn the sea. By the Statue of King Charles at Charing Cross C OMBRE and rich, the skies,_ Great glooms and starry plains ; Gently the night wind sighs ; Else a vast silence reigns. The splendid silence clings Around me : and around The saddest of all Kings, Crown'd, and again discrown'd. Comely and calm, he rides Hard by his own Whitehall. Only the night wind glides : No crowds, nor rebels, brawl. LIONEL JOHNSON 499 Gone, too, his Court : and yet, The stars his courtiers are : Stars in their stations set ; And every wandering star. Alone he rides, alone. The fair and fatal King: Dark night is all his own, That strange and solemn thing. Which are more full of fate : The stars ; or those sad eyes ? Which are more still and great : Those brows, or the dark skies? Although his whole heart yearn In passionate tragedy, Never was face so stern With sweet austerity. Vanquish'd in life, his death By beauty made amends : The passing of his breath Won his defeated ends. Brief life, and hapless? Nay: Through death, life grew sublime. Speak after sentence? Yea: And to the end of time. Armour'd he rides, his head Bare to the stars of doom ; He triumphs now, the dead, Beholding London's gloom. Our wearier spirit faints, Vex'd in the world's employ: His soul was of the saints; And art to him was joy. King, tried in fires of woe \ Men hunger for thy grace : And through the night I go, Loving thy mournful face. Yet, when the city sleeps. When all the cries are still. The stars and heavenly deeps Work out a perfect will. 500 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The Precept of Silence T know you : solitary griefs, Desolate passions, aching hours ! I know you : tremulous beliefs. Agonized hopes, and ashen flowers ! The winds are sometimes sad to me ; The starry spaces full of fear : Mine is the sorrow on the sea. And mine the sigh of places drear. Some players upon plaintive strings Publish their wistfulncss abroad : I have not spoken of these things, Save to one man, and unto God. ERNEST DOWSON (1867-1900) Non Sum OiiaVis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynara T AST night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara ! thy breath was shed Upon mj' soul between the kisses and the wine ; And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head. I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was gray : I have been faithful to thee, Cynara ! in my fashion. I have forgot much, Cynara ! gone with the wind. Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng. Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind ; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long : I have been faithful to thee, Cynara ! in my fashion. I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara ! the night is thine ; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion. Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara ! in my fashion. "A. E." (GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL) 501 Dregs * I ""HE fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof, (This is the end of every song man sings!) The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain, Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain ; And health and hope have gone the way of love Into that drear oblivion of lost things. Ghosts go along with us until the end ; This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend. With pale, indifferent ej^es, we sit and wait For the dropped curtain and the closing gate : This is the end of all the songs man sings. Extreme Unction TTPON the eyes, the lips, the feet, On all the passages of sense. The atoning oil is spread with sweet Renewal of lost innocence. The feet that lately ran so fast To meet desire, are soothly sealed; The eyes, that were so often cast On vanity, are touched and healed. From troubles, sights and sounds set free. In such a twilight hour of breath, Shall one retrace his life, or see, Through shadows, the true face of death? Vials of mercy! Sacring oils! I know not where nor when they come, Nor through what wanderings and toils To crave of you Viaticum. Yet, when the walls of flesh grow weak. In such an hour, it well may be. Through mist and darkness, light will break. And each anointed sense will see. "A. E." (GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL) (1867- ) A Memory of Earth TN the west dusk silver sweet, Down the violet-scented ways, As I moved with quiet feet I was met by mighty days. 502 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE On the hedge the hanging dew Glass'd the eve and stars and skies ; While I gazed a madness grew Into thunder'd battle-cries. Where the hawthorn glimmered white Flashed the spear and fell the stroke. Ah, what faces pale and bright Where the dazzling battle broke ! There a hero-hearted queen With young beauty lit the van. Gone ! the darkness flowed between All the ancient wars of man. While I paced the valley's gloom, Where the rabbits patter'd near, Shone a temple and a tomb With a legend carven clear : Time put by a myriad fates That her day might dawn in glory: Death made wide a million gates So to close her tragic story. The Gift 1 thought, beloved, to have brought to you, A gift of quietness and ease and peace, Cooling your brow as with the mystic dew Dropping from twilight trees. Homeward I go not yet ; the darkness grows ; Not mine the voice to still with peace divine: From the first fount the stream of quiet flows Thru other hearts than mine. Yet of my night I give to you my stars, And of my sorrow here the sweetest gains, And out of hell, beyond its iron bars, My scorn of all its pains. The Burning-Glass A shaft of fire that falls like dew, ■^ And melts and maddens all my blood, From out thy spirit flashes through The burning glass of womanhood. STEPHEN PHILLIPS 503 Only so far; here must I stay: Nearer I miss the light, the fire; I must endure the torturing ray, And with all beauty, all desire. Ah, time long must the effort be, And far the way that I must go To bring my spirit unto thee. Behind the glass, within the glow. STEPHEN PHILLIPS (1868-1915) T in the greyness rose ; I could not sleep for thinking of one dead. Then to the chest I went. Where lie the things of my beloved spread. Quickly these I took; A little glove, a sheet of music torn. Paintings, ill-done, perhaps ; Then lifted up a dress that she had worn. And now I came to where Her letters are; they lie beneath the rest; And read them in the haze ; She spoke of many things, was sore opprest. But these things moved me not ; Not when she spoke of being parted quite. Or being misunderstood. Or growing weary of the world's great fight. Not even when she wrote Of our dear child, and the handwriting swerved ; Not even then I shook: Not even by such words was I unnerved. I thought, she is at peace ; Whither the child is gone, she, too, has passed. And a much-needed rest Is fallen upon her, she is still at last. But when at length I took From under all those letters one small sheet. Folded and writ in haste ; Why did my heart with sudden sharpness beat? 504 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Alas! it was not sadl Her saddest words I had read calmly o'er. Alas 1 it had no pain 1 Her painful words, all these I knew before. A hurried, happy line ! A little jest, too slight for one so dead: This did I not endure : Then with a shuddering heart no more I read. From "Marpessa' o brief and breathing creature, wilt then cease Once having been ? Thy doom doth make thee rich, And the low grave doth make thee exquisite. But if thou'lt live with me, then will I kiss Warm immortality into thy lips ; And I will carry thee above the world, To share my ecstasy of flinging beams, And scattering without intermission joy. And thou shalt know that first leap of the sea Toward me ; the grateful upward look of earth, Emerging roseate from her bath of dew, — We two in heaven dancing, — Babylon Shall flash and murmur, and cry from under us. And Nineveh catch fire, and at our feet Be hurled with her inhabitants, and all Adoring Asia kindle and hugely bloom ; — We two in heaven running, — continents Shall lighten, ocean unto ocean flash, And rapidly laugh till all this world is warm. Or since thou art a woman, thou shalt have More tender tasks ; to steal upon the sea, A long expected bliss to tossing men. _ Or build upon the evening sky some wished And glorious metropolis of cloud. Thou shalt persuade the harvest and bring on The deeper green ; or silently attend The fiery funeral of foliage old. Connive with Time serene and the good hours. Or, — for I know thy heart, — a dearer toil, — To lure into the air a face long sick. To gild the brow that from its dead looks up. To shine on the unforgiven of this world ; With slow sweet surgery restore the brain, And to dispel shadows and shadowy fear. When he had spoken, humbly Idas said : "After such argument what can I plead? Or what pale promise make? Yet since it is STEPHEN PHILLIPS 505 In women to pity rather than to aspire, A little I will speak. I love thee then Not only for thy body packed with sweet Of all this world, that cup of brimming June, That jar of violet wine set in the air, That palest rose sweet in the night of life; Nor for that stirring bosom all besieged By drowsing lovers, or thy perilous hair ; Nor for that face that might indeed provoke Invasion of old cities ; no, nor all Thy freshness stealing on me like strange sleep. Not for this only do I love thee, but Because Infinity upon thee broods ; And thou art full of whispers and of shadows. Thou meanest what the sea had striven to say So long, and yearned up the cliffs to tell ; Thou art what all the winds have uttered not. What the still night suggesteth to the heart. Thy voice is like to music heard ere birth, Some spirit lute touched on a spirit sea ; Thy face remembered is from other worlds, It has been died for, though I know not when, It has been sung of, though I know not where. It has the strangeness of the luring West, And of sad sea-horizons ; beside thee I am aware of other times and lands. Of birth far-back, of lives in many stars. O beauty lone and like a candle clear In this dark country of the world ! Thou art My woe, my early light, my music dying." From "Herod" fJEROD. Pour out those pearls, And give me in my hand that bar of gold. I heard an angel crying from the Sun, For glory, for more glory on the earth ; And here I'll build the wonder of the world. I have conceived a Temple that shall stand Up in such splendour that men bright from it Shall pass with a light glance the pyramids. . . . I dreamed last night of a dome of beaten gold To be a counter-glory to the Sun. There shall the eagle blindly dash himself. There the first beam shall stifle, and there the moon Shall aim all night her argent archery ; And it shall be the tryst of sundered stars, The haunt of dead and dreaming Solomon ; Shall send a light upon the lost in Hell, 506 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And flashings upon faces without hope — And I will think in gold and dream in silver, Imagine in marble and in bronze conceive, Till it shall dazzle pilgrim nations. And stammering tribes from undiscovered lands, Allure the living God out of the bliss, And all the streaming seraphim from heaven. LAURENCE BINYON (1869- ) "0 World, Be Nobler'* f\ World, be nobler, for her sake ! ^^ If she but knew thee what thou art, What wrongs are borne, what deeds are done In thee, beneath thy daily sun. Know'st thou not that her tender heart For pain and very shame would break? World, be nobler, for her sake ! LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS (1870- ) The Dead Poet T dreamed of him last night, I saw his face All radiant and unshadowed of distress, And as of old, in music measureless, 1 heard his golden voice and marked him trace Under the common thing the hidden grace. And conjure wonder out of emptiness. Till mean things put on beauty like a dress And all the world was an enchanted place. And then methought outisde a fast-locked gate I mourned the loss of unrecorded words, Forgotten tales and mysteries half said. Wonders that might have been articulate. And voiceless thoughts like murdered singing birds. And so I woke and knew that he was dead. OLIVE CUSTANCE (LADY ALFRED DOUGLAS) ^\ ! do you hear the rain ^-^ Beat on the glass in vain? So my tears beat against fate's feet In vain ... in vain ... in vain. 1 do you see the skies As gray as your grave eyes ? O I do you hear the wind, my dear, That sighs and sighs and sighs? . . . DOLLIE RADFORD 507 . . . Tired as this twilight seems My soul droops sad with dreams . . . You cannot know where we two go In dreams ... in dreams ... in dreams. You only watch the light, Sinking away from night . . . In silver mail all shadowy pale, The moon shines white, so white. . . . ... O ! if we two were wise Your eyes would leave the skies And look into my eyes ! And I who wistful stand, . . . One foot in fairy land. Would catch Love by the hand. DOLLIE RADFORD T could not through the burning day In hope prevail, Beside my task I could not stay If love should fail. Nor underneath the evening sky, When labours cease. Fold both my tired hands and lie At last in peace. Ah ! what to me in death or life Could then avail ! I dare not ask for rest or strife If love should fail. THOMAS STURGE MOORE (1870- ) J Duet "T^LOWERS nodding gaily, scent in air, Flowers posied, flowers for the hair. Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare " "O pick me some !" "Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum; Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisper Come, Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb " "O let me hear." Eyes so black they draw one trembling near, Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear, Qoudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear " •'O look at me." 508 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "Kisses sadly blown across the sea, Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free, Bob-a-cherry kisses 'neath a tree " "O give me one !" Thus sang a king and queen in Babylon. HILLAIRE BELLOC (1870- ) The Early Morning 'T'HE moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other: The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother. The moon on my left hand, the dawn on my right. My brother, good morning : my sister, good-night. COL. JOHN McCRAE (1872-1918) In Flanders' Fields TN Flanders' fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky The larks still singing bravely fly. Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sun-set glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders' fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe ! To you, from failing hands we throw The torch — be yours to hold it high ! If yc break faith with us who die. We shall not sleep, tho poppies grow In Flanders' fields. DORA SIGERSON SHORTER (1873- ) Ireland ''T'WAS the dream of a God, And the mould of His hand, That you shook 'neath this stroke, That 3'ou trembled and broke To this beautiful land. WALTER DE LA MARE 509 Here He loosed from His hold A brown tumult of wings, Till the wind on the sea Bore the strange melody Of an island that sings. He made you all fair, You in purple and gold, You in silver and green, Till no eye that has seen Without love can behold. I have left you behind In the path of the past. With the white breath of flowers, With the best of God's hours, I have left you at last. WALTER DE LA MARE (1873- ) The Listeners '*TS there anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door ; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head : And he smote upon the door again a second time ; "Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men : Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair. That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness. Their stillness answering his cry. While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky ; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head : — 510 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE "Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners. Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake : Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone. Queen Djenira ■^^HEN Queen Djenira slumbers through '' The sultry noon's repose, From out her dreams, as soft she lies, A faint thin music flows. Her lovely hands He narrow and pale With gilded nails, her head Couched in its banded nets of gold Lies pillowed on her bed. The little Nubian boys who fan Her cheeks and tresses clear. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful voices Seem afar to hear. They slide their eyes, and nodding, say, "Queen Djenira walks to-day The courts of the lord Pthamasar Where the sweet birds of Psuthys are." And those of earth about her porch Of shadow cool and grey Their sidelong beaks in silence lean. And silent flit away. //« Epitaph H ERE lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes ; beauty passes ; However rare — rare it be ; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country? JOHN MASEFIELD 511 JOHN MASEFIELD (1874- ) Flesh, I Have Knocked at Many a Dusty Door ULESH, I have knocked at many a dusty door, Gone down full many a windy midnight lane, Probed in old walls and felt along the floor, Pressed in blind hope the lighted window-pane. But useless all, though sometimes, when the moon Was full in heaven and the sea was full, Along my body's alleys came a tune Plaj'ed in the tavern by the Beautiful. Then for an instant I have felt at point To find and seize her, whosoe'er she be, Whether some saint whose glory does anoint Those whom she loves, or but a part of me. Or something that the things not understood Make for their uses out of flesh and blood. There, on the darkened deathbed, dies the brain That flared three several times in seventy years ; It cannot lift the silly hand again, Nor speak, nor sing, it neither sees nor hears. And muffled mourners put it in the ground And then go home, and in the earth it lies. Too dark for vision and too deep for sound, The million cells that made a good man wise. Yet for a few short years an influence stirs A sense or wraith or essence of him dead. Which makes insensate things its ministers To those beloved, his spirit's daily bread ; Then that, too, fades ; in book or deed a spark Lingers, then that, too, fades ; then all is dark. Roses are beauty, but I never see Those blood drops from the burning heart of June Glowing like thought upon the living tree. Without a pity that they die so soon, Die into petals, like those roses old. Those women, who were summer in men's hearts Before the smile upon the Sphinx was cold, Or sand had hid the Syrian and his arts. O myriad dust of beauty that lies thick Under our feet that not a single grain But stirred and moved in beauty and was quick For one brief moon and died nor lived again; But when the moon rose lay upon the grass Pasture to living beauty, life that was. 512 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The other form of Living does not stir; Where the seed chances there it roots and grows, To suck what makes the Hly or the fir Out of the earth and from the air that blows. Great power of Will that little thing the seed Has, all alone in earth, to plan the tree, And, though the mud oppresses, to succeed. And put out branches where the birds may be. Then the wind blows it, but the bending boughs Exult like billows, and their million green Drink the all-living sunlight in carouse. Like dainty harts where forest wells are clean. While it, the central plant, which looks o'er miles, Draws milk from the earth's breast, and sways, and smiles. I saw her hke a shadow on the sky In the last light, a blur upon the sea, Then the gale's darkness put the shadow by. But from one grave that island talked to me ; And, in the midnight, in the breaking storm, I saw its blackness and a blinking light. And thought, "So death obscures your gentle form. So memory strives to make the darkness bright ; And, in that heap of rocks, your body lies, Part of the island till the planet ends. My gentle comrade, beautiful and wise, Part of this crag this bitter surge offends. While I, who pass, a little obscure thing. War with this force, and breathe, and am its king." You will remember me in days to come With love, or pride, or pity, or contempt; So will my friends (not many friends, yet some) When this my life will be a dream out-dreamt; And one, remembering friendship by the fire. And one, remembering love time in the dark, And one, remembering unfulfilled desire. Will sigh, perhaps, yet be beside the mark; For this my body with its wandering ghost Is nothing solely but an empty grange. Dark in a night that owls inhabit most. Yet when the king rides by there comes a change; The windows gleam, the cresset's fiery hair Blasts the blown branch and beauty lodges there. Ships T CANNOT tell their wonder nor make known Magic that once thrilled through me to the bone ; But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale. JOHN MASEFIELD 513 Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale, Pour their heart's blood to flourish one green leaf. Follow some Helen for her gift of grief, And fail in what they mean, whate'er they do: You should have seen, man cannot tell to you The beauty of the ships of that my city. That beauty now is spoiled by the sea's pity; For one may haunt the pier a score of times, Hearing St. Nicholas bells ring out the chimes, Yet never see the proud ones swaying home With mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam. Those bows so lovely curving, cut so fine, Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine. As once, long since, when all the docks were filled With that sea-beauty man has ceased to build. Yet, though their splendor may have ceased to be Each played her sovereign part in making me ; Now I return my thanks with heart and lips For the great queenliness of all those ships. And first the first bright memory, still so clear, An autumn evening in a golden year. When in the last lit moments before dark The Chepica, a steel-gray lovely barque, Came to anchor near us on the flood. Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood. Then come so many ships that I could fill Three docks with their fair hulls remembered still, Each with her special memory's special grace. Riding the sea, making the waves give place To delicate high beauty ; man's best strength, Noble in every line in all their length. Ailsa, Genista, ships with long jibbooms. The Wand'jrcr with great beauty and strange dooms, Liverpool (mightiest then) superb, sublime. The California huge, as slow as time. The Copley swift, the perfect /. T. North, The loveliest barque my city has sent forth. Dainty John Lockett well remembered yet, The splendid Argus with her sky-sail set, Stalwart Drumcliff, white-blocked, majestic Sierras, Divine bright ships, the water's standard-bearers ; Melpomene, Euphrosyne, and their sweet Sea-troubling sisters of the Fernie fleet ; Corunna (in whom my friend died) and the old Long since loved Esmeralda, long since sold. 514 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Centurion passed in Rio, Glaucus spoken, Aladdin burnt, the Bidston water-broken, Yola, in whom my friend sailed, Dawpool trim, Fierce-bowed Egeria plunging to the swim, Stanmore wide-sterned, sweet Cupica, tall Bard, Queen in all harbors with her moon-sail yard. Though I tell many, there must still be others, McVickar Marshall's ships and Fernie Brothers', Lochs, Counties, Shires, Drums, the countless lines Whose house-flags once were all familiar signs At high main-trucks on Mersey's windy ways When sunlight made the wind-white water blaze. Their names bring back old mornings, when the docks Shone with their house-flags and their painted blocks, Their raking masts below the Custom House And all the marvellous beauty of their bows. Familiar steamers, too, familiar steamers, Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to streamers, Umbria, Etruria, noble, still at sea. The grandest, then, that man had brought to be. Majestic, City of Paris, City of Rome, Forever jealous racers, out and home. The Alfred Holt's blue smoke-stacks down the stream, The fair Loanda with her bows a-cream. Booth liners. Anchor liners, Red Star liners. The marks and st^'les of countless ship-designers, The Magdalcna, Puno, Potosi, Lost Cotopaxi, all well-known to me. These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory, Her memory of old song or comrade's story, Still in my mind the image of life's need, Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed. "They built great ships and sailed them" sounds most brave. Whatever arts we have or fail to have. I touch my country's mind, I come to grips With half her purpose, thinking of these ships: That art untouched by softness, all that line Drawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine; That nobleness and grandeur, all that beauty Born of a manj- life and bitter dutjs That splendor of fine bows which yet could stand The shock of rollers never checked by land ; That art of masts, sail-crowded, fit to break. Yet stayed to strength and backstayed into rake; JOHN MASEFIELD 515 The life demanded by that art, the keen Eye-puckered, hard-cased seamen, silent, lean. They are grander than all the art of towns ; Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns. They are my country's line, her great art done By strong brains laboring oifi the thought unwon. They mark our passage as a race of men — Earth will not see such ships as those again. Cargoes OUINQUIREME of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory. And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts. Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal. Road-rails, pig-lead. Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays. Sea-Fever T must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky. And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by ; And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied ; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying. And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life. To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife ; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. 516 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Prayer "IXTHEN the last sea is sailed, when the last shallow's ' charted. When the last field is reaped, and the last harvest stored, When the last fire is out and the last guest departed, Grant the last prayer that I shall pray, be good to me, O Lord. And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and thunder, In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope and spar. Send me a ninth great peaceful wave to drown and roll me under To the cold tunny-fish's home where the drowned galleons are. And in the dim green quiet place far out of sight and hearing, Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the sea- foam About the fine keen bows of the stately clippers steering Towards the lone northern star and the fair ports of home. GORDON BOTTOMLEY (1874- ) In Memoriam A. M. W. September, 1910 (For a Solemn Music) Out of a silence The voice of music speaks. When words have no more power, When tears can tell no more, The heart of all regret Is uttered by a falling wave Of melody. No more, no more The voice that gathered us Shall hush us with deep joy; But in this hush, Out of its silence, In the awaking of music. It shall return. For music can renew Its gladness and communion. Until we also sink. Where sinks the voice of music. Into a silence. GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON 517 GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON (1874- ) From "The Ballad of the White Horse*' TIP over windy wastes and up Went Alfred over the shaws, Shaken of the joy of giants, The joy without a cause. In the slopes away to the western bays, Where blows not ever a tree, He washed his soul in the west wind And his body in the sea. And he set to rhyme his ale-measures And he sang aloud his laws ; Because of the joy of the giants, The joy without a cause. For the King went gathering Wessex men As grain out of the chaff ; The few that were alive to die, Laughing, as littered skulls that lie After lost battles turn to the sky An everlasting laugh. The King went gathering Christian men As wheat out of the husk; Eldred the Franklin by the sea. And Mark, the man from Italy, And Golan of the Sacred Tree, From the old tribe on Usk. The rook croaked homeward heavily. The west was clear and warm, The smoke of evening food and ease Rose like a blue tree in the trees When he came to Eldred's farm. But Eldred's farm was fallen awry, Like an old cripple's bones. And Eldred's tools were red with rust; And on his well was a green crust, And purple thistles upward thrust Between the kitchen stones. But smoke of some good feasting Went upwards evermore, And Eldred's doors stood wide apart For loitering foot or labouring cart ; And Eldred's great and foolish heart Stood open, like his door. 518 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE A mighty man was Eldred; A bulk for casks to fill ; His face a dreaming furnace, His body a walking hill. In the old wars of Wessex His sword had sunken deep, But all his friends, he sighed and said, Were broken about Ethelred ; And between the deep drink and the dead He had fallen upon sleep. "Come not to me. King Alfred, Save always for the ale ; Why should my harmless hinds be slain Because the chiefs cry once again. As in all fights, that we shall gain. And in all fights we fail. "Your scalds still thunder and prophesy That crown that never comes ; Friend, I will watch the certain things. Swine, and slow moons like silver rings, And the ripening of the plums." Glencoe 'T'HE star-crowned cliflFs seem hinged upon the sky, ■^ The clouds are floating rags across them curled. They open to us like the gates of God Cloven in the last great wall of all the world. I looked, and saw the valley of my soul Where naked crests fight to achieve the skies. Where no grain grows nor wine, no fruitful thing. Only big words and stony blasphemies. But you have clothed with mercy like a moss The barren violence of its primal wars. Sterile although they be and void of rule, You know my shapeless crags have loved the stars. How shall I thank you, O courageous heart. That of this wasteful world you had no fear; But bade it blossom in clear faith and sent Your fair flower-feeding rivers : even as here The peat burns brimming from their cups of stone Glow brown and blood-red down the vast decline As if Christ stood on yonder clouded peak And turned its thousand waters into wine. EDWARD THOMAS 519 EDWARD THOMAS (1878-1917) The Unknown CHE is most fair, ^ And when they see her pass The poets' ladies Look no more in the glass But after her. On a bleak moor Running under the moon She lures a poet, Once proud or happy, soon Far from his door. Beside a train, Because they saw her go, Or failed to see her. Travellers and watchers know Another pain. The simple lack Of her is more to me Than others' presence, Whether life splendid be Or utter black. I have not seen, I have no news of her* I can tell only She is not here, but there She might have been. She is to be kissed Only perhaps by me ; She may be seeking Me and no other : she May not exist. THOMAS MACDONAGH (1878-1916) To His Ideal Translated from the Irish of Padraic Pearse ■AKED I saw thee. O beauty of beauty! And I blinded my eyes For fear I should flinch. N' 520 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE I heard thy music. sweetness of sweetness I And I shut my ears For fear I should fail. 1 kissed thy lips, sweetness of sweetness! And I hardened my heart For fear of my ruin. 1 blinded my eyes, And my ears I shut ; I hardened my heart, And my love I quenched. I turned my back On the dream I had shaped, And to this road before me My face I turned. I set my face To the road here before me ; To the work that I see. To the death that I shall meet. WILFRID WILSON GIBSON (1878- ) Daily Bread A LL life moving to one measure — •'^ Daily bread, daily bread — Bread of life, and bread of labour. Bread of bitterness and sorrow. Hand-to-mouth, and no to-morrow, Death for housemate, death for neighbor . . . "Yet when all the babes are fed. Love, are there no crumbs to treasure?" RALPH HODGSON (1878?-) The Mystery XJE came and took me by the hand Up to a red rose tree. He kept His meaning to Himself But gave a rose to me. I did not pray Him to lay bare The mystery to me : Enough the rose was Heaven to smell, And His own face to see. HAROLD MONRO 521 HAROLD MONRO (1879- ) Youth in Arms "LTAPPY boy, happy boy,_ David the immortal-willed, Youth a thousand times Slain, but not once killed, Swaggering again to-day In the old contemptuous way; Leaning backward from your thigh Up against the tinselled bar — Lust and ashes! is it you? Laughing, boasting, there you are I First we hardly rerognized you In your modern avatar. Soldier, rifle, brown khaki — Is your blood as happy so? Where's your sling or painted shield, Helmet, you're going to the wars — Well, you're going to the wars — That is all you need to know. Graybeards plotted. They were sad. Death was in their wrinkled eyes. At their tables — with their maps, Plans and calculations — wise They all seemed ; for well they knew How ungrudgingly Youth dies. At their green official baize They debated all the night Plans for your adventurous days Which you followed with delight. Youth in all your wanderings, David of a thousand slings. ALFRED NO YES (1880- ) Haunted in Old Japan ll^'USIC of the star-shine shimmering o'er the sea •*■ Mirror me no longer in the dusk of memory: Dim and white the rose-leaves drift along the shore. Wind among the roses, blow no morel 522 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE All along the purple creek, lit zvith silver foam, Silent, silent voices, cry no more of home! Soft beyond the cherry-trees, o'er the dim lagoon, Damns the crivison lantern of the large low moon. We that loved in April, we that turned away Laughing ere the wood-dove crooned across the May, Watch the withered rose-leaves drift along the shore. Wind among the roses, blow no more ! We the Sons of Reason, we that chose to bride Knowledge, and rejected the Dream that we denied, We that chose the Wisdom that triumphs for an hour, We that let the young love perish like a flower. . . . We that hurt the kind heart, we that went astray, We that in the darkness idly dreamed of day. . . . . . . Ah! The dreary rose-leaves drift along the shore. Wind among the roses, blow no more 1 Lonely starry faces, wonderful and white, Yearning with a cry across the dim sweet night. All our dreams are blown a-drift as flowers before a fan. All our hearts are haunted in the heart of old Japan. Haunted, haunted, haunted — we that mocked and sinned Hear the vanished voices wailing down the wind, Watch the ruined rose-leaves drift along the shore. Wind among the roses, blow no more I All along the purple creek, lit with silver foam. Sobbing, sobbing voices, cry no more of home! Soft beyond the cherry-trees, o'er the dim lagoon, Dawns the crimson lantern of the large low moon. A Japanese Love-Sotig ' I ""HE young moon is white. But the willows are blue : Your small lips are red. But the great clouds are gray : The waves are so many That whisper to you ; But my love is only One flight of spray. FRANCIS LEDWIDGE 523 The bright drops are many, The dark wave is one : The dark wave subsides, And the bright sea remains I And wherever, O singing Maid, you run, You are one with the world For all your pains. Tho' the great skies are dark,^ And your small feet are white, Tho' your wide eyes are blue And the closed poppies red, Tho, the kisses are many That colour the night, They are linked like pearls On one golden thread. Were the gray clouds not made For the red of your mouth; The ages for flight Of the butterfly years ; The sweet of the peach For the pale lips of drouth, The sunlight of smiles For the shadow of tears? Love, Love is the thread That has pierced them with bliss I All their hues are but notes In one world-wide tune : Lips, willows and waves, We are one as we kiss, And your face and the flowers Faint away in the moon. FRANCIS LEDWIDGE (1881-1917) The Wife of Llew A ND Gwydion said to Math, when it was Spring : "Come now and let us make a wife for Llew." And so they broke broad boughs yet moist with dew, And in a shadow made a magic ring: They took the violet and the meadow-sweet To form her pretty face, and for her feet 524 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE They built a mound of daisies on a wing, And for her voice thcj- made a linnet sing In the wide poppy blowing for her mouth. And over all they chanted twenty hours. And Llevv came singing from the azure south And bore away his wife of birds and flowers. Groiv'ing Old WE'LL fill a Provence bowl and pledge us deep The memory of the far ones and between The soothing pipes, in heavy-lidded sleep, Perhaps we'll dream the things that once have been. 'Tis only noon and still too soon to die, Yet we are growing old, my heart and I. A hundred books are ready in my head To open out where Beauty bent a leaf. What do we want with Beauty? We are wed Like ancient Proserpine to dismal grief. And we are changing with the hours that fly, And growing odd and old, my heart and I. Across a bed of bells the river flows, And roses dawn, but not for us ; we want The new thing ever as the old thing grows Spectral and weary on the hills we haunt. And that is why we feast, and that is why We're growing odd and old, my heart and L JOHN DRINKWATER (1882- ) A Man's Daughter nn HERE is an old woman who looks each night Out of tiie wood. She has one tooth, that isn't too white. She isn't too good. She came from the north looking for me, About my jewel. Her son, she says, is tall as can be; But, men say, cruel. My girl went northward, holiday making, And a queer man spoke At the woodside once when night was breaking, And her heart broke. For ever since she has pined and pined, A sorry maid ; Her fingers are slack as the wool they wind, Or her girdle-braid. RICHARD MIDDLETON 525 So now shall I send her north to wed, Who here may know Only the little house of the dead To ease her woe? Or keep her for fear of that old v.oman, As a bird quick-ey^d, And her tall son who is hardly human, At the woodside? She is mj^ babe and my daughter dear, How well, how well. Her grief to me is a fourfold fear. Tongue cannot tell. And yet I know that far in that wood Are crumbling bones, And a mumble mumble of nothing that's good, In heathen tones. And I know that frail ghosts flutter and sigh In brambles there, And never a bird or beast to cry- — Beware, beware. While threading the silent thickets go Mother and son. Where scrupulous berries never grow, And airs are none. And her deep eyes peer at eventide Out of the wood. And her tall son waits by the dark woodside, For maidenhood. And the little eyes peer, and peer, and peer ; And a word is said. And some house knows, for many a year. But years of dread. RICHARD MIDDLETON (1882-1911) To A. C. M. "^HOU art my dream, but for my last delight Thou art transformed to sweetest shape by day. And o'er the rosy hills and far away, There pass the sombre fancies of my night, With their sad lips and eyelids red with tears, And their dominion of my barren years. 526 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE I am as one who goes to meet the dawn After a night of sorrow, where she takes The meadows with her silver feet, and wakes The drowsy daisies on the dewy lawn ; Upon my forehead falls her healing kiss, Night has her balm, but none so sweet as this. Yet that dim spirit of imagined things And love desired that filled the shadowy way With wistful laughter of young fauns at play, Gleam of quick feet and tumult of faint wings — Has touched thy lips with sleep-wrought memories, And set a star-lit wonder in thine eyes. So while I marvel still how fair thou art With thy day-roses, there remains with me The glory of the night's tranquillity. Dream within dream, heart upon sleeping heart, As though we wandered where the moon doth keep Upon the frosty hills her silent sleep. Thou hast been given the magic of all hours. Day's joys, night's wonder, in thy little hands Thou hast the gifts of all desirous lands; What may I give thee then? these sunlit flowers, These blossoms of the night to thee belong, And thine is all the merit of my song. Heyst-sur-Mer TTNDER the arch of summer ^ The great black ships go by. The sun is like a bead of blood Upon the wounded sky. The girls are dancing, dancing, And night falls tenderly. Would I were on a great ship With the wind upon my face, And the water's music in my ears. And the rigging's song of grace, Would I were on a great ship Bound to a new place. Where trees are and flowers are And breakers on the shore. Where a child might find all the dreams JAMES JOYCE 527 That he had known before, Where I should be at peace at last And the girls would dance no more. Under the arch of summer The great black ships go by, There is a madness in the wind, A wonder in the sky, And the girls are dancing, dancing . . . No peace, no peace have I. JAMES JOYCE (1882- ) Golden Hair T EAN out of the window Goldenhair, I heard you singing A merry air. My book was closed, I read no more, Watching the fire dance On the floor. I have left my book, I have left my room, For I heard you singing Through the gloom. Singing and singing A merry air, Lean out of the window, Goldenhair. W. M. LETTS (1882- ) p* OR England's sake men give their lives '*^ And we cry "Brave." But braver yet The hearts that break and live Having no more to give. Mothers, sweethearts and wives. Let none forget Or with averted head Pass this great sorrow by — These would how thankfully be dead Yet may not die. 528 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The Spires of Oxford T saw the spires of Oxford •■• As I was passing by, The grey spires of Oxford Against a pearl-grey sky ; My heart was with the Oxford men Who went abroad to die. The years go fast in Oxford, The golden years and gay ; The hoary colleges look down On careless boys at play. But when the bugles sounded — War 1 Thej' put their games away. They left the peaceful river. The cricket field, the quad, The shaven lawns of Oxford To seek a bloody sod. They gave their merry youth away For country and for God. God rest you, happy gentlemen, Who laid your good lives down, Who took the khaki and the gun Instead of cap and gown. God bring you to a fairer place Than even Oxford town. LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE (1884- From "Mai'riage So fig" I /^OME up, dear chosen morning, come. Blessing the air with light. And bid the sky repent of being dark: Let all the spaces round the world be wfiite, And give the earth her green again. Into new hours of beautiful delight. Out of the shadow where she has lain, Bring the earth awake for glee, Shining with dews as fresh and clear As my beloved's voice upon the air. For now, O morning chosen of all days, on thee A wondrous duty lies : There was an evening that did loveliness foretell ; Thence upon thee, O chosen morn, it fell LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE 529 To fashion into perfect destiny The radiant prophecy. For in an evening of young moon, that went Filling the moist air with a rosy fire, I and my beloved knew ovir love ; And knew that thou, O morning, wouldst arise To give us knowledge of achieved desire. For, standing stricken with astonishment, Half terrified in the delight. Even as the moon did into clear air move And made a golden light, Lo there, croucht up against it, a dark hill, A monstrous back of earth, a spine Of hunched rock, furred with great growth of nine, Lay like a beast, snout in its paws, asleep ; Yet in its sleeping seemed it miserable, As though strong fear must always keep Hold of its heart, and drive its blood in dream. Yea, for to our new love, did it not seem, That dark and quiet length of hill, The sleeping grief of the world? — Out of it we Had like imaginations stept to be Beauty and golden wonder ; and for the lovely fear Of coming perfect joy, had changed The terror that dreamt there ! And now the golden moon had turned To shining white, white as our souls that burned With vision of our prophecy assured : Suddenly white was the moon ; but she At once did on a woven modesty Of cloud, and soon went in obscured : And we were dark, and vanisht that strange hill. But yet it was not long before There opened in the sky a narrow door, Made with pearl lintel and pearl sill ; And the earth's night seem'd pressing there, — All as a beggar on some festival would peer, — To gaze into a room of light beyond, The hidden silver splendour of the moon. Yea, and we also, we Long gazed wistfully Towards thee, O morning, come at last, And towards the light that thou wilt pour upon us soon ! IV For wonderfully to live I now begin : So that the darkness which accompanies Our being here, is fasten'd up within 530 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE The power of light that holdeth me ; And from these shining chains, to see My joy with bold misliking eyes, The shrouded figure will not dare arise. For henceforth, from to-night, I am wholly gone into the bright Safety of the beauty of love : Not only all my waking vigours plied Under the searching glory of love, But knowing myself with love all satisfied Even when my life is hidden in sleep; As high clouds, to themselves that keep The moon's white company, are all possest Silverly with the presence of their guest; Or as a darken'd room That hath within it roses, whence the air And quietness are taken everywhere Deliciously by sweet perfume. Balkis From "Emblems of Love" RALKIS was in her marble town. And shadow over the world came down. Whiteness of walls, towers and piers. That all day dazzled eyes to tears, Turned from being white-golden flame, And like the deep-sea blue became. Balkis into her garden went ; Her spirit was in discontent Like a torch in restless air. Joylessly she wandered where, And saw her city's azure white Lying under the great night, Beautiful as the memory Of a worshipping world would be In the mind of a god, in the hour When he must kill his outward power; And, coming to a pool where trees Grew in double greeneries Saw herself, as she went by The water, walking beautifully, And saw the stars shine in the glance Of her eyes, and her own fair countenance Passing, pale and wonderful, Across the night tliat filled the pool. And cruel was the grief that played With the queen's spirit; and she said: JAMES ELROY FLECKER 531 "What do I hear, reigning alone? For to be unloved is to be alone. There is no man in all my land Dare my longing imderstand ; The whole folk like a peasant bows Lest its look should meet my brows And be harmed by this beauty of mine. I burn their brains as I were sign Of God's beautiful anger sent To master them with punishment Of beauty that must pour distress On hearts grown dark with ugliness. But it is I am the punished one. Is there no man, is there none, In whom my beauty will but move The lust of a delighted love ; In whom some spirit of God so thrives That we may wed our lonely lives? Is there no man, is there none?" She said, "I will go to Solomon." JAMES ELROY FLECKER (1884-1915) To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence T who am dead a thousand 3'ears, And wrote this sweet archaic song, Send you my words for messengers The way I shall not pass along. I care not if you bridge the seas. Or ride secure the cruel sky, Or build consummate palaces Of metal or of masonry. But have you wine and music still, And statues and a bright-eyed love, And foolish thoughts of good and ill. And prayers to them that sit above? How shall we conquer? Like a wind That falls at eve our fancies blow, And old Moeonides the blind Said it three thousand years ago. O friend, unseen, unborn, unknown, Student of our sweet English tongue. Read out my words at night, alone : I was a poet, I was young. 532 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE Since I can never see your face, And never shake you by the hand, I send my soul through time and space To greet you. You will understand. RUPERT BROOKE (1887-1915) The Hill 15REATHLESS, we flung us on the windy hill. Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass. You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass ; Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still. When we are old, are old. . . ." "And when we die All's over that is ours; and life burns on Through other lovers, other lips," said I, — "Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won !" "We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here. Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said; "We shall go down with unreluctant tread Rose-crowned into the darkness !" . . . Proud we were, And laughed, that had such brave true things to say. — And then you suddenly cried, and turned away. Peace ^JOW, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour. And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping, With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power. To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping, Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary, Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move, . And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary, And all the little emptiness of love! Oh ! we, who have known shame, we have found release there. Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending, Naught broken save this body, lost but breath ; Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there But only agony, and that has ending; And the worst friend and enemy is but Death. The Dead B LOW out, you bugles, over the rich Dead I There's none of these so lonely and poor of old. But dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away ; poured out the red JAMES STEPHENS 533 Sweet wine of youth ; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age ; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality. Blow, bugles, blow ! They brought us, for our dearth. Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, And paid his subjects with a royal wage; And Nobleness walks in our ways again ; And we have come into our heritage. Tlic Soldier TF I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed ; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air. Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed awaj', A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given ; Her sights and sounds ; dreams happy as her day ; And laughter, learnt of friends ; and gentleness. In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. JAMES STEPHENS Deirdre T\ O not let any woman read this verse ; It is for men, and after them their sons And their sons' sons. The time comes when our hearts sink utterly; When we remember Deirdre and her tale. And that her lips are dust. Once she did tread the earth : men took her hand ; They looked into her eyes and said their say. And she replied to them. More than a thousand years it is since she Was beautiful: she trod the waving grass; She saw the clouds. 634 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE A thousand years ! The grass is still the same, The clouds as lovely as they were that time When Deirdre was alive. But there has never been a woman born Who was so beautiful, not one so beautiful Of all the women born. Let all men go apart and mourn together; No man can ever love her ; not a man Can ever be her lover. No man can ben3 before her : no man say — What could one say to her? There are no words That one could say to her ! Now she is but a story that is told Beside the fire ! No man can ever be The friend of that poor queen. The Snare, to A. E. T hear a sudden cry of pain ! There is a rabbit in a snare: Now I hear the cry again, But I cannot tell from where. But I cannot tell from where He is calling out for aid ; Crying on the frightened air, Making everything afraid. Making everything afraid, Wrinkling up his little face. As he cries again for aid ; And I cannot find the place! And I cannot find the place Where his paw is in the snare: Little one! Oh, little one! I am searching everywhere. D. H. LAWRENCE (1885- ) All of Roses I 15 Y the Isar, in the twilight We were wandering and singing; By the Lsar, in the evening We climbed the huntsman's ladder and sat swinging D. H. LAWRENCE 535 In the fir-tree overlooking the marshes ; While river met vi^ith river, and the ringing Of their pale-green glacier-water filled the evening. By the Isar, in the twilight We found our warm wild roses Hanging red at the river ; and simmering Frogs were singing, and over the river closes Was scent of roses, and glimmering In the twilight, our kisses across the roses Met, and her face, and my face, were roses. n When she rises in the morning I linger to watch her. She stands in silhouette against the window, And the sunbeams catch her Glistening white on the shoulders ; While down her sides, the mellow Golden shadow glows, and her breasts Swing like full-blown yellow Gloire de Dijon roses. She drips herself with water, And her shoulders Glisten as silver, they crumple up Like wet and shaken roses, and I listen For the rustling of their white, unfolding petals. In the window full of sunlight She stirs her golden shadow. And flashes all herself as sun-bright As if roses fought with roses. Just a few of the roses we gathered from the Isar Are fallen, and their mauve-red petals on the cloth Float like boats on a river, waiting For a fairy-wind to wake them from their sloth. She laughs at me across the table, saying She loves me ; and I blow a little boat Rocking down the shoals between the tea-cups And so kiss-beladen that it scarce can float. Now like a rose come tip-toe out of bud I see the woman's soul steal in her eyes, And wide in ecstasy I sit and watch The unknown flower issued magic-wise. 536 THE MODERN BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE And day by day out of the envious bud My treasure softly slips uncurled, And day by day my happiness vibrates In wide and wider circles round the world. SIEGFRIED SASSOON (1886- ) To These I Turn, in These I Trust 'X'O these I turn, in these I trust; Brother Lead and sister Steel. To his blind power I make appeal ; I guard her beauty clean from rust. He skins and burns and loves the air, And splits a skull to win my praise; But up the noblj^ marching days She glitters naked, cold and fair. Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this ; That in good fury he may feel The body where he sets his heel Quail from your downward darting kiss. RICHARD ALDINGTON (1892- ) After Two Years jCHE is all so slight And tender and white As a May morning. She walks without hood At dusk. It is good To hear her sing. It is God's will That I shall love her still As He loves Mary. And night and day I will go forth to pray That she love me. She is as gold Lovely, and far more cold. Do thou pray with me. For if I win grace To kiss twice her face God has done well to me. ROBERT NICHOLS 5 ROBERT NICHOLS (1893- ) The Full Heart A LONE on the shore in the pause of the night-time I stand and I hear the long wind blow light ; I view the constellations, quietly, quietly burning ; I hear the wave fall in the hush of the night. Long after I am dead, ended this bitter journey. Many another whose heart holds no light Shall your solemn sweetness, hush, awe and comfort, O my companions, Wind, Waters, Stars, and Night. ROBERT GRAVES Not Dead 'V^k'LKU>lG through trees to cool my heat and pain, ^ I know that David's with me here again. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. Caressingly I stroke Rough bark of the friendly oak. A brook goes babbling by: the voice is his. Turf burns with pleasant smoke ; I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. Over the whole wood in a little while Breaks his slow smile. INDEX OF FIRST LINES Abou Ben Adhem — may his tribe increase ! — 243 A crowned Caprice is god of this world, 425 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever, 191 A fool there was and he made his prayer, 492 A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot! 384 Ah, Ben! 113 Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, 333 Ah, how sweet it is to love ! 153 Ah, Sunflower, weary of time, 187 Ah, what avails the sceptered race ! 236 A jester walked in the garden, 486 A knight ther was, and that a worthy man, 3 Alas ! they had been friends in youth, 234 A late lark twitters from the quiet skies, 428 A little honey! Ay, a little sweet, 410 All life moving to one measure , 520 All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair — 232 All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee, 334 All the flowers of the spring, 100 All the world's a stage, 80 All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 232 A lonely workman, standing there, 408 Alone on the shore in the pause of the night-time, 537 _And did those feet in ancient time, 187 'And Gwydion said to Math, when it was spring: 523 And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed, 161 And right anon as I the day espied, 4 An old song made by an aged old pate, 88 A Paris gutter of the good old times, 425 A pleasing land of drowsy-liead it was, 162 April, April. 458 A shaft of fire that falls like dew, 503 As it fell upon a day, 97 As I was walking all alone, 27 Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 104 539 540 INDEX OF FIRST LINES Ask nothing more of me, sweet, 408 As one that for a weary space has lain, 423 A sonnet is a moment's monument, — 371 A spirit haunts the year's last hours, 302 Assemble, all j'e maidens, at the door, 420 As virtuous men pass mildly away, 95 A sweet disorder in the dress, 112 At early dawn through London you must go, 458 At sixteen years she knew no care, 457 At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly, 241 At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, 335 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones, 1.34 Ay, but to die, and go we know not where, 82 B Balkis was in her marble town, 530 Beating Heart ! we come again, 340 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 322 Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, 422 Behold her, single in the field, 199 Beneath the loveliest dream there coils a fear : 393 Be not too quick to carve our rhyme, 484 Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone, 7 Bid me to live, and I will live, 113 Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead ! 532 Boy, should you meet a pretty wench, 470 Break, break, break, 314 Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 214 Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill, 532 Bright Star! I would I were steadfast as thou art — 273 Bury me deep when I am dead, 483 Busy, curious, thirsty fly! 159 But I came from the dancing place, 497 But, my good little man, you have made a mistake, 478 But vain the Sword and vain the Bow, 189 By the Isar, in the twilight, 534 By the moon we sport and play, 53 By the old Moulmem Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, 489 By this he knew she wept with waking eyes : 380 Caliph, I did thee wrong. I hailed thee late, 462 Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, 99 Calme was the day, and through the trembling a3're, 48 Calm soul of all things ! make it mine, 356 Clerk Saunders and may Margaret, 24 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 541 Come, fill the cup, and in the fire of Spring, 290 Come into the garden, Maud, 309 Come little babe, come silly soul, 13 Come live with me and be my Love, 65 Come, spur away, 116 Come unto these yellow sands, — 73 Come up, dear chosen morning, come, 528 Comin' through the Rye, poor body, 190 "Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, 298 Crabbed Age and Youth, 74 Cupid and my Campaspe played, 53 Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, 65 D David. Bright Bethsabe shall wash in David's bower, 59 Dear Death? — to feel the frog in my throat, 334 Dear love, for nothing less than thee, 94 Does the road wind up-hill all the way? 382 Do not let any woman read this verse, 533 Down through the ancient Strand, 429 Drake, he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away, 480 Drink to me only with thine eyes, 89 Earth has not anything to show more fair: 204 Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh, dear to me, dear and sweet, 434 Eternal spirit of the chainless Mind ! 248 Even such is Time, that takes in trust, 16 Fair Daffodils, we weep to see, 112 Fair stood the wind for France, 63 False world, thou ly'st : thou canst not lend, 106 Farewell, rewards and fairies ! 100 Farewell, ungrateful traitor! 153 Far from the sun and summer gale, 169 Flesh, I have knocked at many a dusty door, 511 "Flowers nodding gaily, scent in air, 507 Fly from the press, and dwell with sothfastness: 6 Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet! 83 For England's sake men give their lives, 527 Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty king, 53 From Eastertide to Eastertide, 453 Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 111 542 INDEX OF FIRST LINES Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn, 110 Give a man a horse he can ride, 386 Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, 15 Give me no mansions ivory white, 477 Go and catch a falling star, 96 God Lseus, ever young, 99 God of our fathers, known of old — 492 God prosper long our noble king, 32 God sends no message by me. I am mute, 482 Go fetch to me a pine o' wine, 191 Go, for they call you. Shepherd, from the hill : 343 Go, lovely Rose — 118 Go, pretty page with the dimpled chin, 318 Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, 243 H Had he and I but met, 409 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grovel 181 Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 252 Half a league, half a league, 314 Happy boy. happy boy, 521 Happy those early days, when I, 150 Hark, Hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 72 Has summer come without the rose, 417 Hath any loved you well down there, 419 Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 90 Hear the voice of the Bard, 187 He came and took me by the hand, 520 He did not wear his scarlet coat, 435 He gave us all a good-by cheerily, 480 He has conn'd the lesson now, 283 Hence, all you vain delights, 99 Hence loathed Melancholy, 122 Hence vain deluding Joys, 125 Her eyes the glow-worn lend thee, 109 Here, in this sequestered close, 410 Here lies a most beautiful lady, 510 Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King, 156 Here where the world is quiet, 396 Herod : Pour out these pearls, 505 He that is down needs fear no fall, 151 He who would start and rise, 472 His golden locks Time hath to silver turned : 59 Home they brought her warrior dead : 313 How changed is here each spot man makes or fills ! 349 How happy is he born and taught, 86 How many voices gaily sing, 237 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 543 How should I your true love know, 71 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 171 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 133 How vainly men themselves amaze, 148 Hushed is each shout, 481 I arise from dreams of thee, 260 cannot eat but little meat, 12 cannot tell their wonder nor make known, 513 care not for these ladies, 85 could not through the burning day, 507 did not choose thee, dearest. It was Love, 410 did not know ; child, I did not know, 488 dreamed of him last night, I saw his face, 506 f all the world and love were young, 66 f aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 171 f I could come again to that dear place, 485 f I should die, think only this of me ! 533 f I were king — ah, love, if I were king! 474 fled him down the nights and down the days, 464 f love were what the rose is, 406 f on some balmy summer night, 458 f there were dreams to sell, 286 f thou hast squandered years to grave a gem, 496 got me flowers to strew Thy way, 108 had a little bird, 363 have had playmates, I have had companions, 237 have no name, 185 hear a sudden cry of pain! 534 heard a soldier sing some trifle, 497 intended an Ode, 414 in the greyness rose, 503 know a little garden-close, 388 know that all the moon decays, 103 know you : solitary griefs, 500 love all beauteous things, 419 made another garden, yea, 418 must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, 515 must not think of thee ; and tired yet strong, 433 n a false dream I saw the Foe prevail, 462 n after days when grasses high, 413 n Flanders' fields the poppies blow, 508 n going to my naked bed, as one that would have slept, 10 n Scarlet town, where I was born, 21 n the highlands, in the country places, 432 544 INDEX OF FIRST LINES n the west dusk silver sweet, 501 n these restrained and careful times, 426 n Xanadu did Kubla Kahn, ;2.30 said — "Then dearest, since 'tis so, 330 saw the spires of Oxford, 528 sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers, 108 sing the name which none can say, 142 singularly moved, 359 s my team plowing, 463 Is there anybody there?" said the traveller, 509 strove with none, for none was worth my strife, 237 tell thee, Dick, where I have been, 135 thought, beloved, to have brought to you, 503 thought once how Theocritus had sung, 286 t is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 203 t is an ancient Alariner, 214 t is not growing like a tree, 90 t little profits that an idle king, 315 t must have been for one of us, my own, 432 t was not like your great and gracious ways ! 361 wandered lonely as a cloud, 202 was angry with my friend : 188 was a stricken deer that left the herd, 177 went to the Garden of Love, 188 who am dead a thousand years, 531 will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 485 will go back to the great sweet mother, — 393 will make brooches and toys for your delight, 431 wish I were where Helen lies, 19 wonder by my troth, what thou and I, 93 Jack Barrett went to Quetta, 493 Jenny kiss'd me when we met, 243 John Anderson my jo, John, 194 K Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, 321 Kicking my heels in the street, 487 Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine, 500 Lay a garland on my hearse, 104 Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 283 Lean out of the window, 527 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 545 Let us begin and carry up this corpse, 327 Let us go up and look him in the face — 389 Life ! I know not what thou art, 180 Light flows our war of mocking words ; and yet, 356 Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough, 374 Lo, if some one should write upon your rafter, 41G Long-expected One-and-twenty, 165 Look in my face ; my name is Might-Have-Been, 373 Look not thou on beauty's charming, 213 Lord, thou hast given me a cell, 114 Love in my bosom like a bee, 58 Love is enough : though the world be a-waning, 387 Love, that is first and last of all things made, 403 Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, 53 M Make me over. Mother April, 474 Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings, 176 A'lay ! queen of blossoms, 243 Merrily sang the monkes in Ely — 1 Merry Margaret, 8 Methinks the little wit I had is lost, 103 Methought I saw my late espoused Saint, 134 Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay, 14 Mother of Hermes! still youthful Maia ! 263 Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 262 Music hath charms to soothe a savage beast, 158 Music of the star-shine shimmering o'er the sea, 521 Music, when soft voices die, 261 My boat is on the shore, 249 My days among the Dead are passed, 235 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains, 270 My heart is like a singing bird, 382 My heart leaps up when I behold, 201 My lady's presence makes the roses red, 61 My little Son, who looked from thoughtful eyes, 360 My Lute, awake, perform the last, 9 My only love is always near — 339 My silks and fine array, 186 My true-love hath my heart and I have his, 56 My windows open to the Autumn night, 498 N Naked I saw thee, 519 Neighbour of the near domain, 426 646 INDEX OF FIRST LINES Nobles and heralds, by your leave, 158 No coward soul is mine, 336 None should outlive his power Who kills, 457 No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist, 267 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 251 Not drunk is he, who from the floor, 244 Not on the neck of prince or hound, 483 Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes, 451 Nous devrions pourtant lui porter quelques fleucrs : 398 Now along the solemn heights, 471 Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour, 532 Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white, 310 Now the lusty spring is seen, 98 Now winter nights enlarge, 84 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room, 203 O O blithe new-comer ! I have heard, 201 O brief and breathing creature, wilt thou cease, 504 O ! do you hear the rain, 506 O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes : 383 O'er the smooth enamell'd green, 119 Of all the girls that are so smart, 163 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 192 Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, 386 O for a Muse of fire that would ascend, 80 O friend ! I know not which way I must look, 204 O Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 269 O God ! our help in ages past, 159 Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find ! 325 Oh Happiness ! our being's end and aim, 160 Oh ! leave the past to bury its own dead, 409 Oh, may I join the choir invisible, 337 Oh ! sing unto my roundelay, 182 Oh, to be a cricket, 473 Oh, to be in England. 321 Omar, dear Sultan of the Persian song, 473 O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 337 O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? 71 O Mortal folk, you may behold and see, 8 O my dark Rosaleen, 284 O my luve's like a red, red rose, 192 On a starr'd night Prince Lucifer uprose, 380 On either side the river lie, 294 One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, 340 Onely Joy, now here you are, 55 One more Unfortunate, 277 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 547 One night came Winter noiselessly and leaned, 473 One word is too often profaned, 260 O nightingale that on yon bloomy spray, 133 . . . . O Prosperpina, 82 O reverend Chaucer! rose of rhetoris all, 8 O saw ye not fair Ines? 279 O spread again your leaves and flow'rs, 282 O surely now the fisherman, 388 O swallow, swallow, flying, flying South, 313 O that 'twere possible, 310 O then, I see queen Mab hath been with you, 79 Others abide our question. Thou art free, 355 O to think, O to think as I see her stand there, 482 Our revels now are ended : these our actors, 83 Our youth began with tears and sighs, 424 Out of a silence, 516 Out of the night that covers me, 427 Over hill, over dais, 68 O waly, waly, up the bank, 20 O what a plague is love ! 22 O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 268 O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 254 O World, be nobler, for her sake! 506 Patience! why, 'tis the soul of peace: 87 Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — 256 Phoebus, arise, 102 Piping down the valleys wild, 185 Proud Maisie is in the wood, 213 Q Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 89 Quinquireme of Ninevah from distant Ophir, 515 Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife, 282 R Remember me when I am gone away, 383 Renowned Spencer, lie a thought more nigh, 101 Ring out your bells, let mourning shews he spread, 57 Roll on thou ball, roll on ! 393 Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, 333 S Say not, the struggle naught availeth, 339 548 INDEX OF FIRST LINES Scorn not the sonnet ; critic, you have frowned, 203 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 193 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulnessl 272 Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, 398 Shall I, wasting in despair, 105 >, She is all so slight, 536 f She is most fair, 519 '! She is not fair to outward view, 274 il She walks in beauty, like the night, 248 ' She walks — the lady of my delight — 433 She was a phantom of delight, 200 She was only a woman, famished for loving, 431 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 193 Shut, shut the door, good John ! fatigued I said, 160 Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, 71 Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part! 64 Six years had passed, and forty ere the six, 184 So, we will go no more a roving, 249 Somber and rich, the skies, 498 Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife. 213 St. Agnes' Eve— Ah, bitter chill it was ! 263 Stand close around, ye Stygian set, 236 Stand not uttering sedately, 482 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! 211 Still let my tyrants know, I am not doom'd to wear, 335 Still to be neat, still to be drest, 90 Stop, Christian passerby! Stop, child of god! 235 Strange fits of passion I have known : 197 Strew on her roses, roses, 341 Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 303 Summer is i-comen in, 1 Sunset and evening star, 317 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 173 Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright — 107 Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, 173 Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade, 177 Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, 259 Take, O take those lips away, 72 Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 312 Tell me not Sweet, I am unkind, 143 Tell me now in what hidden way is, 374 .... that blessed mood, 210 That time and absence proves, 94 That which her slender waist confined, 119 The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, 82 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 549 The beasts in field are glad, and have not wit, 460 The blessed damozcl leaned out, 368 The chambers of the mansions of my heart, 385 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 166 The doubt of future foes, 11 The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof, 501 The forward youth that would appear, 145 The glories of our blood and state, 115 The harp that once through Tara's halls, 240 The hunched camels of the night, 468 Theirs is yon house that holds the village poor, 183 The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 245 The king sits in Dunfermline town, 30 The ladies of St. James's. 411 The Lady Mary Villiers lies, 104 The lark now leaves his watery nest, 118 The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other : 508 The moth's kiss first! 333 The mountain sheep are sweeter, 243 The murmur of the mourning ghost, 366 Then out spake brave Horatius, 281 The old rude church, with bare, bald tower, is here, 459 The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea, 320 The play is done ; the curtain drops, 319 The quality of mercy is not strain'd, 78 The rain set early in to-night, 324 There is a garden in her face, 84 There is an old woman who looks each night, 524 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 244 There is a silence where hath been no sound, 280 There is delight in singing, tho' none hear, 236 There is sweet music here that softer falls, 299 There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, 494 There's naught but care on every han', 190 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 205 There were twa sisters sat in a hour, 28 The sea is calm to-night, 341 These are the letters which Endymion wrote, 451 The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er, 119 These little songs, 361 The shores of Styx are lone forevermore, 425 The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, 10 The spacious firmament on high, 158 The splendour falls on castle walls, 312 The star-crowned cliffs seem hinged upon the sky, 518 The star that bids the shepherd fold, 120 The sunbeams in the east are spread : 97 550 INDEX OF FIRST LINES The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, 144 The wine of Love is music, 386 The world is so full of a number of things, 431 The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 203 The world's great age begins anew, 261 They are all gone — into the world of light! 150 The year's at the spring, 322 The 3'oung May moon is beaming, love, 240 The young moon is white, 522 They told me, Meraclitus, they told mo you were dead, 358 This figure, that thou here seest put, 91 Thou art my dream, but for my last delight, 525 Thou burden of all songs the earth hath sung, 461 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 195 Thou still unravished bride of quietness, 266 Three fishers went sailing away to the West, 338 Three Poets, in three distant ages born, 152 Tiger, tiger, burning bright, 1S6 Tinged with my kisses go, go thou to her, 484: 'Tis the last rose of summer, 241 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 249 To all you ladies now at land, 154 To be, or not to be, that is the question — 81 To draw no envy Shakespeare, on thy name, 91 To drift with every passion, till my soul, 434 To fair Fidele's grassy tomb, 170 Toll for the brave ! 179_ To part now, and, parting now, 489 To suffer woes which hope thinks infinite, 262 To thee, fair freedom ! I retire, 165 To these I turn, in these I trust, 536 To you, my purse, and to none other wight, 4 Tread lightly, she is near, 450 True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank, 16 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won, 152 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, 384 'Twas on the shores that round our coast, 390 'Twas the dream of a God, 508 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot, 414 U Underneath this sable hearse, 106 Under the arch of summer, 526 Under the greenwood tree, 69 Under the wide and starry sky, 432 Under yonder beech-tree single on the greensward, 375 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 551 Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet 501 Up over windy wastes and up, 517 Up the airy mountain, 362 Up, youths and virgins, up and praise, 90 V Vital spark of heav'nly flame! 161 W Waken, lords and ladies gay, 212 Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, 537 Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, 65 We are the music makers, 417 We are the voices of the wandering wind, 385 We cannot kindle when we will, 342 We caught the tread of dancing feet, 452 Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee : 60 We have met late — it is too late to meet, 288 We'll fill a Provence bowl and pledge us deep, 524 Well, then, I now do plainly see, 143 Werther had a love for Charlotte, 318 We would have inward peace, 354 "What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade, 491 What constitutes a state? 180 "What do you sell, John Camplejohn, 475 What foreland fledged with m3rrrh, 390 What heart could have thought you? — 468 What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shews, 157 What needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones, 133 What was he doing, the great god Pan, 289 Whenas in silks my Julia goes, 109 When Britain first, at Heaven's command, 163 When daffodils begin to peer, 73 When daisies pied, and violets blue, 67 When do I see thee most beloved one? 371 When I am dead, my dearest, 383 When I consider how my light is spent, 134 "When I have fears that 1 may cease to be, 263 When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 75 When lovely woman stoops to folly, 176 When Love with unconfined wings, 142 When maidens such as Hester die, 238 When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass, 61 When Queen Djenira slumbers through, 510 When that Arthur was King, 1 552 INDEX OF FIRST LINES When the British Warrior Queen, 178 When the dumb Hour, clothed in black, 317 When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, 395 When the last sea is sailed, when the last shallow's charted, 518 When the ways are heavy with mire and rut, 412 When thou must home to shadows underground, 83 When j^ou are old and gray and full of sleep, 486 Where is a holier thing, 479 Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? 231 Where the pools are bright and deep, 196 Where the thistle lifts a purple crown, 469 Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, 421 Whoe'er she be, 138 Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm, 96 Who is Sylvia? What is she? 67 Who wants a gown, 273 Who wins his Love shall lose her, 423 Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O, why, 156 Why, if 'tis dancing you would be, 463 Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 138 Why, why repine, my pensive friend, 237 With fingers weary and worn, 275 With rue my heart is laden, 464 Ye banks and braes and streams around, 194 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 189 Ye have been fresh and green, 109 Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes, 39 Ye Mariners of England, 239 Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more, 129 You are carried in a basket, 428 You come not, as aforetime, to the headstone every day, 359 You meaner beauties of the night, 86 Your eyen two wol slec me sodenly, 5 INDEX OF TITLES A Amarillis, 85 A Match, 406 A Ballad of a Nun, 453 A Memory of Earth, 501 A Ballad Upon a Wedding, 135 A Musical Instrument, 289 Abou Ben Adhem, 243 Absence, 94 A Birthday, 196 A Charge, 496 A Comparison. Addressed to a Young Lady, 177 A Cradle Song, 13 A Creed, 482 A Denial, 288 A Dirge, 57 A Dirge, from "The White Devil," 99 A Duet, 507 Advice to a Boy, 470 "Ae Fond Kiss," 191 A Farewell to Arms, 59 After Love, 489 After Two Years, 536 A Garden Song, 410 An Epitaph, 510 An Epitaph on a Husbandman. 472 An Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic Poet, W. Shake- speare, 133 An Horatian Ode upon Crom- well's Return from Ireland. 145 An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford to Hasten Him into the Country, 116 A Passer-By, 422 A Poison Tree, 188 A Prayer, 425 Arab Love-Song, 468 A Red, Red Rose, 192 Ashore, 497 _ Asking Forgiveness, 488 "Age with Stealing Steps," 184 A Song, 484 Agincourt (October 25, 1415) Aspatia s Song, 104 62 A Grammarian's Funeral, 327 Ah, How Sweet It Is to Love! 153 Ah, Sunflower, 187 A Japanese Love Song, 522 ^^ ^^^ Stage-Door, 487 J?;^*n^^ crJ'^'^^oa ^'°"' A Tragedyr431 the Quiet Skies, 428 ^^j^^ Lang Syne, 193 All of Roses, 534 A Love-Song, 482 Amantium Irae, 10 A Man's Daughter, 524 553 A Superscription, 373 A Thanksgiving to God for His House, 114 At Her Window, 340 A Toccata of Gallupi's, 325 At the Mid Hour of Night, 241 Autumn, 461 A Valediction Mourning, 95 Ave Atque Vale, 398 Forbidding 554 INDEX OF TITLES B Danny Deever, 491 Dark Rosaleen, 284 <