Part 1
In Cupid’s Court
EDITED BY Ina Russelle Warren
New York R. H. Russell 1900
COPYRIGHT 1900 BY ROBERT HOWARD RUSSELL
_TO T._
_If the world’s entirety_ _Is two eyes that shine on me,_ _Lay the blame at Love’s door, dearest:_ _Thus he made my world to be._
_He’s the key to Heaven’s gate;_ _He’s the scorn that tramples fate;_ _He’s the worth of living, dearest,_ _He’s the laugh that makes Death late._
_He’s the morning sun that wakes us_ _To the worth of all things, dearest,_ _He’s the influence that makes us_ _Daily gladder, ’till God takes us!_
_TOMAS BEAULING._
PAGE
Dedication vii
Preface xi
Chant Royal of the God of Love 1
Cupid Mistaken 4
Cupid Once Upon a Bed 5
Cupid’s Birth 6
Cupid at Court 7
Cupid 8
Cupid’s Lottery 10
Cupid’s Curse 11
Love’s Flitting 12
Love’s Tyranny 13
The Triumph of Cupid 14
Song to Cupid 15
Banished Love 16
To Cupid for Pardon 17
Love’s Hunting 18
Love Goes A-Hawking 19
Love’s Blindness 20
Love Asleep 21
Dan Cupid’s Trick 22
Love’s Arrows 24
Love, the Guest 25
Cupid 26
For Cupid Dead 27
At the Sign of the Blind Cupid 28
Cupid’s Arrow 30
Cupid Plague Thee for Thy Treason 31
Young Love’s a Gallant Boy 33
Venus’ Runaway 34
Beware the Rogue 36
The Fair Thief 37
Love and the Witches 39
Love and Dream 40
Cupid Laid by His Brand 41
A Madrigal 42
Love’s Reward 44
The Love That is Requited With Disdain 45
Cupid Relieved 46
Love Banished Heaven 47
The Begging Cupid 48
Love! If a God Thou Art 50
Love’s Going 51
Cupid’s Arrows 53
The Growth of Love 54
Love’s Qualities 56
Ballade of the Rose 57
An Awakening 58
Love and a Compass 59
Love is Dead 60
Wily Cupid 62
The Burial of Love 63
Cupid Swallowed 65
The Fillet 66
The Archery Match 68
The Burial of Love 69
Song 70
Love and Mischief 71
Damon and Cupid 72
Cupid and Campaspe 74
Love for Love 75
A Kiss 76
The Dilemma 77
Love Penitent 79
It will be readily apparent that the aim of this volume is to collect the choicest poems on Cupid scattered throughout English literature. A large harvest has been gleaned, and what my judgment counts excellent, so far as practicable, is represented. The attitude towards Cupid has mostly been one of obstinate resistance, but he has the element that wins,—sometimes fantastically, sometimes pathetically. The beleaguering little rogue never quits the field defeated,—to him no suit is hopeless.
If some of the verses are not of high value as compositions they are all-important when considered relative to the subject, and a majority of the poems are of unquestionable literary merit.
I beg to acknowledge the gracious favor of The Century Co., Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Life Publishing Co., Frederick A. Stokes Co., G. P. Putnam’s Sons, Charles Scribner’s Sons, Cassell Publishing Co., and D. Appleton & Co., for the use of copyright poems. I also gratefully acknowledge the eminent courtesy of individual authors for permission to reprint.
I. R. W.
IN CUPID’S COURT
CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD OF LOVE
O most fair God, O Love both new and old, That wast before the flowers of morning blew, Before the glad sun in his mail of gold Leapt into light across the first day’s dew; That art the first and last of our delight, That in the blue day and the purple night Holdest the hearts of servant and of king, Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing, That in thy hand hast heaven’s golden key And hell beneath the shadow of thy wing, Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
What thing rejects thy mastery? Who so bold But at thine altars in the dusk they sue? Even the straight pale goddess, silver-stoled, That kissed Endymion when the spring was new, To thee did homage in her own despite, When in the shadow of her wings of white She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring To where the Latmian youth lay slumbering, And in that kiss put off cold chastity. Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string, “Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”
Master of men and gods, in every fold Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew The labouring earth, tranced with the winter’s cold, Lie hid—the quintessential charms that woo The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might Of the dead year, and draw them to the light. Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling; Skyward and seaward, whilst thy white palms fling Their spells of healing over land and sea, One shout of homage makes the welkin ring, “Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”
I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands hold Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue: Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled, And in thine eyes the royal heaven’s hue: But in thy lips’ clear colour, ruddy bright, The heart’s blood shines of many a hapless wight. Thou art not only fair and sweet as Spring; Terror and beauty, fear and wondering Meet on thy front, amazing all who see: All men do praise thee, ay, and everything! Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
I fear thee, though I love. Who can behold The sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue, What while the noontide over hill and wold Flames like a fire, except his mazèd view Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight Fills me with mingled gladness and affright. Thy visage haunts me in the wavering Of dreams, and in the dawn, awakening, I feel thy splendour streaming full on me. Both joy and fear unto thy feet I bring; Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
_ENVOY_
_God above Gods, High and Eternal King,_ _Whose praise, the symphonies of heaven sing,_ _I find no whither from thy power to flee,_ _Save in thy pinions’ vast o’ershadowing:_ _Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!_
JOHN PAYNE.
As after noon, one summer’s day, Venus stood bathing in a river, Cupid a-shooting went that way, New strung his bow, new filled his quiver.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart, With all his might his bow he drew; Swift to his beauteous parent’s heart The too well-guided arrow flew.
“I faint! I die!” the goddess cried; “O cruel, couldst thou find none other To wreak thy spleen on? Parricide! Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.”
Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak: “Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye; Alas! how easy my mistake; I took you for your likeness, Cloe.”
MATTHEW PRIOR.
Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head; Luckless urchin not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee! The bee awaked—with anger wild The bee awaked and stung the child. Loud and piteous are his cries; To Venus quick he runs, he flies! “O mother! I am wounded through— I die with pain—in sooth I do! Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing— A bee it was—for once, I know, I heard a rustic call it so.” Thus he spoke, and she the while Heard him with a soothing smile; Then said, “My infant, if so much Thou feel the little wild bee’s touch, How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be— The hapless heart that’s stung by thee?”
THOMAS MOORE. (Odes of Anacreon.)
CUPID’S BIRTH
At Cupid’s birth, Joy left the bounds of space, And, heeding not the stars, flew fast to earth, To hold the hearts of men in warm embrace, At Cupid’s birth.
Then Life, with beaming eyes and quickened pace, And new-found god-like strength, first knew her worth; While Fate began the future to retrace.
But Death stood gently by with quiet grace, Aloof from all the tumult and mad mirth, A sweet, sad smile lit up his steadfast face At Cupid’s birth.
R. W. BUNNY.
CUPID AT COURT
Young Cupid strung his bow one day, And sallied out for sport; As country hearts were easy prey, Odd Darts! he went to court.
Of all that wore the puff and patch, Belinda led the fair: With falbala, and fan to match, I trow she made him stare!
“Oho!” he cried, and quickly drew His bow upon the sly;— But though he pierced her bosom through, She never breathed a sigh!
This was a turn, beyond a doubt, That filled him with amaze, And so he sought his mother out, With tear-bewildered gaze.
“You silly boy,” Dame Venus said, “Why did you waste your art? Go clip your curls and hide your head,— Belinda _has_ no heart!”
SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
Why was Cupid a boy, And why a boy was he? He should have been a girl, For aught that I can see.
For he shoots with his bow, And the girl shoots with her eye; And they both are merry and glad, And laugh when we do cry.
Then to make Cupid a boy Was surely a woman’s plan, For a boy never learns so much Till he has become a man:
And then he’s so pierced with cares, And wounded with arrowy smarts, That the whole business of his life Is to pick out the heads of the darts.
WILLIAM BLAKE.
CUPID’S LOTTERY
A Lottery, a Lottery, In Cupid’s Court there used to be; Two roguish eyes The highest prize In Cupid’s scheming Lottery; And kisses, too, As good as new, Which weren’t very hard to win, For he who won The eyes of fun Was sure to have the kisses in. A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.
This Lottery, this Lottery In Cupid’s court went merrily, And Cupid played A Jewish trade In this his scheming Lottery; For hearts, we’re told, In _shares_ he sold To many a fond believing drone, And cut the hearts In sixteen parts So well, each thought the whole his own, A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.
THOMAS MOORE.
CUPID’S CURSE
My love is fair, my love is gay, As fresh as are the flowers in May; And of my love the roundelay, My merry, merry roundelay, Concludes with Cupid’s curse: They that do change old love for new, Pray gods they change for worse!
My love can pipe, my love can sing, My love can many a pretty thing, And of his lovely praises ring My merry, merry roundelays. Amen to Cupid’s curse! They that do change old love for new, Pray gods they change for worse!
GEORGE PEELE.
When Love is coming, coming, Meet him with songs and joy, Bid him alight and enter, Flatter and feast the boy; Crown him with gems and roses, Charm him with winning wiles, Bind him with lovely garlands, And kisses, and smiles.
When Love is going, going, Leaving you all alone, Craving, the fickle tyrant, Some newer slave and throne, Hinder him not, but quickly, Even though your heart may bleed, Saddle a horse for his journey, And bid him God-speed!
ELIZABETH AKERS.
Love’s tyranny now wherefore should I praise, Not being enamoured of my altered plight!
I often sigh who once sang roundelays; I know the sleepless gnomes that haunt the night.
I turn with feverish jealousy to hear Words that were spoken when I was not near.
I shroud my eyes from sights I dare not see, Yet who so spies must tell his tale to me.
Madman am I, who give my vote for death, Yet heed not the grim hand that beckoneth.
Love I entreat to go, and while I pray Grasp him with nervous fingers, lest he stray.
Ah! than love’s blessing is no deadlier curse, And yet—and yet—to live undamned were worse.
PERCY HEMINGWAY.
THE TRIUMPH OF CUPID
He came in busy hours— My holidays are few— He brought the scent of flowers, And whispered, dear, of you.
I vowed that I would flay him, And scourge him out of sight; Nay more, I vowed to slay him, The mischief-making sprite.
I gave him caustic chiding, Let fly a poisoned dart. Presto! the lad was hiding Safely within my heart!
There all day long he chatters Of some one’s charm and grace; Till nothing really matters Except to see your face.
I would I had not chidden, Nor tried the sprite to kill; For in my heart safe hidden, He works his wayward will.
GERALDINE MEYRICK.
SONG TO CUPID
O wary elf Cupid, O dimpled, coy Cupid, Are you lost in the moonbeams, or hid in a rose? Who saw you, so nimble, slip out of a thimble, And hang from the loops of a lily-maid’s bows?
Wee, spry little midget, the world’s in a fidget To snare and then coddle you, mischievous sprite; Your pranks and mad gambols and primrose-path rambles ’Mid briers and brambles are all my delight.
In ivy-clad bowers you nestle for hours, And lurk in the flowers that swing in the breeze; There counting the kisses, the sweet stolen blisses, Of Strephon and Phyllis in languorous ease.
We trifle and putter, our hearts in a flutter, In a tangled skein spun by the toiletted fair, The weary hours whiling, and dull care beguiling— Lo! dimpled and smiling, you’re loitering there!
O wary elf Cupid, O cunning, coy Cupid, Are lovers all stupid, dear, rollicking boy? While maidens are sighing and love-knots are tying, The snap of your bow-string bodes sorrow and joy!
HAROLD VAN SANTVOORD.
O shepherds! have ye wandering seen A wingèd boy with blinded eyes? I drove him from me yester e’en, Despite his tears and pleading sighs.
He bears a pretty bow, and keen Tipped arrows in his quiver lie. O shepherds, tell me, have you seen This banished Love come wandering by?
Why shines the sun, regret to mock, Why flaunt the flowers in hues so gay, Why skip with joy the snowy flock, When poor lost Love is far away?
Unfeeling shepherds, wherefore smile And point toward my breaking heart? What! close behind me all this while? O sweet! we two no more shall part.
VIRGINIA B. HARRISON.
Cupid, pardon what is past, And forgive our sins at last! Then we will be coy no more, But thy deity adore; Troths at fifteen we will plight, And will tread a dance each night, In the fields, or by the fire, With the youths that have desire. Given ear-rings we will wear, Bracelets of our lovers’ hair, Which they on our arms shall twist, With their names carved, on our wrist: All the money that we owe We in tokens will bestow; And learn to write that, when ’tis sent, Only our loves know what is meant. Oh, then pardon what is past, And forgive our sins at last.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
LOVE’S HUNTING
Hast thou seen a boy so clever, Bow in hand, and from his shoulders Three tipped arrows in a quiver, With which, piercing all beholders, He goes up and down forever?
One dart, in the deep eye clinging, Blinds us ever to his aiming; One straight at the white throat flinging, He denies his wrong’s complaining; One he leaves in the heart stinging.
And the last dart, tipt with scorning, Quickly kindles a hot passion Which consumes us with its burning: Eyeless, tongueless, in such fashion, Blind and mute, we wander yearning.
JAMES HERBERT MORSE.
LOVE GOES A-HAWKING
A ho! A ho! Love’s horn doth blow, And he will out a-hawking go. His shafts are light as beauty’s sighs, And bright as midnight’s brightest eyes, And round his starry way The swan-wing’d horses of the skies, With summer’s music in their manes, Curve their fair necks to zephyr’s reins, And urge their graceful play.
A ho! A ho! Love’s horn doth blow, And he will out a-hawking go. The sparrows flutter round his wrist, The feathery thieves that Venus kist And taught their morning song, The linnets seek the airy list, And swallows too, small pets of Spring, Bear back the gale with swifter wing, And dart and wheel along.
A ho! A ho! Love’s horn doth blow, And he will out a-hawking go. Now woe to every gnat that skips To filch the fruit of ladies’ lips, His felon blood is shed; And woe to flies, whose airy ships On beauty cast their anchoring bite, And bandit wasp, that naughty wight, Whose sting is slaughter-red.
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.
LOVE’S BLINDNESS
I have heard of reasons manifold Why Love must needs be blind, But this the best of all I hold— His eyes are in his mind.
What outward form and feature are He guesseth but in part; But that within is good and fair He seeth with the heart.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
LOVE ASLEEP
I found Love sleeping in a place of shade, And as in some sweet dream the sweet lips smiled; Yea, seemed he as a lovely, sleeping child. Soft kisses on his full, red lips I laid, And with red roses did his tresses braid; Then pure, white lilies on his breast I piled, And fettered him with woodbine sweet and wild, And fragrant armlets for his arms I made.
But while I, leaning, yearned across his breast, Upright he sprang, and from swift hand, alert, Sent forth a shaft that lodged within my heart. Ah, had I never played with Love at rest, He had not wakened, had not cast his dart, And I had lived who die now of this hurt.
PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
The little boy called Love lay dead, And on his tiny tomb Some carven letters sweetly said That for a day his heart had bled, And named the maid for whom.
This maid, on coming to the mound, Felt a remorseful pain, And kissed his image, clasped it round, Grew pale, and sank upon the ground, And shed an April rain.
Then, like a prison-bursting thief, Outleapt the bounding boy, Whose stay in Hadés had been brief— For hardly had he died of grief Than he arose for joy.
“What means this caper?” cried the maid As in his arms she sank, And half delighted, half afraid, Began most sweetly to upbraid This most audacious prank.
“Fair maid, your scorn of me,” he said, “Was all a make-believe, And put the thought into my head To play the trick of being dead, To see how you would grieve.”
She dashed with anger from her eyes Her all-too-tender tears,— And greatly to the lad’s surprise, And heedless of his woeful cries, She boxed his little ears.
“Back to your tomb and there abide! And quit it not!” quoth she (And added, locking him inside), “I never loved you till you _died_ For just your love of _me_.”
THEODORE TILTON.
LOVE’S ARROWS
I saw young Love make trial of his bow, In May’s green garden where he shot his dart, Nor recked if any nigh beheld his art, But other eyes did mark him as I know; For my sweet lady sate anear his throw, And I with her, and joinèd heart to heart, So that we might not feel the bitter smart Love leaveth there when time doth force to go.
We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass, Or watched them quiver in the targe below; Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they pass Beyond our feet, which trembled when they came, Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim, That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.
WALTER CRANE.
LOVE, THE GUEST
I did not dream that Love would stay, I deemed him but a passing guest, Yet here he lingers many a day.
I said, “Young Love will flee with May, And leave forlorn the hearth he blest”; I did not dream that Love would stay.
My envious neighbor mocks me “Nay, Love lies not long in any nest”; Yet here he lingers many a day.
And though I did his will alway, And gave him even of my best; I did not dream that Love would stay.
I have no skill to bid him stay, Of tripping tongue or cunning jest, Yet here he lingers many a day.
Beneath his ivory feet I lay Pale plumage of the ringdove’s breast; I did not dream that Love would stay.
Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say, Home turning for the noonday rest; Yet here he lingers many a day.
His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay, His eyes through tears smile loveliest; I did not dream that love would stay.
He sometimes sighs when far away The low red sun makes fair the west, Yet here he lingers many a day.
Thrice blest of all men am I! yea, Although of all unworthiest; I did not dream that Love would stay, Yet here he lingers many a day.
GRAHAM R. TOMSON.
CUPID
Selfish rogue, did Psyche dream, When her lamp she held above him, How the oil would downward stream, Wake the rogue and make her love him?
MARY CHACE PECKHAM.
FOR CUPID DEAD
When Love is dead, what more but funeral rites— To lay his sweet corse lovingly to rest, To cover him with rose and eglantine, And all fair posies that he loved the best?
What more, but kisses for his close-shut eyes— His cold, still lips that never more will speak— His hair, too bright for dust of death to dim— The flush scarce faded from his frozen cheek?
What more but tears that will not warm his brow, Although they burn the eyes from which they start?— No bitter weeping or more bitter words Can rouse to one more throb that pulseless heart.