Part 1

LOVE’S OLD SWEET SONG

A SHEAF OF LATTER-DAY LOVE-POEMS GARNERED FROM MANY SOURCES

Books by the Same Author

THE GARDEN’S STORY, OR PLEASURES AND TRIALS OF AN AMATEUR GARDENER

THE STORY OF MY HOUSE

IN GOLD AND SILVER

THE ROSE. By H. B. Ellwanger. Revised edition, with an Introduction by George H. Ellwanger.

IDYLLISTS OF THE COUNTRY-SIDE

LOVE’S DEMESNE

MEDITATIONS ON GOUT

THE PLEASURES OF THE TABLE

_Copyright, 1903_, BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY.

_All rights reserved._

_Copyright, 1896_, BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, AS “LOVE’S DEMESNE.”

University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

TO THE MEMORY OF

GLEESON WHITE, ESQ.

In Friendliest Regard

_ENVOY._

_Resound, ye strains, attuned by master-fingers, That breathe so fondly Love’s consuming fire; Some sweet and subtle as a chord that lingers, Some grave and plaintive as the heart’s desire._

_Like June’s gay laughter thro’ the woodlands ringing, These hymn the Present’s gladsome roundelay; As Autumn grieves when choirs have ceased their singing, Those voice their haunting burden, “Well-a-day!”_

_Yet, past or present, who the power would banish That charms or blights, that blesses or that mars: To happy lovers, how may Love e’er vanish,-- To hearts forlorn, how hallowed are his scars!_

PUBLISHERS’ NOTE.

In this Anthology is included in more convenient form the greater portion of the poems contained in the two volumes entitled “Love’s Demesne,” now out of print. The present collection has been carefully revised by the Compiler, and like its predecessor occupies an entirely distinct field, most of the selections being otherwise only accessible in the volumes where they originally appeared, and the major part being by living lyrists.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT.

The sincere thanks of the Editor are due, not only to those American authors who have graciously allowed the reproduction of their poems, but equally to the numerous British living poets whose graceful verses appear in the following pages. In but one instance on the part of a native author, and in but one instance on the part of a publisher, was permission to include poems refused. With these exceptions the Compiler has received the most cordial assistance from holders of copyrights. It becomes a personal pleasure, therefore, to thank the following in particular for their uniform courtesy, without which many a flowing measure contained in “Love’s Old Sweet Song” must necessarily have been omitted: Messrs. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., ROBERTS BROS., CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, MACMILLAN & CO., G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, STONE & KIMBALL, J. G. CUPPLES, BELFORD, CLARKE & CO., D. LOTHROP & CO., COPELAND & DAY, HENRY HOLT & CO., R. WORTHINGTON & CO., WAY & WILLIAMS, LONGMANS, GREEN & CO. To these and other publishers, to the sonorous choir of the poets quoted from, and, finally, to Mr. GLEESON WHITE and Mr. _Edmund Clarence Stedman_, the Compiler tenders his most grateful acknowledgments.

A PASSING WORD.

Bearing in mind the assertion of Monsieur de Milcourt, that prefaces for the most part seem only made in order to “impose” upon the reader, a brief foreword will suffice to explain the scope of the following pages.

As will be apparent at a glance, the selections are all from modern, and largely from living poets; the dominant chord is lyrical; and in the general unisance the minor prevails over the major key. No excuse seems called for in presenting a new anthology; for, given the same theme, each compiler must of necessity present a different score, subject to individual taste and preferences. “To apologize for a new anthology is but one degree less sensible than to prepare it,” pertinently remarks the editor of _Ballades and Rondeaus_. Such were but another case of _qui s’excuse, s’accuse_. It may be observed, nevertheless, that the path of the compiler is far from being strewn with flowers. Indeed, it has been truly said that Æsop’s old man and boy with the donkey had not a harder task than the maker of selections and collections of verses.

Of recent years a number of excellent anthologies have been published on a similar theme. But these deal mainly with the rhythmic fancies of the elder bards, or in fewer instances, combine the older and the younger schools. In the present instance the editor has been guided solely by his own taste or predilections, having had no recourse to other collections, beyond that of avoiding _excerpta_ too oft repeated; the aim being so far as possible to include such examples of merit as are not generally familiar to the average lover of poetry. Whether these be by well-known authors, or by those who are little known, has not entered into consideration, the prime object being to present as intrinsically meritorious a collection, by both British and American modern lyrists, as is possible within the limits of the space at command.

The writer is not aware of a similar compilation having been previously attempted, there being few who would care to brave the “omissions” that must naturally be thrust at one’s door, more especially in the case of an abstract from the works of living writers. Yet while fault may be found, perchance, on the score of selection both by those who may be excluded, as well as by those who are included, the editor of an anthology should at least be thanked for placing many selections before the reader that in the ordinary course of things he would miss,--either through lack of time, or the inability to possess or consult the multitudinous volumes he would be called upon to peruse.

“The purchasing public for poetry,” says Mr. Lang, “must now consist chiefly of poets, and they are usually poor.” The anthologist is the bee, therefore, to extract the honey from the fragrant garland of song, at the least fatigue to the reader. For every poet has not a hive of sweets to draw from; and though the blooms be many in the parterre of poesy, still these require to be plucked with reference not only to individual beauty, but to general harmony as well. A single line may sadly mar an otherwise flawless verse, as a single sonnet rendered immortal the name of Félix Arvers. Many no doubt will miss some favourites. Of such it may be observed that not a few lovely apostrophes have been omitted on account of too great length, or, as previously stated, owing to their being familiar to the great majority of readers. Some poems, moreover, beautiful in themselves, have not been included, despite their intrinsic merits, because they seemed to be out of accord with the prevailing key, as in the case of numerous lyrics approaching the form of so-termed _Vers de Société_. Still others, and many of these extremely beautiful amatory poems, somewhat free in _motif_ or treatment, have been excluded as not fulfilling the precise requirements of the present collection; these were more appropriate grouped in a volume by themselves.

A few translations only have been admitted; the satisfactory translation of verse being an art by itself, demanding special qualifications possessed only by the few. But though it is not often that a rendition does not suffer when compared with its original, it is equally true that in some hands a transcription may equal if not surpass its prototype. Witness, for example, Mr. Andrew Lang’s graceful stanzas entitled “An Old Tune,” adapted from Gérard de Nerval’s dreamy _Fantaisie_, and which although very closely rendered fully equal the original in colour and fragrance, while surpassing it in melodiousness and rhythm. Nearly as much might be said of Mr. Edmund Gosse’s version of Théophile de Viau’s lovely sonnet, _Au moins ay-ie songé que ie vous ay baisée_, as also of the late Thomas Ashe’s phrasing of _Ma vie a son secret, mon âme a son mystère_, which has been so variously rendered by various translators.

With Waller’s “Go, lovely rose,” Herrick’s “Gather ye roses,” Ford’s “There is a lady sweet and kind,” and many another harmonious measure of Lily, Lodge, Lovelace, Campion, Carew, and the rest of them ringing in our ears, what comparison shall be made with the modern laureates of love? Whether the latter indeed chant as sweetly as the Elizabethan meistersingers and their successors under the Restoration, is a question it were perhaps wiser to pass, from lack of space to dwell upon, leaving the reader to form his own opinion. There are those who hold to the contrary; there are others who in the best of existent love-poetry find conceits as colourful, rhythm as resonant, and inspiration as melodious as is still echoed from the sweetest strains of the Elizabethan lyre. Rather, to each let that merit be accorded which is its due. The old songs, like all truly beautiful things of eld, possess the puissant stamp of endurance and the approval of the centuries, added to that indefinable charm which age alone may impart; the new must yet be mellowed and adjudged by Time.

It must be remembered, too, that it is the _best_ of the ancient songs we know and love so well; that if the entire verse of almost any olden bard be closely scanned, it will be found, in very numerous instances, of a widely uneven quality, with many a limping line, strained conceit, or halting measure to offend. Song did not mount to the strain of merle or mavis, or sing itself in the past with greater ease than is the case at present. Greater freedom it possessed; and in the method more than in the matter the chief distinction lies. This distinction between the past-masters and the bards of the present is deftly set forth by Edmund Gosse in his poem, “Impression,”--

* * * * *

“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 learnèd and too overwise, Too much 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 term “ill” which is applied to the ancient versifiers in the above lines were perhaps better rendered by the qualification “bold.” It is in this boldness, vigour, and fire that the distinguishing difference largely consists. And in the striving for new effects, when the present aims to reproduce the past, these qualities are usually lacking in their pristine fervour; while the latter-day impressionist and symbolist is frequently so vague as to be well-nigh unintelligible.

The sentiment underlying the expression of the lyrist of to-day does not differ materially, after all, from that of his remote predecessor. The pitch and _timbre_ of modern poetry are somewhat altered, to be sure. There is less personality, less freedom,--shall I say a certain naïve grace and spontaneous virility are wanting in existent verse as compared with Elizabethan song? though in general the latter-day lyrist is the superior craftsman in rhyme. The most marked variation between the two periods is that the so-called Elizabethan poets for the most part wrote their songs to be sung,--“music married to immortal verse.” The lilt and blitheness of these are individual; and these qualities we are apt to miss, in their primal grace, in many a love-song of the present.

So far as the prevailing spirit of love itself is concerned, this has undergone no change, unless that evolved by the natural refining processes of time. Human nature must be human nature still; and passion in the human heart exists unaltered in its essence. We may not have another Herrick, nor may we summon another Tennyson; the breeze of summer blows not twice alike in its passage through the woodland keys. But there must always remain new chords to be sounded while the most potent of verbs remains to be conjugated. The poets pass away, yet Love is ever new; and so long as the seasons endure and new days dawn, the tuneful choir will chant in infinite variation,--

“Methinks no leaf would ever bud in spring, But for the lovers’ lips that kiss, the poets’ lips that sing.”

The darts of Eros’ quiver are just as numerous and deftly feathered as of yore. Only there are more hearts to hit, with proportionally more registrars to chronicle the passage of his shafts. Still, as of old, the exhortation, _Carpe Diem!_ reverberates through the poet’s page; the rose likewise hath not lost her fragrance, or the violet her perfume; and still, despite stings and thorns, kisses and favours remain sweet things.

Writing love-lyrics is less a momentous occupation now than in the times of doublet and hose. It is fair to assume, notwithstanding, that many a charming fantasy in verse, many an ethereal flight winged from modern lover to modern mistress, never sees the light of the printed page, as was far less the case in ancient days; but remains inviolate with the person by whom it was inspired. Could we obtain access to many passionate apostrophes that exist but in manuscript alone, cherished or known only by the sender and recipient, what a fragrant garland were ours!

Recurring to the comparison already touched upon, Cupid and Campaspe have not ceased to play their game of cards; while the admonition to Lesbia to “live and love” will continue to be current coin amid the “golden cadences” of all time. For,

“What to him is snow or rime, Who calls his love his own?”

It were difficult, in truth, to wrest from Waller his “girdle” of immortal fame, or for any twentieth-century laureate to excel Jonson’s spirited pledge, “To Celia,” or to vie with the sublime strain of Herrick’s “Bid me to live.” And who shall surpass the delicate lacelike grace of Lodge’s “Love in my bosom like a bee,” “My bonny lass! thine eye,” and his still more impassioned rendition of the charms of “Rosalind”?

Who, too, shall outsoar the plumèd flight of Heywood’s “Pack clouds away,” or transcend the birdlike carol of Davenant, “The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest”? And where shall we look for a rival to Marvell’s “Had we but world enough and time,” or the music and dainty conceit of Carew’s “Ask me no more where Jove bestows”? These, and how many, many more, pulsate with the sweetness and plaintiveness of a zither touched by master fingers. Reading them as they attune and chant themselves despite the lapse of centuries, they recall the picture Glapthorne so vividly depicts of a _Gentleman playing on the Lute_:--

“Whose numerous fingers whiter farre Than Venus swans or ermines are Wag’d with the amorous strings a Warre, But such a Warre as did invite The sense of Hearing, and the Sight To riot in a full delight.”

A review of the following pages, on the other hand, will disclose many a delicious wild-flower that, alike in form and hue, is a stranger to the gardens of the past. It is perhaps unfair to individualise; but for the sake of comparison solely, a few instances may be cited with no disparagement to the excellence of the whole of which they form a part. So far as musical sweetness of tone, elevated sentiment, and facility of rhythmic utterance are concerned, Tennyson and Swinburne stand unequalled in their special spheres. The short lyric, however, does not occur nearly as frequently with the latter as with the former, who abounds in pure love-lays, fluid and tender as a thrush’s song. What more fragrantly exquisite than “Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white,” or indeed the scores of _amoretti_ with which he has added to “golden numbers, golden numbers”! With Shakespeare and Milton a master of the sonnet, a large portion of Rossetti’s shorter pieces have been expressed in this his favourite vehicle of verse. Surely the music of song, even though it be in sonnet form, has not suffered a decline when such impassioned chords are heard as vibrate amid “The House of Life.” But acting on prescribed lines, the sonnet in consequence has been but sparingly employed in this collection.

Surely, too, there is a grace as fine as that of the choir of Elizabeth and James, in such airy flights as, “Love on my heart from heaven fell,” “Sweetheart, sigh no more,” “I breathe my heart in the heart of the rose,” and “Up, up, my heart!” Again, we must search long for as powerful a love lyric as _Splendide Mendax_, or the haunting cadences that rise and fall, sonata-like, throughout “A Dead March.” And how exquisite the simple lines to a star of Mr. Garnett, the rhapsody “Oh to think, oh to think” of Mr. Gale, Mr. Bridges’ “Long are the hours the sun is above,” Mathilde Blind’s “I charge you, O winds of the West,” Arthur O’Shaughnessy’s “Has summer come without the rose,” or the chivalrous notes of Mr. Pollock’s “It is not mine to sing the stately grace”! And these are not exceptions or individual instances, but merely a few examples taken at random for the sake of illustration. It is more the lack of the musicians, it would seem, than any want of suitable pieces to be set to music, that must account for the decadence of “Song” proper, since the ancient days of lute and lyre.

No great poet sings because he must sing, we are told; a great poet sings because he chooses to sing. Let us thank the truly great, therefore, for so choosing, and the lesser in proportion, on the principle of receiving all favours thankfully according to their merit and degree. Meanwhile, in the various phases of Love as portrayed so musically by the full-throated choir in the subjoined pages, the reader may peradventure read and learn. For, as voiced by Owen Meredith,--

“To mock the faith that lovers place In life’s acquired love lore, New lessons, latest-learned, efface Old teachings taught before.”

G. H. E.

LOVE’S OLD SWEET SONG.

SINCE YESTERDAY.

The mavis sang but yesterday A strain that thrilled through autumn’s dearth; He read the music of his lay In light and leaf, and heaven and earth; The wind-flowers by the wayside swung, Words of the music that was sung.

In all his song the shade and sun Of earth and heaven seemed to meet; Its joy and sorrow were as one, Its very sadness was but sweet. He sang of summers yet to be; You listened to his song with me.

The heart makes sunshine in the rain, Or winter in the midst of May; And though the mavis sings again His self-same song of yesterday, I find no gladness in his tone: To-day I listen here alone.

And--even our sunniest moment takes Such shadows of the bliss we knew-- To-day his throbbing song awakes But wistful, haunting thoughts of you; Its very sweetness is but sad: You gave it all the joy it had.

A. ST. J. ADCOCK.

AN AWAKENING.

Love had forgotten and gone to sleep; Love had forgotten the present and past. I was so glad when he ceased to weep; “Now he is quiet,” I whispered, “at last.”

What sent you here on that night of all nights, Breaking his slumber, dreamless and deep, Just as I whispered below my breath, “Love has forgotten and gone to sleep”?

ANNE REEVE ALDRICH.

LOVE, THE DESTROYER.

Love is a Fire; Nor Shame nor Pride can well withstand Desire. “For what are they,” we cry, “that they should dare To keep, O Love, the haughty look they wear? Nay, burn the victims, O thou sacred Fire, That with their death thou mayst but flame the higher. Let them feel once the fierceness of thy breath, And make thee still more beauteous with their death.”

Love is a Fire; But ah, how short-lived is the flame Desire! Love, having burnt whatever once we cherished, And blackened all things else, itself hath perished. And now alone in gathering night we stand, Ashes and ruin stretch on either hand; Yet while we mourn, our sad hearts whisper low: “We served the mightiest God that man can know.”

ANNE REEVE ALDRICH.

SWEETHEART, SIGH NO MORE.

It was with doubt and trembling I whispered in her ear. Go, take her answer, bird-on-bough, That all the world may hear-- _Sweetheart, sigh no more!_

Sing it, sing it, tawny throat, Upon the wayside tree, How fair she is, how true she is, How dear she is to me-- _Sweetheart, sigh no more!_

Sing it, sing it, tawny throat, And through the summer long The winds among the clover-tops, And brooks, for all their silvery stops, Shall envy you the song-- _Sweetheart, sigh no more!_

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

THE FADED VIOLET.

What thought is folded in thy leaves! What tender thought, what speechless pain! I hold thy faded lips to mine, Thou darling of the April rain!

I hold thy faded lips to mine, Though scent and azure tint are fled-- O dry, mute lips! ye are the type Of something in me cold and dead:

Of something wilted like thy leaves; Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim; Yet for the love of those white hands That found thee by a river’s brim--

That found thee when thy dewy mouth Was purpled as with stains of wine-- For love of her who love forgot, I hold thy faded lips to mine.

That thou shouldst live when I am dead, When hate is dead, for me, and wrong, For this I use my subtlest art, For this I fold thee in my song.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

SONG.

Nay! if thou must depart, thou shalt depart; But why so soon, oh, heart-blood of my heart! Go then! Yet, going, turn and stay thy feet, That I may once more see that face so sweet.

Once more--if never more; for swift days go As hastening waters from their fountains flow; And whether yet again shall meeting be Who knows? Who knows? Ah! turn once more to me!

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

CALAIS SANDS.

A thousand knights have rein’d their steeds To watch this line of sand hills run, Along the never-silent strait, To Calais, glittering in the sun.

To look tow’rd Ardres’ Golden Field Across the wide aerial plain, Which glows as if the Middle Age Were gorgeous upon earth again.

Oh, that to share this famous scene, I saw, upon the open sand, Thy lovely presence at my side, Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand!

How exquisite thy voice would come, My darling, on this lonely air! How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze Shake loose some band of soft brown hair!

Yet now my glance but once hath roved O’er Calais and its famous plain; To England’s cliffs my gaze is turn’d, On the blue strait mine eyes I strain.

Thou comest! Yes! the vessel’s cloud Hangs dark upon the rolling sea. Oh, that yon sea-bird’s wings were mine, To win one instant’s glimpse of thee!

I must not spring to grasp thy hand, To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye; But I may stand far off, and gaze, And watch thee pass unconscious by,

And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts, Mixt with the idlers on the pier.-- Ah, might I always rest unseen, So I might have thee always near!

To-morrow hurry through the fields Of Flanders to the storied Rhine! To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close Beneath one roof, my queen! with mine.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

PHANTOMS.