Preface

All Plates except the Frontispiece were originally printed on right-hand pages. Some have been shifted slightly to fall between poems. The List of Illustrations shows their original location (facing page). Spacing of contractions such as I ’ve follows the original.

Contents
Index of First Lines
List of Illustrations
Introduction
Victorian Songs

“‘Let some one sing to vs, lightlier move
The minvtes fledged with mvsic’.”

TENNYSON

— Title Page Text —

Copyright, 1895.
By Edmund H. Garrett.

University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.

Where are the songs I used to know?

Christina Rossetti.

Listen—Songs thou ’lt hear

Through the wide world ringing.

Barry Cornwall.

page

A baby was sleeping

Samuel Lover

“A cup for hope!” she said

Christina G. Rossetti

A golden bee a-cometh

Joseph Skipsey

A little shadow makes the sunrise sad

Mortimer Collins

A little while a little love

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

A thousand voices fill my ears

F. W. Bourdillon

Across the grass I see her pass

Austin Dobson

Ah, what avails the sceptered race!

Walter Savage Landor

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon

Charles Kingsley

All glorious as the Rainbow’s birth

Gerald Massey

All through the sultry hours of June

Mortimer Collins

Along the garden ways just now

Arthur O’Shaughnessy

Although I enter not

William Makepeace Thackeray

As Gertrude skipt from babe to girl

Frederick Locker-Lampson

As I came round the harbor buoy

Jean Ingelow

Awake!—The starry midnight Hour

B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall)

Awake thee, my Lady-love!

George Darley

Back flies my soul to other years

Joseph Skipsey

Break, break, break

Alfred Tennyson

Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet

Thomas Ashe

Christmas is here

William Makepeace Thackeray

Come, rosy Day!

Sir Edwin Arnold

Come sing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King

B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall)

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

Drink, and fill the night with mirth!

B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall)

Every day a Pilgrim, blindfold

Hamilton Aïdé

Fast falls the snow, O lady mine

Mortimer Collins

First the fine, faint, dreamy motion

Norman Gale

Hence, rude Winter! crabbed old fellow

Alfred Domett

How many Summers, love

B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall)

How many times do I love thee, dear?

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

I bring a garland for your head

Edmund Gosse

I had a Message to send her

Adelaide Anne Procter

I have been here before

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover

Jean Ingelow

I looked and saw your eyes

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I made another garden, yea

Arthur O’Shaughnessy

I remember, I remember

Thomas Hood

I sat beside the streamlet

Hamilton Aïdé

I wandered by the brook-side

Lord Houghton

I walked in the lonesome evening

William Allingham

If I could choose my paradise

Thomas Ashe

If love were what the rose is

Algernon Charles Swinburne

If there were dreams to sell

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

I ’m sitting on the stile, Mary

Lady Dufferin

In Clementina’s artless mien

Walter Savage Landor

In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours

Alfred Tennyson

Into the Devil tavern

George Walter Thornbury

It was not in the winter

Thomas Hood

I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming!

George Darley

King Death was a rare old fellow!

B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall)

Kissing her hair I sat against her feet.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Lady! in this night of June

Alfred Austin

Last time I parted from my Dear

William Bell Scott

Let us wreathe the mighty cup

Michael Field

Little dimples so sweet and soft

J. Ashby Sterry

Lullaby! O lullaby!

William Cox Bennett

Lute! breathe thy lowest in my Lady’s ear

Sir Edwin Arnold

Mirror your sweet eyes in mine, love

J. Ashby Sterry

Mother, I can not mind my wheel

Walter Savage Landor

My fairest child, I have no song to give you

Charles Kingsley

My goblet’s golden lips are dry

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

My love, on a fair May morning

Thomas Ashe

My roses blossom the whole year round

William Cox Bennett

O for the look of those pure gray eyes

J. Ashby Sterry

O happy buds of violet!

Mortimer Collins

“O Heart, my heart!” she said, and heard

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

O lady, leave thy silken thread

Thomas Hood

O lips that mine have grown into

Algernon Charles Swinburne

O Love is like the roses

Robert Buchanan

O May, thou art a merry time

George Darley

O roses for the flush of youth

Christina G. Rossetti

O spirit of the Summertime!

William Allingham

O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow

Charles Mackay

Often I have heard it said

Walter Savage Landor

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green

Charles Dickens

Oh, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear

William Allingham

Oh! let me dream of happy days gone by

Hamilton Aïdé

Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best!

William Allingham

“Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home”

Charles Kingsley

One lovely name adorns my song

Walter Savage Landor

Peace! what can tears avail?

B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall)

Seated one day at the Organ

Adelaide Anne Procter

Seek not the tree of silkiest bark

Aubrey de Vere

She was not fair, nor full of grace

B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall)

She ’s up and gone, the graceless Girl

Thomas Hood

Sing!—Who sings

B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall)

Sit down, sad soul, and count

B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall)

Sleep sweet, belovëd one, sleep sweet!

Robert Buchanan

Sleep! the bird is in its nest

William Cox Bennett

Softly, O midnight Hours!

Audrey de Vere

Strew not earth with empty stars

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Sweet and low, sweet and low

Alfred Tennyson

Sweet is childhood—childhood ’s over

Jean Ingelow

Sweet mouth! O let me take

Alfred Domett

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean

Alfred Tennyson

Terrace and lawn are white with frost

Mortimer Collins

Thank Heaven, Ianthe, once again

Walter Savage Landor

The fault is not mine if I love you too much

Walter Savage Landor

The ladies of St. James’s

Austin Dobson

The night has a thousand eyes

F. W. Bourdillon

The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!

B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall)

The splendour falls on castle walls

Alfred Tennyson

The stars are with the voyager

Thomas Hood

The streams that wind amid the hills

George Darley

The Sun came through the frosty mist

Lord Houghton

The Violet invited my kiss

Joseph Skipsey

There is no summer ere the swallows come.

F. W. Bourdillon

Three fishers went sailing away to the West

Charles Kingsley

To sea, to sea! the calm is o’er

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Touch us gently, Time!

B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall)

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud!

Alfred Tennyson

Two doves upon the selfsame branch

Christina G. Rossetti

Under the lindens lately sat

Walter Savage Landor

Wait but a little while

Norman Gale

We have loiter’d and laugh’d in the flowery croft

Frederick Locker-Lampson

We heard it calling, clear and low

Frederick Locker-Lampson

What is the meaning of the song

Charles Mackay

“What will you do, love, when I am going”

Samuel Lover

When a warm and scented steam

George Walter Thornbury

When along the light ripple the far serenade

Lord Houghton

When another’s voice thou hearest

Lady Dufferin

When I am dead, my dearest

Christina G. Rossetti

When I was young, I said to Sorrow

Aubrey de Vere

When Spring casts all her swallows forth

George Walter Thornbury

When the snow begins to feather

Lord de Tabley

Where winds abound

Michael Field

Who is the baby, that doth lie

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Winds to-day are large and free

Michael Field

With deep affection

Francis Mahoney

Woo thy lass while May is here

Lord de Tabley

Their songs wake singing echoes in my land.

Christina Rossetti.

The writer of prose, by intelligence taught,

Says the thing that will please, in the way that he ought.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

No species of poetry is more ancient than the lyrical, and yet none shows so little sign of having outlived the requirements of human passion. The world may grow tired of epics and of tragedies, but each generation, as it sees the hawthorns blossom and the freshness of girlhood expand, is seized with a pang which nothing but the spasm of verse will relieve. Each youth imagines that spring-tide and love are wonders which he is the first of human beings to appreciate, and he burns to alleviate his emotion in rhyme. Historians exaggerate, perhaps, the function of music in awakening and guiding the exercise of lyrical poetry. The lyric exists, they tell us, as an accompaniment to the lyre; and without the mechanical harmony the spoken song is an artifice. Quite as plausibly might it be avowed that music was but added to verse to concentrate and emphasize its rapture, to add poignancy and volume to its expression. But the truth is that these two arts, though sometimes happily allied, are, and always have been, independent. When verse has been innocent enough to lean on music, we may be likely to find that music also has been of the simplest order, and that the pair of them, like two delicious children, have tottered and swayed together down the flowery meadows of experience. When either poetry or music is adult, the presence of each is a distraction to the other, and each prefers, in the elaborate ages, to stand alone, since the mystery of the one confounds the complexity of the other. Most poets hate music; few musicians comprehend the nature of poetry; and the combination of these arts has probably, in all ages, been contrived, not for the satisfaction of artists, but for the convenience of their public.

This divorce between poetry and music has been more frankly accepted in the present century than ever before, and is nowadays scarcely opposed in serious criticism. If music were a necessary ornament of lyrical verse, the latter would nowadays scarcely exist; but we hear less and less of the poets devotion (save in a purely conventional sense) to the lute and the pipe. What we call the Victorian lyric is absolutely independent of any such aid. It may be that certain songs of Tennyson and Christina Rossetti have been with great popularity “set,” as it is called, “to music.” So far as the latter is in itself successful, it stultifies the former; and we admit at last that the idea of one art aiding another in this combination is absolutely fictitious. The beauty—even the beauty of sound—conveyed by the ear in such lyrics as “Break, break, break,” or “When I am dead, my dearest,” is obscured, is exchanged for another and a rival species of beauty, by the most exquisite musical setting that a composer can invent.

The age which has been the first to accept this condition, then, should be rich in frankly lyrical poetry; and this we find to be the case with the Victorian period. At no time has a greater mass of this species of verse been produced, not even in the combined Elizabethan and Jacobean age. But when we come to consider the quality of this later harvest of song, we observe in it a far less homogeneous character. We can take a piece of verse, and decide at sight that it must be Elizabethan, or of the age of the Pléiade in France, or of a particular period in Italy. Even an ode of our own eighteenth century is hardly to be confounded with a fragment from any other school. The great Georgian age introduced a wide variety into English poetry; and yet we have but to examine the selected jewels strung into so exquisite a carcanet by Mr. Palgrave in his “Golden Treasury” to notice with surprise how close a family likeness exists between the contributions of Shelley, Wordsworth, Keats, and Byron. The distinctions of style, of course, are very great; but the general character of the diction, the imagery, even of the rhythm, is more or less identical. The stamp of the same age is upon them,—they are hall-marked 1820.

It is perhaps too early to decide that this will never be the case with the Victorian lyrics. While we live in an age we see the distinction of its parts, rather than their co-relation. It is said that the Japanese Government once sent over a Commission to report upon the art of Europe; and that, having visited the exhibitions of London, Paris, Florence, and Berlin, the Commissioners confessed that the works of the European painters all looked so exactly alike that it was difficult to distinguish one from another. The Japanese eye, trained in absolutely opposed conventions, could not tell the difference between a Watts and a Fortuny, a Théodore Rousseau and a Henry Moore. So it is quite possible, it is even probable, that future critics may see a close similarity where we see nothing but divergence between the various productions of the Victorian age. Yet we can judge but what we discern; and certainly to the critical eye to-day it is the absence of a central tendency, the chaotic cultivation of all contrivable varieties of style, which most strikingly seems to distinguish the times we live in.

We use the word “Victorian” in literature to distinguish what was written after the decline of that age of which Walter Scott, Coleridge, and Wordsworth were the survivors. It is well to recollect, however, that Tennyson, who is the Victorian writer par excellence, had published the most individual and characteristic of his lyrics long before the Queen ascended the throne, and that Elizabeth Barrett, Henry Taylor, William Barnes, and others were by this date of mature age. It is difficult to remind ourselves, who have lived in the radiance of that august figure, that some of the most beautiful of Tennyson’s lyrics, such as “Mariana” and “The Dying Swan” are now separated from us by as long a period of years as divided them from Dr. Johnson and the author of “Night Thoughts.” The reflection is of value only as warning us of the extraordinary length of the epoch we still call “Victorian.” It covers, not a mere generation, but much more than half a century. During this length of time a complete revolution in literary taste might have been expected to take place. This has not occurred, and the cause may very well be the extreme license permitted to the poets to adopt whatever style they pleased. Where all the doors stand wide open, there is no object in escaping; where there is but one door, and that one barred, it is human nature to fret for some violent means of evasion. How divine have been the methods of the Victorian lyrists may easily be exemplified:—

“Quoth 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.”

That is a masterpiece, but so is this:—

“Nay, but you who do not love her,

Is she not pure gold, my mistress?

Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her?

Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,

And this last fairest tress of all,

—So fair, see, ere I let it fall?

“Because, you spend your lives in praisings,

To praise, you search the wide world over:

Then why not witness, calmly gazing,

If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her?

Above this tress, and this I touch,

But cannot praise, I love so much!”

And so is this:—

“Under 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 yon grave for me:

Here he lies where he longed to be;

Home is the sailor, home from sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.”

But who would believe that the writers of these were contemporaries?

If we examine more closely the forms which lyric poetry has taken since 1830, we shall find that certain influences at work in the minds of our leading writers have led to the widest divergence in the character of lyrical verse. It will be well, perhaps, to consider in turn the leading classes of that work. It was not to be expected that in an age of such complexity and self-consciousness as ours, the pure song, the simple trill of bird-like melody, should often or prominently be heard. As civilization spreads, it ceases to be possible, or at least it becomes less and less usual, that simple emotion should express itself with absolute naïveté. Perhaps Burns was the latest poet in these islands whose passion warbled forth in perfectly artless strains; and he had the advantage of using a dialect still unsubdued and unvulgarized. Artlessness nowadays must be the result of the most exquisitely finished art; if not, it is apt to be insipid, if not positively squalid and fusty. The obvious uses of simple words have been exhausted; we cannot, save by infinite pains and the exercise of a happy genius, recover the old spontaneous air, the effect of an inevitable arrangement of the only possible words.

This beautiful direct simplicity, however, was not infrequently secured by Tennyson, and scarcely less often by Christina Rossetti, both of whom have left behind them jets of pure emotional melody which compare to advantage with the most perfect specimens of Greek and Elizabethan song. Tennyson did not very often essay this class of writing, but when he did, he rarely failed; his songs combine, with extreme naturalness and something of a familiar sweetness, a felicity of workmanship hardly to be excelled. In her best songs, Miss Rossetti is scarcely, if at all, his inferior; but her judgment was far less sure, and she was more ready to look with complacency on her failures. The songs of Mr. Aubrey de Vere are not well enough known; they are sometimes singularly charming. Other poets have once or twice succeeded in catching this clear natural treble,—the living linnet once captured in the elm, as Tusitala puts it; but this has not been a gift largely enjoyed by our Victorian poets.

The richer and more elaborate forms of lyric, on the contrary, have exactly suited this curious and learned age of ours. The species of verse which, originally Italian or French, have now so abundantly and so admirably been practised in England that we can no longer think of them as exotic, having found so many exponents in the Victorian period that they are pre-eminently characteristic of it. “Scorn not the Sonnet,” said Wordsworth to his contemporaries; but the lesson has not been needed in the second half of the century. The sonnet is the most solid and unsingable of the sections of lyrical poetry; it is difficult to think of it as chanted to a musical accompaniment. It is used with great distinction by writers to whom skill in the lighter divisions of poetry has been denied, and there are poets, such as Bowles and Charles Tennyson-Turner, who live by their sonnets alone. The practice of the sonnet has been so extended that all sense of monotony has been lost. A sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning differs from one by D. G. Rossetti or by Matthew Arnold to such excess as to make it difficult for us to realize that the form in each case is absolutely identical.

With the sonnet might be mentioned the lighter forms of elaborate exotic verse; but to these a word shall be given later on. More closely allied to the sonnet are those rich and somewhat fantastic stanza-measures in which Rossetti delighted. Those in which Keats and the Italians have each their part have been greatly used by the Victorian poets. They lend themselves to a melancholy magnificence, to pomp of movement and gorgeousness of color; the very sight of them gives the page the look of an ancient blazoned window. Poems of this class are “The Stream’s Secret” and the choruses in “Love is enough.” They satisfy the appetite of our time for subtle and vague analysis of emotion, for what appeals to the spirit through the senses; but here, again, in different hands, the “thing,” the metrical instrument, takes wholly diverse characters, and we seek in vain for a formula that can include Robert Browning and Gabriel Rossetti, William Barnes and Arthur Hugh Clough.

From this highly elaborated and extended species of lyric the transition is easy to the Ode. In the Victorian age, the ode, in its full Pindaric sense, has not been very frequently used. We have specimens by Mr. Swinburne in which the Dorian laws are closely adhered to. But the ode, in a more or less irregular form, whether pæan or threnody, has been the instrument of several of our leading lyrists. The genius of Mr. Swinburne, even to a greater degree than that of Shelley, is essentially dithyrambic, and is never happier than when it spreads its wings as wide as those of the wild swan, and soars upon the very breast of tempest. In these flights Mr. Swinburne attains to a volume of sonorous melody such as no other poet, perhaps, of the world has reached, and we may say to him, as he has shouted to the Mater Triumphalis:—

“Darkness to daylight shall lift up thy pæan,

Hill to hill thunder, vale cry back to vale,

With wind-notes as of eagles Æschylean,

And Sappho singing in the nightingale.”

Nothing could mark more picturesquely the wide diversity permitted in Victorian lyric than to turn from the sonorous and tumultuous odes of Mr. Swinburne to those of Mr. Patmore, in which stateliness of contemplation and a peculiar austerity of tenderness find their expression in odes of iambic cadence, the melody of which depends, not in their headlong torrent of sound, but in the cunning variation of catalectic pause. A similar form has been adopted by Lord De Tabley for many of his gorgeous studies of antique myth, and by Tennyson for his “Death of the Duke of Wellington.” It is an error to call these iambic odes “irregular,” although they do not follow the classic rules with strophe, antistrophe, and epode. The enchanting “I have led her home,” in “Maud,” is an example of this kind of lyric at its highest point of perfection.

A branch of lyrical poetry which has been very widely cultivated in the Victorian age is the philosophical, or gnomic, in which a serious chain of thought, often illustrated by complex and various imagery, is held in a casket of melodious verse, elaborately rhymed. Matthew Arnold was a master of this kind of poetry, which takes its form, through Wordsworth, from the solemn and so-called “metaphysical” writers of the seventeenth century. We class this interesting and abundant section of verse with the lyrical, because we know not by what other name to describe it; yet it has obviously as little as possible of the singing ecstasy about it. It neither pours its heart out in a rapture, nor wails forth its despair. It has as little of the nightingale’s rich melancholy as of the lark’s delirium. It hardly sings, but, with infinite decorum and sobriety, speaks its melodious message to mankind. This sort of philosophical poetry is really critical; its function is to analyze and describe; and it approaches, save for the enchantment of its form, nearer to prose than do the other sections of the art. It is, however, just this species of poetry which has particularly appealed to the age in which we live; and how naturally it does so may be seen in the welcome extended to the polished and serene compositions of Mr. William Watson.

Almost a creation, or at least a complete conquest, of the Victorian age is the humorous lyric in its more delicate developments. If the past can point to Prior and to Praed, we can boast, in their various departments, of Calverly, of Locker-Lampson, of Mr. Andrew Lang, of Mr. W. S. Gilbert. The comic muse, indeed, has marvellously extended her blandishments during the last two generations, and has discovered methods of trivial elegance which were quite unknown to our forefathers. Here must certainly be said a word in favor of those French forms of verse, all essentially lyrical, such as the ballad, the rondel, the triolet, which have been used so abundantly as to become quite a feature in our lighter literature. These are not, or are but rarely, fitted to bear the burden of high emotion; but their precision, and the deftness which their use demands fit them exceedingly well for the more distinguished kind of persiflage. No one has kept these delicate butterflies in flight with the agile movement of his fan so admirably as Mr. Austin Dobson, that neatest of magicians.

Those who write hastily of Victorian lyrical poetry are apt to find fault with its lack of spontaneity. It is true that we cannot pretend to discover on a greensward so often crossed and re-crossed as the poetic language of England many morning dewdrops still glistening on the grasses. We have to pay the penalty of our experience in a certain lack of innocence. The artless graces of a child seem mincing affectations in a grown-up woman. But the poetry of this age has amply made up for any lack of innocence by its sumptuous fulness, its variety, its magnificent accomplishment, its felicitous response to a multitude of moods and apprehensions. It has struck out no new field for itself; it still remains where the romantic revolution of 1798 placed it; its aims are not other than were those of Coleridge and of Keats. But within that defined sphere it has developed a surprising activity. It has occupied the attention and become the facile instrument of men of the greatest genius, writers of whom any age and any language might be proud. It has been tender and fiery, severe and voluminous, gorgeous and marmoreal, in turns. It has translated into words feelings so subtle, so transitory, moods so fragile and intangible, that the rough hand of prose would but have crushed them. And this, surely, indicates the great gift of Victorian lyrical poetry to the race. During a time of extreme mental and moral restlessness, a time of speculation and evolution, when all illusions are tested, all conventions overthrown, when the harder elements of life have been brought violently to the front, and where there is a temptation for the emancipated mind roughly to reject what is not material and obvious, this art has preserved intact the lovelier delusions of the spirit, all that is vague and incorporeal and illusory. So that for Victorian Lyric generally no better final definition can be given than is supplied by Mr. Robert Bridges in a little poem of incomparable beauty, which may fitly bring this essay to a close:—

“I have loved flowers that fade,

Within whose magic tents

Rich hues have marriage made

With sweet immemorial scents:

A joy of love at sight,—

A honeymoon delight,

That ages in an hour:—

My song be like a flower.

“I have loved airs that die

Before their charm is writ

Upon the 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.”

Edmund Gosse.

“Short swallow-flights of song”

TENNYSON