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                         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




                            [Illustration:

                                LOVE’S
                            OLD SWEET SONG

                              A SHEAF OF

                         LATTER-DAY LOVE-POEMS

                     _Gathered from Many Sources_

                                  BY

                          GEORGE H. ELLWANGER

                              _New York_

                              _Dodd-Mead
                                  and
                               Company_

                                 1903]




                          _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