English verse of four stresses is chiefly to be divided into two groups:
that representing the primitive Germanic tendency to emphasize the
element of accent rather than the counting of syllables, and that
produced under foreign influence, showing comparative regularity in the
number of syllables to the verse. The first group is made up of the
various descendants of the original "long line," sometimes rimed and
sometimes unrimed; the second group of forms of the familiar
octosyllabic couplet. (Of modern verse only iambic measures are included
here.)
The earliest English verse, like early Germanic verse generally, is
based on the recurrence of strong accents, and is composed of a long
line made up of two short lines, or half-lines, which are bound together
by alliteration. As to the number of accents to be counted in the line,
there are two theories, the "two-accent" and the "four-accent."
According to the first, we should count two accents to the half-line,
and four to the long line; according to the second, we should count four
to the half-line and eight to the long line. The distinction is not so
marked, however, as would appear at first thought; for the two-accent
theorists recognize a considerable number of secondary accents in
addition to the principal ones, while the four-accent theorists
recognize half the accents as being commonly weaker than the other half.
The four-accent theory is that of Lachmann, represented chiefly in more
recent scholarship by ten Brink and Kaluza. Lachmann took, as the
typical Germanic line, such a verse as this from the Hildebrandlied,—
"Garutun se iro guðhama: gurtun sih iro suert ana;"
but admitted that the Anglo-Saxon line was a departure from the type in
the direction of fewer accents. Ten Brink, however, found the full
number of accents in the typical Anglo-Saxon line. "It is based upon a
measure which belonged to the antiquity of all Germanic races, namely,
the line with eight emphatic syllables, divided into equal parts by the
cesura." (English Literature, trans. Kennedy, vol. i. pp. 21, 22.) The
principal representative of the two-accent theory is Sievers, whose
conclusions have been pretty generally accepted by English and American
scholars. He admits that very many, perhaps most, Anglo-Saxon lines can
be read with eight accents, but shows that there is still a large
proportion (some eleven hundred in Beowulf) which cannot be so read
without wrenching the natural reading. On this subject, see Westphal's
Allgemeine Metrik, Sievers's Altgermanische Metrik, Kaluza's Der
Altenglische Vers, and the articles by Sievers, Luick, and ten Brink in
Paul's Grundriss der Germanische Philologie.
Aside from the two-part structure of the long line, the number of
accents, and the alliteration, Anglo-Saxon verse is marked by the usual
coincidence of the principal accents with long syllables. The unaccented
parts of the line vary in both the number and length of the syllables.
In general, each half-line is divided into two feet, or measures; and,
according to the structure of these feet, the ordinary half-lines of
Anglo-Saxon verse have been reduced by Sievers to five fundamental
types.
Type A is represented by such a half-line as "stiðum wordum."
Type B inverts the rhythm of A, as in the half-line "nē
winterscūr."
Type C is characterized by the juxtaposition of the two accents, as in
the half-line "and forð gangan."
Type D commonly has only the accented syllable in the first foot, while
the second foot is characterized by a sort of dactylic rhythm, as in the
half-lines "sǣlīðende" and "flet innanweard."
Type E inverts the rhythm of D, as in the half-line "gylp-wordum
spræc."[16]
In all the types many variations are found. The beginning of the line
may show anacrusis, and two short syllables may take the place of a long
syllable; while an indeterminate number of light syllables may often be
introduced before or after the principal accents.
Hafað ūs ālȳfed lucis auctor,
þæt wē mōtun hēr merueri
gōddǣdum begietan gaudia in celo,
þǣr wē mōtun maxima regna
sēcan and gesittan sedibus altis,
lifgan in lisse lucis et pacis,
āgan eardinga almæ letitæ,
brūcan blǣddaga blandem et mitem
gesēon sigora Frēan sine fine,
and him lof singan laude perenne
ēadge mid englum Alleluia.
(From the Anglo-Saxon Phœnix. ab. 700 A.D.)
These closing lines of the poem furnish an important opportunity to
compare the Latin half-lines with those in Anglo-Saxon. Each half seems
to be influenced by the metrical nature of the other; the Anglo-Saxon
being a little more regular in the number of syllables than usual, the
Latin less regular. Since, to the ear of the writer, the two halves of
each verse were doubtless fairly equivalent, metrically, and since each
of the Latin half-lines appears to have two accents, these combination
verses have been thought to be an argument for the "two-accent" theory
of Anglo-Saxon verse. On the other hand, the advocates of the
four-accent theory would read the Latin half-lines with four stresses
each, on the ground that nearly every syllable was stressed in the
chanting of such religious verse (lú-cís aúc-tór, etc.).
See also the specimens on pp. 13 and 14, above.
Alle beon he bliþe Þat to my song lyþe:
A song ihc schal ȝou singe Of Mury þe kinge.
King he was bi weste So longe so hit laste.
Godhild het his quen, Fairer ne miȝte non ben.
He hadde a sone þat het Horn, Fairer ne miȝte non beo born,
Ne no rein upon birine, Ne sunne upon bischine.
(King Horn, ll. 1-12. ab. 1200-1250.)
The metre of King Horn is very irregular, and has proved somewhat
puzzling to scholars. It seems to be the direct result of the primitive
"long line" broken into two halves by internal rime. The number of
accents varies greatly: we may have verses which are easily read with
two, such as—
"Into schupes borde
At the furst worde."
Yet these it is evident might also be read with three accents, as in the
following couplet also:
"The se bigan to flowe,
And Horn child to rowe."
According as one reads the Anglo-Saxon verse with two or four accents to
the half-line, he will regard the typical half-line of King Horn as
made up of two or four accents. If the fundamental number was two, the
additional accented syllables were doubtless introduced under the
influence of the French eight-syllable couplet. It is not difficult to
see how the more regular (Latin or French) and the less regular (native)
measures might have been confused, and soon have coalesced in popular
use. Ten Brink, reading the King Horn lines with four accents, speaks
of them as "formed entirely on the Teutonic principle, with two accents
upon the sonorous close of the verse, so that it appears to be an
organic continuation of the chief form in Layamon and in Ælfred's
Proverbs. This circumstance makes the poem exceptional among the early
English romances." He also speaks of "an unmistakably strophic
construction in the text as we have it." (English Literature, Kennedy
translation, vol. i. p. 227.)
Anon out of þe north est þe noys bigynes:
When boþe breþes con blowe upon blo watteres,
Roȝ rakkes per ros with rudnyng anunder,
Þe see souȝed ful sore, gret selly to here,
Þe wyndes on þe wonne water so wrastel togeder,
Þat þe wawes ful wode waltered so hiȝe
And efte busched to þe abyme, þat breed fysches,
Durst nowhere for roȝ arest at þe bothem.
When þe breth and þe brok and þe bote metten,
Hit watz a ioyles gyn, þat Ionas watz inne;
For hit reled on roun upon þe roȝe yþes.
(Patience, ll. 137-147. ab. 1375.)
Til þe knyȝt com hym-self, kachande his blonk,
Syȝ hym byde at þe bay, his burneȝ bysyde,
He lyȝtes luflych adoun, leveȝ his corsour,
Braydeȝ out a bryȝt bront, & bigly forth strydeȝ,
Foundeȝ fast þurȝ the forþ, þer þe felle byde,
Þe wylde watȝ war of þe wyȝe with weppen in honde.
Hef hyȝly þe here, so hetterly he fnast,
Þat fele ferde for þe frekeȝ, lest felle hym þe worre
Þe swyn setteȝ hym out on þe segge even,
Þat þe burne & þe bor were boþe upon hepeȝ,
In þe wyȝt-est of þe water, þe worre had þat oþer;
For þe mon merkkeȝ hym wel, as þay mette fyrst,
Set sadly þe scharp in þe slot even,
Hit hym up to þe hult, þat þe hert schyndered,
& he ȝarrande hym ȝelde, & ȝedoun þe water, ful tyt;
A hundreth houndeȝ hym hent,
Þat bremely con hym bite,
Burneȝ him broȝt to bent,
& doggeȝ to dethe endite.
(Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight, strophe xviii. ab. 1375.)
These two specimens, both doubtless the work of the same author (to whom
are also attributed the Pearl and Cleanness), represent the
patriotic revival of the alliterative long line by contemporaries of
Chaucer in the latter half of the fourteenth century. In Sir Gawayne
the rimeless long line is gathered into strophes, each of which
concludes with four riming lines. (See above, p. 109.)
For analysis of this revived alliterative verse, see a valuable article
by Dr. Luick, Die Englische Stabreimzeile im 14n, 15n, und 16n
Jahrhundert, in Anglia, vol. xi. pp. 392 and 553. Luick analyzes not
only the poems of the "Pearl poet," but also the Troy Book, the
Alexander Fragments, William of Palerne, Joseph of Arimathea,
Morte Arthure, and minor poems. He finds the Troy Book the most
regular alliterative poem of Middle English, but in all of the group a
general tendency to preserve not only the early laws of alliteration but
also the "five types" of Sievers's Anglo-Saxon metrics. Dr. Luick
attributes the final decline of the old measure in large degree to the
falling away of the final syllables in -e, etc.; without these
numerous feminine endings the primitive "long line" was impossible. This
he regards as regrettable, since the old alliterative verse, "growing up
on native soil with the language itself," represented the natural
accent-relations of the Germanic languages, especially the recognition
of two principal degrees of accent; whereas the modern rimed verse
requires the reduction of this to a uniform "tick-tack" of alternating
stress and non-stress.
He put on his back a good plate-jack,
And on his head a cap of steel,
With sword and buckler by his side;
O gin he did not become them weel!
(Ballad of Bewick and Grahame. In Gummere's English Ballads, p.
176.)
The regular stanza of the old ballads was of this four-stress type, with
extra light syllables admitted anywhere yet not in great numbers. More
commonly, however, the fourth stress was lost from the second and fourth
lines. (See p. 264, below.)
I thanke hym full thraly, and sir, I saie hym the same,
But what marvelous materes dyd this myron ther mell?
For all the lordis langage his lipps, sir, wer lame,
For any spirringes in that space no speche walde he spell.
(York Mystery Plays: The Trial before Pilate. Ed. L. T. Smith, p.
322.)
As Gammer Gurton, with manye a wyde styche,
Sat pesynge and patching of Hodg her mans briche,
By chance or misfortune, as shee her geare tost,
In Hodge lether bryches her needle shee lost.
(Gammer Gurton's Needle, Prologue. 1566.)
In these specimens we have the later descendant of the long line as used
in the early drama of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries,—the
"tumbling verse," regular in rhythm and rime, but indifferent to the
number of syllables.[17] Sometimes, where most regular, as in lines 2-4
of the second specimen, the measure approximates closely to regular
four-stress anapestic.
The time was once, and may againe retorne,
(For ought may happen that hath bene beforne),
When shepheards had none inheritaunce,
Ne of land, nor fee in sufferaunce,
But what might arise of the bare sheepe,
(Were it more or lesse) which they did keepe.
Well ywis was it with shepheards thoe:
Nought having, nought feared they to forgoe;
For Pan himselfe was their inheritaunce,
And little them served for their mayntenaunce.
The shepheards God so wel them guided,
That of nought they were unprovided;
Butter enough, honye, milke, and whay,
And their flockes' fleeces them to araye.
(Spenser: The Shepherd's Calendar, May. 1579.)
Spenser's use of the tumbling verse in the Shepherd's Calendar was a
part of his imitation of older forms for the sake of an uncultivated,
bucolic effect. In his hands the irregular measure showed a tendency to
reduce itself to regular ten-syllable lines, like the first two of the
present specimen, which, by themselves, might easily be read as
decasyllabic iambics. On this, see further under Five-Stress Verse.
Spenser was perhaps the last cultivated poet to use the irregular
measure, until we come to modern imitators of the early popular poetry.
The following specimen is of this class.
It was up in the morn we rose betimes
From the hall-floor hard by the row of limes.
It was but John the Red and I,
And we were the brethren of Gregory;
And Gregory the Wright was one
Of the valiant men beneath the sun,
And what he bade us that we did,
For ne'er he kept his counsel hid.
So out we went, and the clattering latch
Woke up the swallows under the thatch.
It was dark in the porch, but our scythes we felt,
And thrust the whetstone under the belt.
Through the cold garden boughs we went
Where the tumbling roses shed their scent.
Then out a-gates and away we strode
O'er the dewy straws on the dusty road,
And there was the mead by the town-reeve's close
Where the hedge was sweet with the wilding rose.
(William Morris: The Folk-Mote by the River. In Poems by the Way.
1896.)
The more regular four-stress verse, in rimed couplets showing a tendency
to be octosyllabic, we have seen to be generally attributed to the
influence of the French octosyllabics, which were in common use in late
mediæval French poetry, such as that of Wace and Chrestien de Troyes.
According to Stengel (in Gröber's Grundriss der Romanischen
Philologie), this octosyllabic French verse goes back to a lost vulgar
Latin verse; this view is opposed by Dr. C. M. Lewis, in his Foreign
Sources of Modern English Versification (Yale Studies in English,
1898), who finds its origin in the tetrameter of the Latin hymns. Dr.
Lewis also attributes to this Latin verse more direct influence on
English verse than is commonly assumed. Thus he finds in it, rather than
in the French octosyllabics, the model of the verse of the Pater
Noster, quoted below. The argument is briefly this: the Latin verse was
both accentual and syllabic; the French verse was syllabic but not
accentual; that of the Pater Noster is accentual but not syllabic;
hence it is more nearly like the Latin than the French. A stanza of the
Latin tetrameter, cited by Dr. Lewis from the hymn Aurora lucis
rutilat, is as follows:
"Tristes erat apostoli
de nece sui Domini,
quem pœna mortis crudeli
servi damnarunt impii."
Compare these lines from the Brut of Wace:
"Adunt apela Cordeille
qui esteit sa plus joes ne fille;
pur ce que il l'aveit plus chiere
que Ragaü ne la premiere
quida que el e cuneüst
que plus chier des al tres l'eüst.
Cordeil le out bien escuté
et bien out en sun cuer noté
cument ses deus sorurs parloënt,
cument lur pere losengoënt."
The last four verses of this passage are cited by Schipper as
illustrating the regular iambic character of the French octosyllabics;
but Dr. Lewis regards the measure as purely syllabic, with no regard for
alternation of accents, and instances the earlier lines of the passage
as being quite as nearly anapestic as iambic. (See Schipper, vol. i. p.
107, and Lewis's monograph, as cited above, pp. 73 ff. See also Crow:
Zur Geschichte des Kurzen Reimpaares in Mittel Englisch.) Dr. Lewis's
conclusion is: "We may therefore sum up the whole history of our
octosyllabic verse in this way: we borrowed its number of accents from
the Latin, but owing to the vitality of our own native traditions we at
first borrowed nothing further; the syllabic character of the verse (so
far as it has been imported at all), came in only gradually, against
stubborn resistance; and it came not directly from the Latin, but
indirectly, through the French" (pp. 97, 98). Some of these statements
are open to question; but however we may interpret the French verse of
Wace and his contemporaries, it is obvious that in English the influence
of the Latin and the French poetry would very naturally be fused, with
no necessarily clear conception of definite verse-structure. Whether
under French or Latin influence, however, the new tendency was for the
more accurate counting of syllables. We may see some suggestion of this
in the verses of St. Godric, quoted on p. 126, above, although they are
not regularly iambic. The poem on the "Eleven Pains of Hell" (in the
Old English Miscellany) shows the French influence clearly marked by
the language of its opening verses:
"Ici comencent les unze peynes
De enfern, les queus seynt pool v[ist]."
Ure feder þet in heovene is,
Þet is al soþ ful iwis!
Weo moten to theor weordes iseon,
Þet to live and to saule gode beon,
Þet weo beon swa his sunes iborene,
Þet he beo feder and we him icorene,
Þet we don alle his ibeden
And his wille for to reden.
(The Pater Noster, ab. 1175. In Morris's Old English Homilies, p.
55.)
This poem is sometimes said to show the first appearance of the
octosyllabic couplet in English. It suggests the struggle between native
indifference to syllable-counting and imitation of the greater
regularity of its models. As Dr. Morris says of the next specimen: "The
essence of the system of versification which the poet has adopted is,
briefly, that every line shall have four accented syllables in it, the
unaccented syllables being left in some measure, as it were, to take
care of themselves." But this does not altogether do justice to the new
regularity. Schipper says that of the first 100 lines of the poem 20 are
perfectly regular. (See his notes in vol. i. p. 109.) In the following
specimens we may trace the gradual growth of skill and accuracy.
ðo herde Abraham stevene fro gode,
newe tiding and selkuð bode:
'tac ðin sune Ysaac in hond
and far wið him to siðhinges lond.
and ðor ða salt him offren me,
on an hil, ðor ic sal taunen ðe.
(Genesis and Exodus, ll. 1285-1290. ab. 1250-1300.)
"Abid! abid!" the ule seide.
"Thu gest al to mid swikelede;
All thine wordes thu bi-leist,
That hit thincth soth al that thu seist;
Alle thine wordes both i-sliked,
An so bi-semed and bi-liked,
That alle tho that hi avoth,
Hi weneth that thu segge soth."
(The Owl and the Nightingale, ll. 835-842. Thirteenth century.)
Quhen þis wes said, þai went þare way,
and till þe toun soyn cumin ar thai
sa prevely bot noys making,
þat nane persavit þair cummyng.
þai scalit throu þe toune in hy
and brak up dures sturdely
and slew all, þat þai mycht ourtak;
and þai, þat na defens mycht mak,
fall pitwisly couth rair and cry,
and þai slew þame dispitwisly.
(Barbour: Bruce, v. 89-98. ab. 1375.)
Ȝyf þou ever þurghe folye
Dydyst ouȝt do nygromauncye.
Or to the devyl dedyst sacryfyse
þurghe wychcraftys asyse,
Or any man ȝaf þe mede
For to reyse þe devyl yn dede,
For to telle, or for to wrey,
þynge þat was don awey;
ȝyf þou have do any of þys,
þou hast synnede and do a mys,
And þou art wurþy to be shent
þurghe þys yche commaundement.[18]
(Robert Manning of Brunne: Handlyng Synne, ll. 339-350. ab. 1300.)
Herknet to me, gode men,
Wives, maydnes, and alle men,
Of a tale þat ich you wile telle,
Wo so it wile here, and þer-to duelle.
Þe tale is of Havelok i-maked;
Wil he was litel he yede ful naked:
Havelok was a ful god gome,
He was ful god in everi trome,
He was þe wicteste man at nede,
Þat þurte riden on ani stede.
Þat ye mowen nou y-here,
And þe tale ye mowen y-lere.
At the beginning of ure tale,
Fil me a cuppe of ful god ale;
And y wile drinken her y spelle,
Þat Crist us shilde alle fro helle!
(Lay of Havelok the Dane. ll. 1-16. ab. 1300.)
For lays and romances, both French and English, the four-stress couplet
was an easy and favorite form. Compare the remarks of ten Brink: "We see
how the short couplet, which is the standing form of the court-romance,
was not only transmitted to it from the legendary, didactic, and
historical poems, but was also suggested to it by those songs to which
it was indebted for its own subject-matter. Other tokens indicate that a
short strophe composed of eight-syllabled lines, with single or
alternating rhymes, was a favorite form for many subjects in this
jongleur poetry.... The simple form of the short couplet offered to
the romance-poet no scope to compete in metrical technique with the
skilled court-lyrists. He could prove his art only within a limited
portion of this field: in the treatment of the enjambement and
particularly of rhyme. The poet strove not only to form pure rhymes, but
often to carry them forward with more syllables than were essential, and
he was fond of all sorts of grammatical devices in rhyme." (English
Literature, Kennedy trans., vol. i. pp. 174, 175.)
The world stant ever upon debate,
So may be siker none estate;
Now here, now there, now to, now fro,
Now up, now down, the world goth so,
And ever hath done and ever shal;
Wherof I finde in special
A tale writen in the bible,
Which must nedes be credible,
And that as in conclusion
Saith, that upon division
Stant, why no worldes thing may laste,
Til it be drive to the laste,
And fro the firste regne of all
Unto this day how so befall
Of that the regnes be mevable,
The man him self hath be coupable,
Whiche of his propre governaunce
Fortuneth al the worldes chaunce.
(John Gower: Prologue to Confessio Amantis. Ed. Pauli, vol. i. pp. 22,
23. ab. 1390.)
O god of science and of light,
Apollo, through thy grete might,
This litel laste bok thou gye!
Nat that I wilne, for maistrye,
Here art poetical be shewed;
But, for the rym is light and lewed,
Yit make hit sumwhat agreable,
Though som vers faile in a sillable;
And that I do no diligence
To shewe craft, but o sentence.
And if, divyne vertu, thou
Wilt helpe me to shewe now
That in myn hede y-marked is—
Lo, that is for to menen this,
The Hous of Fame to descryve—
Thou shalt see me go, as blyve,
Unto the nexte laure I see,
And kisse hit, for hit is thy tree.
(Chaucer: House of Fame, ll. 1091-1108. ab. 1385.)
It was Gower and Chaucer, in the fourteenth century, who brought the use
of the eight-syllable couplet to the point of accuracy and perfection.
Gower made it the vehicle of the interminable narrative of the
Confessio Amantis, using it with regularity but with great monotony.
Chaucer transformed it into a much more flexible form (with freedom of
cesura, enjambement, and inversions), using it in about 3500 lines of
his poetry (excluding the translation of the Roman de la Rose), but
early leaving it for the decasyllabic verse. In modern English poetry
this short couplet has rarely been used for continuous narrative of a
serious character, except by Byron and Wordsworth.
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 my eyes.
(Milton: Il Penseroso, ll. 155-166. 1634.)
A sect whose chief devotion lies
In odd, perverse antipathies,
In falling out with that or this
And finding something still amiss;
More peevish, cross, and splenetic
Than dog distract or monkey sick:
That with more care keep holyday
The wrong, than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclined to
By damning those they have no mind to....
Rather than fail they will defy
That which they love most tenderly;
Quarrel with mince-pies, and disparage
Their best and dearest friend plum-porridge,
Fat pig and goose itself oppose,
And blaspheme custard through the nose.
(Samuel Butler: Hudibras, Part I. 1663.)
Butler made the octosyllabic couplet so entirely his own, for the
purposes of his jogging satiric verse, that ever since it has frequently
been called "Hudibrastic." The ingenuity of his rimes added not a little
to its effectiveness. In the Spectator (No. 249) Addison said that
burlesque poetry runs best "in doggrel like that of Hudibras, ... when
a hero is to be pulled down and degraded;" otherwise in the heroic
measure. He speaks also of "the generality" of Butler's readers as being
"wonderfully pleased with the double rhymes."
How deep yon azure dyes the sky,
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie,
While through their ranks in silver pride
The nether crescent seems to glide!
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass, with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly-sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
'Time was, like thee they life possest,
And time shalt be, that thou shalt rest.'
(Thomas Parnell: A Night-Piece on Death, ab. 1715.)
Mr. Gosse speaks of Parnell's employment of the octosyllabic couplet in
this poem as "wonderfully subtle and harmonious." (Eighteenth Century
Literature, p. 137.)
A Hare who, in a civil way,
Complied with everything, like Gay,
Was known by all the bestial train
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain.
Her care was never to offend,
And every creature was her friend.
As forth she went at early dawn,
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies:
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;
She hears the near advance of death;
She doubles, to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round:
Till, fainting in the public way,
Half dead with fear she gasping lay.
(John Gay: The Hare and Many Friends, in Fables. 1727.)
Gay's use of the short couplet in his Fables sometimes shows it at its
best for narrative purposes.
My female friends, whose tender hearts
Have better learned to act their parts,
Receive the news in doleful dumps:
'The Dean is dead: (Pray what is trumps?)
Then, Lord have mercy on his soul!
(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)
Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall:
(I wish I knew what king to call).
Madam, your husband will attend
The funeral of so good a friend?
No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight:
And he's engaged to-morrow night:
My Lady Club will take it ill,
If he should fail her at quadrille.
He loved the Dean—(I lead a heart)
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
His time was come: he ran his race;
We hope he's in a better place.'
(Swift: On the Death of Dr. Swift. 1731.)
Swift made use of the octosyllabic couplet in nearly all his verse, and
with no little vigor and originality. Mr. Gosse remarks: "His lines fall
like well-directed blows of the flail, and he gives the octosyllabic
measure, which he is accustomed to choose on account of the Hudibrastic
opportunities it offers, a character which is entirely his own."
(Eighteenth Century Literature, p. 153.)
Ye forms divine, ye laureat band,
That near her inmost altar stand!
Now soothe her to her blissful train
Blithe concord's social form to gain;
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
Even anger's bloodshot eyes in sleep;
Before whose breathing bosom's balm
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm;
Her let our sires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravaged shore;
Our youths, enamored of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding sound,
The nations shout to her around,—
O how supremely thou art blest,
Thou, lady, thou shalt rule the West!
(Collins: Ode to Liberty. 1746.)
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
(Burns: Tam O'Shanter, ll. 1-12. 1790.)
They chain'd us each to a column stone,
And we were three—yet, each alone;
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight:
And thus together—yet apart,
Fetter'd in hand, but joined in heart,
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each,
With some new hope, or legend old,
Or song heroically bold.
(Byron: The Prisoner of Chillon, iii. 1816.)
A mortal song we sing, by dower
Encouraged of celestial power;
Power which the viewless Spirit shed
By whom we first were visited;
Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings
Swept like a breeze the conscious strings,
When, left in solitude, erewhile
We stood before this ruined Pile,
And, quitting unsubstantial dreams,
Sang in this Presence kindred themes.
(Wordsworth: White Doe of Rylstone, canto vii. ll. 282-291. 1815.)
Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,
That on the field his targe he threw,
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide
Had death so often dash'd aside;
For, train'd abroad his arms to wield,
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield....
Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans dyed.
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And shower'd his blows like wintry rain;
And, as firm rock, or castle-roof,
Against the winter shower is proof,
The foe, invulnerable still,
Foil'd his wild rage by steady skill;
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,
And backward borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.
(Scott: The Lady of the Lake, canto v. st. xv. 1810.)
How this their joy fulfilled might move
The world around I know not well;
But yet this idle dream doth tell
That no more silent was the place,
That new joy lit up every face,
That joyous lovers kissed and clung,
E'en as these twain, that songs were sung
From mouth to mouth in rose-bowers,
Where hand in hand and crowned with flowers,
Folk praised the Lover and Beloved
That such long years, such pain had proved;
But soft, they say, their joyance was
When midst them soon the twain did pass,
Hand locked in hand, heart kissing heart,
No more this side of death to part—
No more, no more—full soft I say
Their greetings were that happy day,
As though in pensive semblance clad;
For fear their faces over-glad
This certain thing should seem to hide,
That love can ne'er be satisfied.
(William Morris: The Earthly Paradise; The Land East of the Sun.
1870.)
The five-stress or decasyllabic verse (iambic pentameter) is so much
more widely used in modern English poetry than any other verse-form,
that its history is of special interest. It is curious that a form so
completely adopted as the favorite of English verse should be borrowed
rather than native; but, the syllable-counting principle once being
admitted, there is nothing in five-stress verse inconsistent with native
English tendencies. A very great part of such verse has really only four
full accents, and this we have seen to be the number of accents in the
native English verse. On this point, see further remarks in connection
with the specimen from Spenser, p. 180 below.
This verse appears in two great divisions, rimed (the decasyllabic
couplet) and unrimed (blank verse). The rimed form was the earlier, the
unrimed being merely a modification of it under the influence of other
unrimed metres.
Lutel wot hit anymon,
hou love hym haveþ ybounde,
Þat for us oþe rode ron,
ant boht us wiþ is wounde.
Þe love of hym us haveþ ymaked sounde,
ant ycast þe grimly gost to grounde.
Ever & oo, nyht & day, he haveþ us in is þohte,
He nul nout leose þat he so deore bohte.
His deope wounde bledeþ fast,
of hem we ohte munne!
He haþ ous out of helle ycast,
ybroht us out of sunne;
ffor love of us his wonges waxeþ þunne,
His herte blod he ȝaf for al mon kunne.
Ever & oo, etc.
(Song from Harleian MS. 2253. In Böddeker's Altenglische Dichtungen,
p. 231.)
This early religious lyric is of interest as containing the first known
use of the five-stress couplet in English. Here it is only in a few
lines that the couplet occurs, and so sporadic an occurrence should
perhaps be regarded as due to nothing more than chance. See Schipper,
vol. i. p. 439, and ten Brink's Chaucer's Sprache und Verskunst, p.
173 f. Ten Brink calls attention to another fairly regular five-stress
verse, found on p. 253 of Wright's Political Songs:
"For miht is riht, the loud is laweless."[19]
And, as for me, though that my wit be lyte,
On bokes for to rede I me delyte,
And in myn herte have hem in reverence;
And to hem yeve swich lust and swich credence,
That ther is wel unethe game noon
That from my bokes make me too goon,
But hit be other up-on the haly-day,
Or elles in the joly tyme of May;
Whan that I here the smale foules singe,
And that the floures ginne for to springe,
Farwel my studie, as lasting that sesoun!
Now have I therto this condicioun
That, of alle the floures in the mede,
Than love I most these floures whyte and rede,
Swiche as men callen daysies in our toun.
To them have I so greet affeccioun.
(Chaucer: Legend of Good Women, Prologue, ll. 29-44. Text A. ab.
1385.)
A good man was ther of religioun,
And was a povre Persoun of a toun;
But riche he was of holy thoght and werk.
He was also a lerned man, a clerk,
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche;
His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche.
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent,
And in adversitee ful pacient;...
He wayted after no pompe and reverence,
Ne maked him a spyced conscience,
But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve,
He taughte, and first he folwed it himselve.
(Chaucer: Prologue to Canterbury Tales, ll. 477-484, 525-528. ab.
1385.)
With Chaucer we have the first deliberate use of the five-stress
couplet, in continuous verse, known to English poetry. His earliest use
of the pentameter line was in the Compleynt to Pitee (perhaps written
about 1371), in the "rime royal" stanza; his earliest use of the
pentameter couplet was in the Legend of Good Women, usually dated
1385. From that time the measure became almost his only instrument, and
we find altogether in his poetry some 16,000 lines in the couplet,
besides some 14,000 more in rime royal. Too much praise cannot be given
Chaucer's use of the couplet. Although it was an experiment in English
verse, it has perhaps hardly been used since his time with greater
skill. He used a variety of cesuras (see ten Brink's monograph for the
enumeration of them), a very large number of feminine endings (such as
the still pronounced final-e and similar syllables easily provided),
free inversions in the first foot and elsewhere, and many run-on lines
(in a typical 100 lines some 16 run-on lines and 7 run-on couplets
appearing). The total effect is one of combined freedom and mastery, of
fluent conversational style yet within the limits of guarded artistic
form. "Much more regularly than the French and Provençals, and yet
without pedantic stiffness, he made his verse advance with a sort of
iambic gait, and he was therefore able to give up and exchange for a
freer arrangement the immovable cesura, which these poets had always
made to coincide with a foot-ending." (Ten Brink, in English
Literature, Kennedy trans., vol. ii. p. 48.) On Chaucer's verse, see,
besides the monograph of ten Brink already cited, Lounsbury's Studies
in Chaucer, vol. iii. pp. 297 ff., and Schipper, vol. i. pp. 442 ff.
The common assumption is, that Chaucer borrowed the pentameter couplet
directly from French poetry. On the history of this in France, see
Stengel, in Gröber's Grundriss der Romanischen Philologie.[20] The
decasyllabic verse was fairly common in France in the fourteenth century
(being called "vers commun" according to Stengel); but in
the form of the couplet it was not. Professor Skeat says: "To say that
it [Chaucer's couplet] was derived from the French ten-syllable verse is
not a complete solution of the mystery; for nearly all such verse is
commonly either in stanzas, or else a great number of successive lines
are rimed together; and these, I believe, are rather scarce. After some
search I have, however, fortunately lighted upon a very interesting
specimen, among the poems of Guillaume de Machault, a French writer whom
Chaucer is known to have imitated, and who died in 1377. In the edition
of Machault's poems edited by Tarbé, Reims and Paris, 1849, p. 89, there
is a poem of exactly this character, of no great length, but fortunately
dated; for its title is 'Complainte écrite après la bataille de Poitiers
et avant le siège de Reims par les Anglais' (1356-1358). The first four
lines run thus:
"'A toy, Henry, dous amis, me complain,
Pour ce que ne cueur ne mont ne plein;
Car a piet suy, sans cheval et sans selle,
Et si n'ay mais esmeraude, ne belle.'
... Now as Chaucer was taken prisoner in France in 1359, he had an
excellent opportunity for making himself acquainted with this poem, and
with others, possibly, in a similar metre, which have not come down to
us." (The Prioress's Tale, Introduction, pp. xix, xx.) Paris has shown
that the real date of the poem in question was 1340; the title quoted by
Skeat is Tarbé's modern French caption. Professor Kittredge has called
my attention to the fact that there is another poem of Machault's in the
same metre (P. Paris's edition of Voir-Dit, p. 56), and also a poem by
Froissart, the "Orloge Amoureus."
Ten Brink calls attention to the possibility of the influence upon
Chaucer's couplet of the Italian hendecasyllabic verse. The Compleynte
to Pitee, it is true, was written probably before the Italian journey
of 1372-1373; but in Italy the "full significance" of the metre may have
become clear to Chaucer. "After that journey the heroic verse appears
almost exclusively as his poetic instrument.... Of still greater
significance is the fact that Chaucer's heroic verse differs from the
French decasyllabic in all the particulars in which the Italian
hendecasyllabic departs from the common source, and approaches the verse
of Dante and Boccaccio as closely as the metre of a Germanic language
can approach a Romance metre. It may be added also that the heroic
verse in the Compleynte to Pitee stands nearer the French decasyllabic
than that of the Troilus or the Canterbury Tales."
Dr. Lewis, on the other hand, in The Foreign Sources of English
Versification, would minimize the foreign sources of Chaucer's couplet.
Not only the unaccentual character of the French verse is opposed to the
theory of the French source, but also, he believes, the fixed cesura.
"In the English verse there is no such thing: indeed there is no cesura
at all, in the French sense of the word.... Schipper relegates to a
foot-note the suggestion that our heroic verse may have originated in a
different way, either through an abridgment of the alexandrine or
through an extension of the four-foot line. This is of course more
nearly the true view, but it is entirely immaterial which of the last
two explanations we hit upon. Accentual verses of four, six, and seven
feet were already familiar long before Chaucer's time. They exhibited a
more or less regular alternation of arsis and thesis. To devise a verse
which should be essentially the same in principle, but should have five
accents instead of four, six, or seven, was a task that Chaucer's genius
might well achieve unaided" (pp. 98, 99).
It is quite possible that a combination of all these views may be
nearest the truth. The objection to the French influence on the ground
of the syllabic (non-accentual) quality of the French verse does not
seem to be serious, since any imitation of French verse by an Englishman
would be likely to take on the accentual form; and, that once done, the
need for the fixed cesura would vanish. But it is worth while to
emphasize the fact that the genius of English verse was not so averse to
the formation of a decasyllabic five-stress line as to make it a serious
innovation. This view is further emphasized by the next specimen.
Is not thilke the mery moneth of May,
When love-lads masken in fresh aray?
How falles it, then, we no merrier bene,
Ylike as others, girt in gawdy greene?
Our bloncket liveryes bene all to sadde
For thilke same season, when all is ycladd
With pleasaunce: the grownd with grasse, the Woods
With greene leaves, the bushes with bloosming buds.
... Tho to the greene Wood they speeden hem all,
To fetchen home May with their musicall:
And home they bringen in a royall throne,
Crowned as king: and his Queene attone
Was Lady Flora, on whom did attend
A fayre flocke of Faeries, and a fresh bend
Of lovely Nymphs. (O that I were there,
To helpen the Ladyes their Maybush beare!)
Ah! Piers, bene not thy teeth on edge, to thinke
(Spenser: The Shepherd's Calendar, May. 1579.)
This specimen is properly not in five-stress verse, but in irregular
four-stress ("tumbling verse"); compare the specimen on p. 158, above.
We have a close approach, however, to the regular five-stress verse, in
such lines as the fourth, fifth, eleventh, thirteenth, and seventeenth.
On this and similar passages in the Shepherd's Calendar, as
illustrating the close relation between the native measure and the newer
one, see an article by Professor Gummere, in the American Journal of
Philology, vol. vii. pp. 53ff. Other verses cited by Dr. Gummere are:
"Whose way is wildernesse, whose ynne Penaunce."
"And dirks the beauty of my blossomes rownd."
"That oft the blood springeth from woundes wyde."
"There at the dore he cast me downe hys pack."
It is pointed out that the regular five-stress line, when having—as
very frequently—only four full stresses (two or three light syllables
coming together, especially at the pause), can hardly be distinguished
from certain forms of the native four-stress verse. See also the
Eclogues for February and August, in the Shepherd's Calendar. Dr.
Gummere's conclusion is, that "practically all the elements of
Anglo-Saxon verse are preserved in our modern poetry, though in
different combinations, with changed proportional importance."
But the false Fox most kindly played his part;
For whatsoever mother-wit or art
Could work, he put in proof: no practice sly,
No counterpoint of cunning policy,
No reach, no breach, that might him profit bring,
But he the same did to his purpose wring....
He fed his cubs with fat of all the soil,
And with the sweet of others' sweating toil;
He crammed them with crumbs of benefices,
And fill'd their mouths with meeds of malefices.
... No statute so established might be,
Nor ordinance so needful, but that he
Would violate, though not with violence,
Yet under color of the confidence
The which the Ape repos'd in him alone,
And reckon'd him the kingdom's corner-stone.
(Spenser: Mother Hubbard's Tale, ll. 1137-1166. 1591.)
Spenser's use of the heroic couplet for the Mother Hubbard's Tale is
the earliest instance of its adoption in English for satirical verse,—a
purpose for which its later history showed it to be peculiarly well
fitted.
Upon her head she wore a myrtle wreath,
From whence her veil reach'd to the ground beneath:
Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves,
Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives:
Many would praise the sweet smell as she past,
When 'twas the odor which her breath forth cast;
And there for honey bees have sought in vain,
And, beat from thence, have lighted there again.
About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone,
Which, lighten'd by her neck, like diamonds shone.
(Marlowe: Hero and Leander, ll. 17-26. ab. 1590, pub. 1598.)
Too popular is tragic poesy,
Straining his tip-toes for a farthing fee,
And doth beside on rimeless numbers tread;
Unbid iambics flow from careless head.
Some braver brain in high heroic rhymes
Compileth worm-eat stories of old times:
And he, like some imperious Maronist,
Conjures the Muses that they him assist.
Then strives he to bombast his feeble lines
With far-fetch'd phrase.— ...
Painters and poets, hold your ancient right:
Write what you will, and write not what you might:
Their limits be their list, their reason will.
But if some painter in presuming skill
Should paint the stars in centre of the earth,
Could ye forbear some smiles, and taunting mirth?
(Joseph Hall: Virgidemiarum Libri VI., bk. i. satire 4. 1597.)
Joseph Hall was the most vigorous satirist of the group of Elizabethans
who, in the last decade of the sixteenth century, were imitating the
satires of Horace, Juvenal, and Persius. Hall's satires have a curiously
eighteenth-century flavor, and his couplets are frequently very similar
to those of the age of Pope. Thus Thomas Warton (in his History of
English Poetry) observed of Hall that "the fabric of the couplets
approaches to the modern standard;" and Anderson, who edited the
British Poets in 1795, said: "Many of his lines would do honor to the
most harmonious of our modern poets. The sense has generally such a
pause, and will admit of such a punctuation at the close of the second
line, as if it were calculated for a modern ear." On the verse of these
Elizabethan satirists in general, see The Rise of Formal Satire in
England, by the present editor (Publications of the Univ. of Penna.).
On the other hand, the verse of the satires of John Donne, from which
the following specimen is taken, is the roughest and most difficult of
all the satires of the group. The reputation of Donne's satires for
metrical ruggedness has affected unjustly that of his other poetry and
that of the Elizabethan satires in general. Dryden said: "Would not
Donne's Satires, which abound with so much wit, appear more charming if
he had taken care of his words and of his numbers?" (Essay on Satire.)
And Pope "versified" two of them, so as to bring them into a form
pleasing to the ear of his age.
Therefore I suffered this: towards me did run
A thing more strange than on Nile's slime the sun
E'er bred, or all which into Noah's ark came:
A thing which would have posed Adam to name;
Stranger than seven antiquaries' studies,
Than Afric's monsters, Guiana's rarities;...
Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been
Velvet, but 'twas now (so much ground was seen)
Become tufftaffaty; and our children shall
See it plain rash awhile, then nought at all.
This thing hath travelled, and faith, speaks all tongues,
And only knoweth what to all states belongs.
(John Donne: Satire iv. ll. 17 ff. ab. 1593.)
This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas,
And utters it again when God doth please.
He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares
At wakes, and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs;
And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,
Have not the grace to grace it with such show.
This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve.
Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve.
He can carve too, and lisp: why, this is he
That kiss'd his hand away in courtesy;
This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,
That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice
In honorable terms: nay, he can sing
A mean most meanly, and, in ushering,
Mend him who can: the ladies call him sweet;
The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet.
(Shakspere: Love's Labor's Lost, V. ii. 315-330. ab. 1590.)
The use of rimed couplets in Shakspere's dramas is especially
characteristic of his earlier work. In this play, Love's Labor's Lost,
Dowden says, "there are about two rhymed lines to every one of blank
verse" (Shakspere Primer, p. 44). In the late plays, on the other
hand, rime disappears almost altogether. It will be observed that while
Shakspere's heroic verse is usually fairly regular, with not very many
run-on lines, it yet differs in quality from that of satires. The
dramatic use moulds it into different cadences, and the single couplet
is, perhaps, less noticeably the unit of the verse.
Shepherd, I pray thee stay. Where hast thou been?
Or whither goest thou? Here be woods as green
As any; air likewise as fresh and sweet
As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet
Face of the curled streams; with flowers as many
As the young spring gives, and as choice as any;
Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells,
Arbors o'ergrown with woodbines, caves, and dells;
Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing,
Or gather rushes, to make many a ring
For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love,—
How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove,
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies;
How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,
His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
Head of old Latmus, where she stoops each night,
Gilding the mountain with her brother's light,
To kiss her sweetest.
(Fletcher: The Faithful Shepherdess, I. iii. ab. 1610.)
Fletcher uses the couplet in this drama with a freedom hardly found
elsewhere until the time of Keats; see the remark of Symonds, quoted p.
210, below.
If Rome so great, and in her wisest age,
Fear'd not to boast the glories of her stage,
As skilful Roscius, and grave Æsop, men,
Yet crown'd with honors, as with riches, then;
Who had no less a trumpet of their name
Than Cicero, whose every breath was fame:
How can so great example die in me,
That, Allen, I should pause to publish thee?
Who both their graces in thyself hast more
Outstript, than they did all that went before:
And present worth in all dost so contract,
As others speak, but only thou dost act.
Wear this renown. 'Tis just, that who did give
So many poets life, by one should live.
(Ben Jonson: Epigram LXXXIX, to Edward Allen. 1616.)
Jonson is thought by some to have been the founder of the classical
school of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, which made the
heroic couplet peculiarly its own. See on this subject an article by
Prof. F. E. Schelling, "Ben Jonson and the Classical School," in the
Publications of the Modern Language Association, n. s. vol. vi. p.
221. Professor Schelling finds in Jonson's verse all the characteristics
of the later couplet of Waller and Dryden: end-stopped lines and
couplets, a preference for medial cesura, and an antithetical structure
of the verse. "No better specimen of Jonson's antithetical manner could
be found," he says further, than the Epigram here quoted. So far as this
antithetical quality of Jonson's verse is concerned, Professor
Schelling's view cannot be questioned; but that Jonson shows any
singular preference for end-stopped lines and couplets may be seriously
questioned.
These mighty peers placed in the gilded barge,
Proud with the burden of so brave a charge,
With painted oars the youths begin to sweep
Neptune's smooth face, and cleave the yielding deep;
Which soon becomes the seat of sudden war
Between the wind and tide that fiercely jar.
As when a sort of lusty shepherds try
Their force at football, care of victory
Makes them salute so rudely breast to breast,
That their encounters seem too rough for jest;
They ply their feet, and still the restless ball,
Tossed to and fro, is urged by them all:
So fares the doubtful barge 'twixt tide and winds,
And like effect of their contention finds.
(Waller: Of the Danger his Majesty [being Prince] escaped in the Road
at St. Andrews. 1623?)
Such is the mould that the blest tenant feeds
On precious fruits, and pays his rent in weeds;
With candied plantains, and the juicy pine,
On choicest melons and sweet grapes they dine,
And with potatoes fat their wanton swine;
Nature these cates with such a lavish hand
Pours out among them, that our coarser land
Tastes of that bounty, and does cloth return,
Which not for warmth but ornament is worn;
For the kind spring, which but salutes us here,
Inhabits there and courts them all the year;
Ripe fruits and blossoms on the same trees live,
At once they promise what at once they give;
So sweet the air, so moderate the clime,
None sickly lives, or dies before his time....
O how I long my careless limbs to lay
Under the plantain's shade, and all the day
With amorous airs my fancy entertain,
Invoke the Muses, and improve my vein!
(Waller: The Battle of the Summer Islands, canto i. 1638.)
Edmund Waller is the chief representative of the early classical poetry
of the seventeenth century, and of the polishing and regulating of the
couplet which prepared the way for the verse of Dryden and Pope. The
dominant characteristic of this verse is its avoidance of enjambement,
or run-on lines, still more of run-on couplets. The growing precision of
French verse at the same time was perhaps influential in England.
Malherbe, who was at the French court after 1605, set rules for more
regular verse, and forbade, among other things, the use of run-on
lines—a precept which held good in French poetry until the nineteenth
century. The influence of Waller in England was, for a considerable
period, hardly less than that of Malherbe in France. Dryden said that
"the excellence and dignity" of rime "were never known till Mr. Waller
taught it; he first made writing easily an art; first showed us to
conclude the sense most commonly in distichs, which, in the verse of
those before him, runs on for so many lines together that the reader is
out of breath to overtake it. This sweetness of Mr. Waller's lyric poesy
was afterward followed, in the epic, by Sir John Denham, in his
Cooper's Hill." (Epistle Dedicatory of The Rival Ladies.) In another
place Dryden observed that only Waller, in English, had surpassed
Spenser in the harmony of his verse. Dryden's view was later echoed by
Pope, who exhorted his readers to
"praise the easy vigor of a line
Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join."
(Essay on Criticism, l. 360.)
But the most remarkable praise of Waller is found in the Preface to his
posthumous poems, 1690, generally attributed to Bishop Atterbury. "He
was indeed the parent of English verse, and the first that shewed us our
tongue had beauty and numbers in it.... The tongue came into his hands
like a rough diamond; he polished it first, and to that degree that all
artists since him have admired the workmanship, without pretending to
mend it.... He undoubtedly stands first in the list of refiners, and for
aught I know, last, too; for I question whether in Charles the Second's
reign English did not come to its full perfection; and whether it has
not had its Augustan Age, as well as the Latin.... We are no less
beholding to him for the new turn of verse, which he brought in, and the
improvement he made in our numbers. Before his time men rhymed, indeed,
and that was all: as for the harmony of measure, and that dance of words
which good ears are so much pleased with, they knew nothing of it. Their
poetry then was made up almost entirely of monosyllables, which, when
they come together in any cluster, are certainly the most harsh,
untunable things in the world. If any man doubts of this, let him read
ten lines in Donne, and he'll quickly be convinced. Besides, their
verses ran all into one another, and hung together, throughout a whole
copy, like the hook't atoms that compose a body in Des Cartes. There
was no distinction of parts, no regular stops, nothing for the ear to
rest upon. But as soon as the copy began, down it went like a larum,
incessantly; and the reader was sure to be out of breath before he got
to the end of it. So that really verse in those days was but downright
prose, tagged with rhymes. Mr. Waller removed all these faults, brought
in more polysyllables and smoother measures, bound up his thoughts
better and in a cadence more agreeable to the nature of the verse he
wrote in: so that wherever the natural stops of that were, he contrived
the little breakings of his sense so as to fall in with 'em. And for
that reason, since the stress of our verse lies commonly upon the last
syllable, you'll hardly ever find him using a word of no force
there."[21] Waller's editor thus clearly discerns the very
characteristics of his verse which are avoided by the master-poets—the
coincidence of phrase-pauses and verse-pauses, and regularity in the
placing of stress.
The most important discussion of the influence of Waller on English
poetry, and on the heroic couplet in particular, is found in Mr. Gosse's
book, From Shakespeare to Pope. Mr. Gosse regards Waller as inventing
for himself the couplet of the classical school; "master," in 1623, of
such verse as "was not imitated by a single poet for nearly twenty
years" (p. 50). This view is criticised in an interesting article by Dr.
Henry Wood, in the American Journal of Philology, vol. xi. p. 55.
While Mr. Gosse places Waller's earliest couplets in 1621 and 1623, Dr.
Wood would date them as late as 1626, and shows that Waller wrote
nothing else until 1635. Meantime had appeared (the first volume at
least as early as 1623) the translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, by
George Sandys, in which, says Wood, all the characteristics of Waller's
verse appear. "At all events," is his conclusion, "it was Sandys, and
not Waller, who at the beginning of the third decade of the century,
first of all Englishmen, made a uniform practice of writing in heroic
couplets, which are, on the whole, in accord with the French rule, and
which, for exactness of construction, and for harmonious sification, go
far towards satisfying the demands of the later 'classical' school in
England." Dr. Wood emphasizes the probable influence of the French poets
on these early heroic couplets, calling attention to the fact that
Sandys was in France in 1610. There is no evidence, however, that he was
there for more than a few days, en route to more eastern countries.
Waller was not in France till 1643. The whole question of the influence
of French poetry in England before the Restoration still remains to be
carefully investigated. Meantime, the cautious student will hesitate to
put too much stress on any single point of departure for the new style
of versification. Many influences must have combined to make it popular.
We have seen Professor Schelling emphasizing the influence of Jonson; he
also very justly points out "that it is a mistake to consider that the
Elizabethans often practised the couplet with the freedom, not to say
license, that characterizes its nineteenth century use in the hands of
such poets as Keats." Compare the couplets of even so romantic a poet as
Marlowe, in the specimen given above from Hero and Leander. And even
Mr. Gosse, in partial divergence from the doctrines of From Shakespeare
to Pope, says of the satiric verse of the Elizabethan Rowlands: "There
are lines in this passage which Pope would not have disdained to use. It
might, indeed, be employed as against that old heresy, not even yet
entirely discarded, that smoothness of heroic verse was the invention of
Waller. As a matter of fact, this, as well as all other branches of the
universal art of poetry, was understood by the great Elizabethan
masters; and if they did not frequently employ it, it was because they
left to such humbler writers as Rowlands an instrument incapable of
those noble and audacious harmonies on which they chiefly prided
themselves." (Introduction to the Works of Rowlands, Hunterian Club
ed., p. 16.)
A tribute to the incoming influence of the couplet is cited by Dr. Wood
from the poems of Sir John Beaumont (1582-1627). In his verses To His
Late Majesty, concerning the True Forme of English Poetry, Beaumont
said:
"In every language now in Europe spoke
By nations which the Roman empire broke,
The rellish of the Muse consists in rime,
One verse must meete another like a chime....
In many changes these may be exprest,
But those that joyne most simply run the best:
Their forme surpassing farre the fetter'd staves,
Vaine care, and needlesse repetition saves."
(Chalmer's English Poets, vol. vi. p. 31.)[22]
Rough Boreas in Æolian prison laid,
And those dry blasts which gathered clouds invade,
Outflies the South with dropping wings; who shrouds
His terrible aspect in pitchy clouds.
His white hair streams, his swol'n beard big with showers;
Mists bind his brows, rain from his bosom pours.
As with his hands the hanging clouds he crushed,
They roared, and down in showers together rushed.
All-colored Iris, Juno's messenger,
To weeping clouds doth nourishment confer.
The corn is lodged, the husbandmen despair,
Their long year's labor lost, with all their care.
Jove, not content with his ethereal rages,
His brother's auxiliaric floods engages.
(George Sandys: Ovid's Metamorphoses, bk. i. 1621.)
On the significance of Sandys's verse, see preceding notes on Waller,
and the note on its possible relation to Pope, p. 201 below.
My eye, descending from the hill, surveys
Where Thames amongst the wanton valleys strays;
Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons
By his old sire, to his embraces runs,
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity....
No unexpected inundations spoil
The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil,
But godlike his unwearied bounty flows,
First loves to do, then loves the good he does;
Nor are his blessings to his banks confined,
But free and common as the sea or wind....
O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme!
Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull,
Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full.
(Sir John Denham: Cooper's Hill. 1642.)
"Denham," says Mr. Gosse, "was the first writer to adopt the precise
manner of versification introduced by Waller." (Ward's English Poets,
vol. ii. p. 279.) On his praise by Dryden and Pope, see notes on p. 188
above. The last four lines of the specimen here given have been
universally admired.
But say, what is't that binds your hands? does fear
From such a glorious action you deter?
Or is't religion? But you sure disclaim
That frivolous pretence, that empty name;
Mere bugbear word, devis'd by us to scare
The senseless rout to slavishness and fear,
Ne'er known to awe the brave, and those that dare.
Such weak and feeble things may serve for checks
To rein and curb base-mettled heretics, ...
Such whom fond in-bred honesty befools,
Or that old musty piece, the Bible, gulls.
(John Oldham: Satires upon the Jesuits, Sat. i. 1679.)
"Oldham was the first," says Mr. Gosse, "to liberate himself, in the use
of the distich, from this under-current of a stanza, and to write heroic
verse straight on, couplet by couplet, ascending by steady strides and
not by irregular leaps. (Any one who will venture to read Oldham's
disagreeable Satire upon the Jesuits, written in 1679, will see the
truth of this remark, and note the effect that its versification had
upon that series of Dryden's satires which immediately followed it.) In
Pope's best satires we see this art carried to its final perfection;
after his time the connecting link between couplet and couplet became
lost, and at last in the decline poems became, as some one has said,
mere cases of lancets lying side by side. But in Dryden's day the
connection was still only too obvious, and it strikes me that it may
have been from a consciousness of this defect, that Dryden adopted that
triplet, with a final alexandrine, which he is so fond of introducing."
(From Shakespeare to Pope, p. 201.)
Of these the false Achitophel was first,
A name to all succeeding ages curst:
For close designs and crooked counsels fit,
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit,
Restless, unfixed in principles and place,
In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace;
A fiery soul, which, working out its way,
Fretted the pigmy body to decay,
And o'er-informed the tenement of clay.
A daring pilot in extremity,
Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high,
He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit,
Would steer too nigh the sands, to boast his wit.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide;
Else, why should he, with wealth and honor blest,
Refuse his age the needful hours of rest?
Punish a body which he could not please,
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease?...
In friendship false, implacable in hate,
Resolved to ruin or to rule the state;
To compass this the triple bond he broke,
The pillars of the public safety shook,
And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke;
Then, seized with fear, yet still affecting fame,
Usurped a patriot's all-atoning name.
(Dryden: Absalom and Achitophel, part I. ll. 150-179. 1681.)
Dryden was the first great English poet after Chaucer to make the heroic
couplet his chief vehicle of expression, and he put far more variety and
vigor into it than had been achieved by his nearer predecessors. As Pope
said:
"Waller was smooth, but Dryden taught to join
The varying verse, the full resounding line,
The long majestic march, the energy divine."
(Epistle ii., 267.)
And Gray, some years later, symbolized Dryden's couplet in these fine
lines of the Progress of Poesy:
"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."
On Dryden's development of the couplet, see especially Saintsbury's
Life of Dryden (English Men of Letters Series), pp. 17, 171. "The
whole structure of the decasyllabic line before the middle of the
seventeenth century was ill calculated for the perfecting of the
couplet. Accustomed either to the stately plainness of blank verse, or
to the elaborate intricacies of the stanza, writers had got into the
habit of communicating to their verse a slow and somewhat languid
movement." (p. 17.) "In versification the great achievement of Dryden
was the alteration of what may be called the balance of the line,
causing it to run more quickly, and to strike its rhymes with a sharper
and less prolonged sound. One obvious means of obtaining this was, as a
matter of course, the isolation of the couplet, and the avoidance of
overlapping the different lines one upon the other. The effect of this
overlapping, by depriving the eye and voice of the expectation of rest
at the end of each couplet, is always one of two things. Either the
lines are converted into a sort of rhythmic prose, made musical by the
rhymes rather than divided by them, or else a considerable pause is
invited at the end of each, or of most lines, and the cadence of the
whole becomes comparatively slow and languid. Both these forms, as may
be seen in the works of Mr. Morris, as well as in the older writers, are
excellently suited for narration of some considerable length. They are
less well suited for satire, for argument, and for the moral reflections
which the age of Dryden loved. He therefore set himself to elaborate the
couplet with its sharp point, its quick delivery, and the pistol-like
detonation of its rhyme. But there is an obvious objection, or rather
there are several obvious objections which present themselves to the
couplet. It was natural that to one accustomed to the more varied range
of the older rhythm and metre, there might seem to be a danger of the
snip-snap monotony into which, as we know, it did actually fall when it
passed out of the hands of its first great practitioners. There might
also be a fear that it would not always be possible to compress the
sense of a complete clause within the narrow limits of twenty syllables.
To meet these difficulties Dryden resorted to three mechanical
devices—the hemistich, the alexandrine, and the triplet, all three of
which could be used indifferently to eke out the space or to give
variety of sound.... In poetry proper the hemistich is anything but
pleasing, and Dryden, becoming convinced of the fact, almost discarded
it. The alexandrine and the triplet he always continued to use." (pp.
171, 172.)
Do you remember, when their tasks were done,
How all the youth did to our cottage run?
While winter winds were whistling loud without,
Our cheerful hearth was circled round about:
With strokes in ashes, maids their lovers drew;
And still you fell to me, and I to you....
I know too well when first my love began,
When at our wake you for the chaplet ran:
Then I was made the lady of the May,
And, with the garland, at the goal did stay:
Still, as you ran, I kept you full in view;
I hoped, and wished, and ran, methought, for you.
As you came near, I hastily did rise,
And stretched my arm outright, that held the prize.
The custom was to kiss whom I should crown;
You kneeled, and in my lap your head laid down:
I blushed, and blushed, and did the kiss delay;
At last my subjects forced me to obey:
But, when I gave the crown, and then the kiss,
I scarce had breath to say, Take that,—and this.
(Dryden: Marriage à la Mode, II, i. 1672.)
The use of the heroic couplet in the drama marks its effort to conquer
the last citadel of English poetry; an attempt which, under the
leadership of Dryden, seemed to succeed, but soon gave way to better
judgment. Dryden favored the experiment in the Preface to The Rival
Ladies (1663), and inserted a few couplets in that play. Etheredge
accepted the suggestion, and put the serious parts of The Comical
Revenge (largely prose) into couplets, in 1664. In the same year The
Indian Queen (by Dryden and Sir Robert Howard) appeared in heroic
verse, and the fashion soon became so general that in the Essay on
Heroic Plays, prefixed to The Conquest of Granada (1672), Dryden
could say: "Whether Heroic Verse ought to be admitted into serious
plays, is not now to be disputed: 'tis already in possession of the
stage; and I dare confidently affirm, that very few tragedies, in this
age, shall be received without it." Only six years later, however, in
1678, he returned to blank verse in All for Love, saying: "I have
disencumbered myself from rhyme. Not that I condemn my former way, but
that this is more proper to my present purpose." In all about five
plays of Dryden's are in couplets; after 1678 he rarely returned to rime
for the drama. As Atterbury said in his Preface to Waller's poems:
"'Twas the strength of his genius that first brought it into credit in
plays; and 'tis the force of his example that has thrown it out again."
"The fashion of rhyme in the drama, then, to be exact," says Mr. Gosse,
"flourished from 1664 until ... 1678." Some justification for its use is
to be found in the wretched condition into which blank verse had fallen.
"The blank iambics of the romantic dramatists had become so execrably
weak and distended, the whole movement of dramatic verse had grown so
flaccid, that a little restraint in the severe limits of rhyme was
absolutely necessary." (Gosse, in Seventeenth Century Studies, p.
264.)
The present specimen is from a play in which the couplet was used but
slightly; but it shows Dryden's use of it at its best. In the drama, as
already remarked, the couplet is naturally less epigrammatic and pointed
than in didactic and satiric verse.
For the arguments with which Dryden defended the use of rime in the
drama, see the Preface to The Rival Ladies, the Essay of Heroic
Plays, the Essay of Dramatic Poesy, and the Defence of an Essay of
Dramatic Poesy. "In the quickness of reparties (which in discoursive
scenes fall very often), it has so particular a grace, and is so aptly
suited to them, that the sudden smartness of the answer, and the
sweetness of the rhyme, set off the beauty of each other. But that
benefit which I consider most in it, because I have not seldom found it,
is, that it bounds and circumscribes the fancy." (Essays of Dryden,
ed. W. P. Ker, vol. i. p. 8.) In the Essay of Dramatic Poesy, Crites,
representing Sir Robert Howard, opposes the use of rime on the ground of
Aristotle's dictum that tragedy is best written in the kind of verse
which is nearest prose. A play being an imitation of Nature, "the nearer
anything comes to the imitation of it, the more it pleases." Neander,
representing Dryden, answers that this line of argument will equally
forbid blank verse. Blank verse is "properly but measured prose"; and
rime may be "made as natural as blank verse, by the well placing of the
words, etc." "But I need not go so far to prove that rhyme, as it
succeeds to all other offices of Greek and Latin verse, so especially to
this of plays, since the custom of all nations at this day confirms it,
all the French, Italian, and Spanish tragedies are generally writ in it;
and sure the universal consent of the most civilized parts of the world
ought in this, as it doth in other customs, to include the rest."
(Ibid. p. 98.) Again, while a play is a representation of Nature, it
is "Nature wrought up to an higher pitch"; and for this purpose "heroic
rhyme is nearest Nature, as being the noblest kind of modern verse."
(pp. 100, 101.) In the Essay of Heroic Plays Dryden again summarizes
the case for the other side by saying that "all the arguments which are
formed against it can amount to no more than this, that it is not so
near conversation as prose, and therefore not so natural. But it is very
clear to all who understand Poetry, that serious plays ought not to
imitate conversation too nearly." If, therefore, we begin to leave the
mere "imitation of ordinary converse," we should go on consistently to
"the last perfection of Art. It was only custom which cozened us so
long; we thought, because Shakespeare and Fletcher went no farther, that
there the pillars of poetry were to be erected; that, because they
excellently described passion without rhyme, therefore rhyme was not
capable of describing it. But time has now convinced most men of that
error." (Ibid. pp. 148, 149.)
Dryden was of course quite right in objecting to the claim that
imaginative poetry ought to seek the form closest to the language of
real life. The real question is whether rimed verse is a more
imaginative and highly poetic form than blank verse; modern opinion
would unanimously answer in the negative.
It strikes a modern reader as curious that Dryden and his contemporaries
should have advocated the use of rime in tragedy rather than in comedy;
but we have the clew to their feeling in the saying that "serious
plays ought not to imitate conversation too nearly." In the Restoration
period the comedy was thought of as a realistic representation of life;
hence its characters should speak in natural prose, as they have
continued to do, for the most part, ever since. The tragedy or heroic
play, on the other hand, was in the region of artistic convention, much
farther removed from reality; hence its language was to be "raised above
the life." This distinction between the range of comedy and that of
tragedy, which would have seemed strange to the Elizabethans, explains
the widely diverging lines which we find the two forms of the drama
following from the time of the Restoration.
On the verse of Dryden's rimed plays, see Schipper, vol. ii. p. 214, and
O. Speerschneider's Metrische Untersuchungen über den heroischen Vers
in John Drydens Dramen (Halle, 1897).
But O, my muse, what numbers wilt thou find
To sing the furious troops in battle join'd!
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound,
The victor's shouts and dying groans confound,
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies,
And all the thunder of the battle rise.
'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul was prov'd,
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmov'd,
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examin'd all the dreadful scenes of war....
So, when an angel by divine command
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past,
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast;
And pleas'd th' Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.
(Addison: The Campaign. 1704.)
But most by numbers judge a poet's song,
And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong:
In the bright Muse, tho' thousand charms conspire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
These equal syllables alone require,
Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join;
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line;
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
With sure return of still expected rhymes;
Where'er you find 'the cooling western breeze,'
In the next line, it 'whispers through the trees';
If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,'
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with 'sleep':
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigor of a line
Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join.
(Pope: Essay on Criticism, ll. 337-361. 1711.)
Why boast we, Glaucus, our extended reign
Where Xanthus' streams enrich the Lycian plain,
Our numerous herds that range the fruitful field,
And hills where vines their purple harvest yield,
Our foaming bowls with purer nectar crowned,
Our feasts enhanced with music's sprightly sound?
Why on those shores are we with joy surveyed,
Admired as heroes, and as gods obeyed;
Unless great acts superior merit prove,
And vindicate the bounteous powers above?
'Tis ours, the dignity they give to grace;
The first in valor, as the first in place:
That when with wondering eyes our martial bands
Behold our deeds transcending our commands,
Such, they may cry, deserve the sovereign state,
Whom those that envy dare not imitate!
Could all our care elude the gloomy grave,
Which claims no less the fearful than the brave,
For lust of fame I should not vainly dare
In fighting fields, nor urge the soul to war.
But since, alas! ignoble age must come,
Disease, and death's inexorable doom;
The life which others pay let us bestow,
And give to fame what we to nature owe;
Brave though we fall, and honored if we live,
Or let us glory gain, or glory give!
(Pope: Iliad, bk. xii.)
Pope's couplet, while less vigorous and varied than Dryden's, has been
generally considered the most perfect development of the typical measure
of the classical school. Mr. Courthope thinks that in this speech from
the Iliad, Pope "perhaps attains the highest level of which the heroic
couplet is capable." (Works of Pope, vol. v. p. 167.)
"What he learned from Dryden," Mr. Courthope says in another place, "was
the art of expressing the social and conversational idiom of the
language in a metrical form. His conception of metrical harmony was,
however, altogether different from his professed master's, and rather
resembled that of Sandys, whose translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses he
told Spence he had read when very young, and with the greatest delight.
He explains the system in a letter to Cromwell, dated November 25, 1710.
"'(1) As to the hiatus, it is certainly to be avoided as often as
possible; but on the other hand, since the reason of it is only for the
sake of the numbers, so if, to avoid it, we incur another fault against
their smoothness, methinks the very end of that nicety is destroyed....
"'(2) I would except against the use of all expletives in verse, as do
before verbs plural, or even the frequent use of did or does to
change the termination of the rhyme....
"'(3) Monosyllable lines, unless very artfully managed, are stiff,
languishing, and hard.
"'(4) The repeating the same rhymes within four or six lines of each
other, which tire the ear with too much of the like sound.
"'(5) The too frequent use of alexandrines, which are never graceful,
but where there is some majesty added to the verse by them, or when
there cannot be found a word in them but what is absolutely needful.
"'(6) Every nice ear must, I believe, have observed that in any smooth
English verse of ten syllables, there is naturally a pause either at the
fourth, fifth, or sixth syllables.... Now I fancy that, to preserve an
exact harmony and variety, none of these pauses should be continued
above three lines together, without the interposition of another; else
it will be apt to weary the ear with one continued tone.'"
(Ibid. pp. 20, 21.)
Here are implied all the characteristics of the Popean couplet. The
cesura is to vary, but not from a fundamentally medial position. The
avoidance of enjambement is not mentioned, doubtless because it is
assumed as an essential of couplets professing any degree of
correctness.
Mr. Andrew Lang protests against the monotony of the verse of Pope's
Iliad in some lines which cleverly adopt the same sort of measure:
My childhood fled your couplet's clarion tone,
And sought for Homer in the prose of Bohn.
Still through the dust of that dim prose appears
The flight of arrows and the sheen of spears;
Still we may trace what hearts heroic feel,
And hear the bronze that hurtles on the steel!
But ah, your Iliad seems a half-pretence,
Where wits, not heroes, prove their skill in fence,
And great Achilles' eloquence doth show
As if no centaur trained him, but Boileau!
Again, your verse is orderly,—and more,—
"The waves behind impel the waves before";
Monotonously musical they glide,
Till couplet unto couplet hath replied.
But turn to Homer! How his verses sweep!
Surge answers surge and deep doth call on deep;
This line in foam and thunder issues forth,
Spurred by the West or smitten by the North,
Sombre in all its sullen deeps, and all
Clear at the crest, and foaming to the fall;
The next with silver murmur dies away,
Like tides that falter to Calypso's Bay!
(Andrew Lang: Letters to Dead Authors; Pope.)
Compare with this the equally clever defence of Pope's verse by Mr.
Dobson:
Suppose you say your Worst of Pope, declare
His Jewels Paste, his Nature a Parterre,
His Art but Artifice—I ask once more
Where have you seen such Artifice before?
Where have you seen a Parterre better grac'd,
Or gems that glitter like his Gems of Paste?
Where can you show, among your Names of Note,
So much to copy and so much to quote?
And where, in Fine, in all our English Verse,
A Style more trenchant and a Sense more terse?
So I, that love the old Augustan Days
Of formal Courtesies and formal Phrase;
That like along the finish'd line to feel
The Ruffle's Flutter and the Flash of Steel;
That like my Couplet as compact as clear;
That like my Satire sparkling tho' severe,
Unmix'd with Bathos and unmarr'd by Trope,
I fling my Cap for Polish—and for Pope![23]
(Austin Dobson: Dialogue to the Memory of Mr. Alexander Pope.)
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watchdog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
(Goldsmith: The Deserted Village. 1770.)
"The heroic couplet," says Mr. Gosse, "was never employed, even by Pope
himself, with more melody than by Goldsmith in this poem." (Eighteenth
Century Literature, p. 320.) Its use at this time, when the revival of
blank verse by Thomson and others had seriously affected the prestige of
the couplet, was a sign of Goldsmith's reactionary tendency toward the
school of Pope. His dislike of blank verse he expressed in his early
work on the Present State of Polite Learning, saying that it might be
reckoned among "several disagreeable instances of pedantry" lately
proceeding "from a desire in the critic of grafting the spirit of
ancient languages upon the English." (Works, Globe ed., p. 439.) This
opinion was of course shared by Goldsmith's friend, Dr. Johnson, whose
two important poems (London and The Vanity of Human Wishes) stand
with the two of Goldsmith as the last notable pieces of English poetry
of the classical school. While Johnson admitted that he could not "wish
that Milton had been a rhymer," yet he never lost an opportunity to
speak contemptuously of blank verse as a poetic form, and quoted
approvingly the saying of a critic that it "seems to be verse only to
the eye." (Life of Milton.)
In front of these came Addison. In him
Humor, in holiday and sightly trim,
Sublimity and Attic taste combined
To polish, furnish, and delight the mind.
Then Pope, as harmony itself exact,
In verse well-disciplined, complete, compact,
Gave virtue and morality a grace
That, quite eclipsing pleasure's painted face,
Levied a tax of wonder and applause,
Even on the fools that trampled on their laws.
But he (his musical finesse was such,
So nice his ear, so delicate his touch)
Made poetry a mere mechanic art,
And every warbler has his tune by heart.
Nature imparting her satiric gift,
Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift,
With droll sobriety they raised a smile
At folly's cost, themselves unmoved the while.
That constellation set, the world in vain
Must hope to look upon their like again.
(Cowper: Table Talk. 1782.)
Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,
For notice eager, pass in long review:
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race;
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And tales of terror jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along;
For simpering folly loves a varied song,
To strange mysterious dulness still the friend,
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels—may they be the last!—
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast;
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at nights;
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood,
Decoy young border-nobles through the wood,
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why.
(Byron: English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 1809.)
View now the winter storm! above, one cloud,
Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud:
The unwieldy porpoise through the day before
Had rolled in view of boding men on shore;
And sometimes hid and sometimes showed his form,
Dark as the cloud and furious as the storm.
All where the eye delights yet dreads to roam,
The breaking billows cast the flying foam
Upon the billows rising—all the deep
Is restless change; the waves so swelled and steep,
Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells,
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells....
Darkness begins to reign; the louder wind
Appals the weak and awes the firmer mind;
But frights not him whom evening and the spray
In part conceal—yon prowler on his way.
Lo, he has something seen; he runs apace,
As if he feared companion in the chase;
He sees his prize, and now he turns again,
Slowly and sorrowing—"Was your search in vain?"
Gruffly he answers, "'Tis a sorry sight!
A seaman's body: there'll be more to-night!"
(Crabbe: The Borough, letter i. 1810.)
Crabbe's poems are the latest to use the strict Popean couplet for
narrative and descriptive purposes, and his couplets have a certain
characteristic reticence and vigor. Professor Woodberry praises them in
an interesting passage on "the old heroic rhymed couplet, that simplest
form of English verse music, which could rise, nevertheless, to the
almost lyric loftiness of the last lines of the Dunciad; so supple and
flexible; made for easy simile and compact metaphor; lending itself so
perfectly to the sudden flash of wit or turn of humor; the natural shell
of an epigram; compelling the poet to practice all the virtues of
brevity; checking the wandering fancy, and repressing the secondary
thought; requiring in a masterly use of it the employment of more mental
powers than any other metrical form; despised and neglected now because
the literature which is embodied in it is despised and neglected, yet
the best metrical form which intelligence, as distinct from poetical
feeling, can employ." (Makers of Literature, p. 104.)
The flower-beds all were liberal of delight:
Roses in heaps were there, both red and white,
Lilies angelical, and gorgeous glooms
Of wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and blooms
Hanging thick clusters from light boughs; in short,
All the sweet cups to which the bees resort;
With plots of grass, and leafier walks between
Of red geraniums, and of jessamine,
And orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit,
And look as if they shade a golden fruit;
And midst the flowers, turfed round beneath a shade
Of darksome pines, a babbling fountain played,
And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright,
Which through the tops glimmered with showering light.
(Leigh Hunt: The Story of Rimini. 1816.)
Of this poem Mr. C. H. Herford says: "The Story of Rimini is the
starting-point of that free or Chaucerian treatment of the heroic
couplet, and of the colloquial style, eschewing epigram and full of
familiar turns, which Shelley in Julian and Maddalo and Keats in
Lamia made classical." (Age of Wordsworth, p. 83.) The treatment of
the couplet is still characterized by but slight use of run-on lines,
and a preference for the medial cesura; but on the other hand there is a
large degree of freedom in the inversion of accents and other
alterations of the regular stress. Compare the last line of the present
specimen, and such other lines as
"Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow."
"Some, with a drag, dangling from the cap's crest."
"'Who's there?' said that sweet voice, kindly and clear."
"The other with the tears streaming down both his cheeks."
The last of these lines, an alexandrine, is also characteristic. Hunt
imitated Dryden in the use of both alexandrine and triplet. Of the
latter he said: "I confess I like the very bracket that marks out the
triplet to the reader's eye, and prepares him for the music of it. It
has a look like the bridge of a lute." (Preface to Works, 1832.) Mr.
A. J. Kent, in an article in the Fortnightly Review, says of Leigh
Hunt that "he became the greatest master since the days of Dryden" of
the heroic couplet. (1881, p. 224.)
A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
(Keats: Endymion, ll. 1-24. 1818.)
In the couplet of Keats, and of a number of his successors, we have a
really different measure from the "heroic couplet" proper. The
individual line and the couplet alike cease to be prominent units of
the verse. The effect is therefore closely allied to that of blank
verse; the rimes, not being emphasized by marked pauses, serving rather
as means of tone color than as organizers of the verse. See Mr.
Saintsbury's remarks (quoted in the notes on Dryden, p. 195, above), on
"lines made musical by the rhymes rather than divided by them." In like
manner Mr. Symonds says that "the couplets of Marlowe, Fletcher,
Shelley, and Keats follow the laws of blank verse, and add rhyme—that
is to say, their periods and pauses are entirely determined by the
sense." (Blank Verse, p. 66.) This is true of the couplets of Shelley
and Keats, and to a less degree of those of Fletcher's Faithful
Shepherdess, but will hardly apply to Marlowe, nor, as we have seen, to
the Elizabethans in general.[24]
There was a Being whom my spirit oft
Met on its visioned wanderings, far aloft,
In the clear golden prime of my youth's dawn.
Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn,
Amid the enchanted mountains, and the caves
Of divine sleep, and on the air-like waves
Of wonder-level dream, whose tremulous floor
Paved her light steps;—on an imagined shore,
Under the gray beak of some promontory
She met me, robed in such exceeding glory,
That I beheld her not.
(Shelley: Epipsychidion, ll. 190-200. 1821.)
Shelley carries the free treatment of this measure to the utmost limit.
The couplet is not felt to be of significance, and many lines are so
irregular in stress as to make scansion difficult. Compare this
passage:
"The ringdove in the embowering ivy yet
Keeps up her love-lament; and the owls flit
Round the evening tower; and the young stars glance
Between the quick bats in their twilight dance."[25]
The woods were long austere with snow: at last
Pink leaflets budded on the beech, and fast
Larches, scattered through pine-tree solitudes,
Brightened, 'as in the slumbrous heart o' the woods
Our buried year, a witch, grew young again
To placid incantations, and that stain
About were from her caldron, green smoke blent
With those black pines'—so Eglamor gave vent
To a chance fancy. When a just rebuke
From his companion; brother Naddo shook
The solemnest of brows; 'Beware,' he said,
'Of setting up conceits in nature's stead.'
(Browning: Sordello, ii. 1-12. 1840.)
Above the stem a gilded swallow shone,
Wrought with straight wings and eyes of glittering stone
As flying sunward oversea, to bear
Green summer with it through the singing air.
And on the deck between the rowers at dawn,
As the bright sail with brightening wind was drawn,
Sat with full face against the strengthening light
Iseult, more fair than foam or dawn was white.
Her gaze was glad past love's own singing of,
And her face lovely past desire of love.
Past thought and speech her maiden motions were,
And a more golden sunrise was her hair.
The very veil of her bright flesh was made
As of light woven and moonbeam-colored shade
More fine than moonbeams; white her eyelids shone
As snow sun-stricken that endures the sun,
And through their curled and colored clouds of deep
Luminous lashes, thick as dreams in sleep,
Shone as the sea's depth swallowing up the sky's
The springs of unimaginable eyes.
(Swinburne: Tristram of Lyonesse; the Sailing of the Swallow.)
The huge high presence, red as earth's first race,
Reared like a reed the might up of his mace,
And smote: but lightly Tristram swerved, and drove
Right in on him, whose void stroke only clove
Air, and fell wide, thundering athwart: and he
Sent forth a stormier cry than wind or sea
When midnight takes the tempest for her lord;
And all the glen's throat seemed as hell's that roared;
But high like heaven's light over hell shone Tristram's sword,
Falling, and bright as storm shows God's bare brand
Flashed, as it shore sheer off the huge right hand
Whose strength was as the shadow of death on all that land.
(Ibid.: The Last Pilgrimage.)
It will be noticed that in Swinburne's use of the couplet the single
line is even less the unit of measure than in Keats and Shelley; the
periods correspond closely to those in the blank verse of Milton and
Tennyson. Compare the specimens of blank verse on pp. 230 and 245. The
second specimen shows the occasional use of the triplet and
alexandrine.
So stood she murmuring, till a rippling sound
She heard, that grew until she turned her round
And saw her other sisters of the deep
Her song had called while Hylas yet did sleep,
Come swimming in a long line up the stream,
And their white dripping arms and shoulders gleam
Above the dark grey water as they went,
And still before them a great ripple sent.
But when they saw her, toward the bank they drew,
And landing, felt the grass and flowers blue
Against their unused feet; then in a ring
Stood gazing with wide eyes, and wondering
At all his beauty they desired so much.
And then with gentle hands began to touch
His hair, his hands, his closed eyes; and at last
Their eager naked arms about him cast,
And bore him, sleeping still, as by some spell,
Unto the depths where they were wont to dwell;
Then softly down the reedy bank they slid,
And with small noise the gurgling river hid
The flushed nymphs and the heedless sleeping man.
(William Morris: Life and Death of Jason, iv. 621-641. 1867.)
Unrimed five-stress verse early became the accepted form for English
dramatic poetry, and in the modern English period has become the
favorite form for long continuous poems, narrative and reflective as
well. In general, as will appear from the specimens, it is marked not
only by the absence of rime but by a prevalent freedom of structure
rarely found in the couplet.
The impetus toward the writing of blank verse seems to have been given
by the influence of classical humanism, the representatives of which
grew sceptical as to the use of rime, on the ground that it was not
found in classical poetry. In Italy Giovanni Trissino wrote his
Sophonisbe and Italia Liberata (1515-1548) in rimeless verses, and
was looked upon as the inventor of versi sciolti, i.e. verses
"freed" from rime. (See Schipper, vol. ii. p. 4.) See also below, in the
notes on Surrey, and later under Imitations of Classical Verse, for
notes on the same movement.
On the nature of English blank verse, see J. A. Symonds's Blank Verse
(1895), a reprint of essays in the Appendix to his Sketches and Studies
in Southern Europe. In his Chapters on English Metre (chap. iv.), Mr.
J. B. Mayor criticises what he calls Mr. Symonds's "æsthetic
intuitivism."
On the early history of English blank verse, see the article by Schröer,
Anfänge des Blankverses in England, Anglia, vol. iv. p. 1, and Mr. G.
C. Macaulay's Francis Beaumont, pp. 39-49.
Of Mr. Symonds's remarks on the general nature of blank verse the
following are especially interesting: "English blank verse is perhaps
more various and plastic than any other national metre. It is capable of
being used for the most commonplace and the most sublime utterances....
Originally instituted for the drama, it received in Milton's hands an
epical treatment, and has by authors of our own day been used for
idyllic and even for lyrical compositions. Plato mentions a Greek
musical instrument called panharmonion, which was adapted to express
the different modes and systems of melodious utterance. This name might
be applied to our blank verse; there is no harmony of sound, no dignity
of movement, no swiftness, no subtlety of languid sweetness, no brevity,
no force of emphasis, beyond its scope." (Blank Verse, pp. 16, 17.)
"It seems adapted specially for thought in evolution; it requires
progression and sustained effort. As a consequence of this, its melody
is determined by the sense which it contains, and depends more upon
proportion and harmony of sounds than upon recurrences and regularities
of structure.... Another point about blank verse is that it admits of no
mediocrity; it must be either clay or gold.... Hence, we find that blank
verse has been the metre of genius, that it is only used successfully
by indubitable poets, and that it is no favorite in a mean, contracted,
and unimaginative age. The freedom of the renaissance created it in
England. The freedom of our century has reproduced it. Blank verse is a
type and symbol of our national literary spirit—uncontrolled by
precedent or rule, inclined to extravagance, yet reaching perfection at
intervals by an inner force and vivida vis of native inspiration."
(Ibid. pp. 70-72.)
The earliest use of the term "blank verse," noted in the New English
Dictionary, is in Nash's Preface to Greene's Menaphon, 1589: "the
swelling bumbast of bragging blanke verse." Some ten years later
Shakspere used it in Much Ado about Nothing, V. ii., where Benedick
speaks of those heroes "whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of
blank verse," but will not rime easily. In Chapman's All Fools (1605)
the young gallant, in describing his manifold accomplishments, says he
could write
"Sonnets in Dozens, or your Quatorzains
In any rhyme, Masculine, Feminine,
Or Sdruciolla, or couplets, or Blank Verse."
Sdruciolla is the Italian term for triple-rimed endings.
Forthwith Fame flieth through the great Libyan towns:
A mischief Fame, there is none else so swift;
That moving grows, and flitting gathers force:
First small for dread, soon after climbs the skies,
Stayeth on earth, and hides her head in clouds.
Whom our mother the Earth, tempted by wrath
Of gods, begat: the last sister, they write,
To Cœus, and to Enceladus eke:
Speedy of foot, of wing likewise as swift,
A monster huge, and dreadful to descrive.
In every plume that on her body sticks,—
A thing in deed much marvelous to hear,—
As many waker eyes lurk underneath,
So many mouths to speak, and listening ears.
By night she flies amid the cloudy sky,
Shrieking, by the dark shadow of the earth,
Ne doth decline to the sweet sleep her eyes:
By day she sits to mark on the house top,
Or turrets high, and the great towns affrays;
As mindful of ill and lies as blazing truth.
(Earl of Surrey: Æneid, book IV. 223-242. ab. 1540. pub. 1557.)
Surrey's translation of two books of the Æneid may have been suggested
by the translation (1541) made by Francesco Maria Molza, attributed at
the time to Cardinal Ippolito de Medici. This was in Italian unrimed
verse. (See Henry Morley's First Sketch of English Literature, p. 294,
and his English Writers, vol. viii. p. 61.) The verse of Surrey, like
Wyatt's, shows a somewhat mechanical adherence to the syllable-counting
principle, in contrast to regard for accents.[26] Thus we find such
lines as:
"Each palace, and sacred porch of the gods."
"By the divine science of Minerva."
There is a fairly free use of run-on lines; according to Schipper, 35 in
the first 250 of the translation. Nevertheless, the general effect is
monotonous and lacking in flexibility.
O Jove, how are these people's hearts abused!
What blind fury thus headlong carries them,
That, though so many books, so many rolls
Of ancient time record what grievous plagues
Light on these rebels aye, and though so oft
Their ears have heard their aged fathers tell
What just reward these traitors still receive,—
Yea, though themselves have seen deep death and blood
By strangling cord and slaughter of the sword
To such assigned, yet can they not beware,
Yet cannot stay their lewd rebellious hands,
But, suff'ring too foul reason to distain
Their wretched minds, forget their loyal heart,
Reject all truth, and rise against their prince?
(Sackville and Norton: Gorboduc, or Ferrex and Porrex, V. ii. 1-14.
1565.)
This tragedy, although Dryden curiously instanced it in defence of the
use of rime on the stage, was the earliest English drama in blank verse.
The metre is decidedly more monotonous than Surrey's, and gives little
hint of the possibilities of the measure for dramatic expression. In
general, the early experiments in blank verse suggest—what they must
often have seemed to their writers—the mere use of the decasyllabic
couplet deprived of its rime. Nevertheless, as Mr. Symonds remarks of a
passage in Gorboduc, "we yet may trace variety and emphasis in the
pauses of these lines beyond what would at that epoch have been possible
in sequences of rhymed couplets." (Blank Verse, p. 20.)
For a specimen of the blank verse of Gascoigne's Steel Glass (1576,
the earliest didactic poem in English blank verse), see p. 18, above.
Paris, King Priam's son, thou art arraigned of partiality,
Of sentence partial and unjust, for that without indifferency,
Beyond desert or merit far, as thine accusers say,
From them, to Lady Venus here, thou gavest the prize away:
What is thine answer?
Paris's oration to the Council of the Gods:
Sacred and just, thou great and dreadful Jove,
And you thrice-reverend powers, whom love nor hate
May wrest awry; if this, to me a man,
This fortune fatal be, that I must plead
For safe excusal of my guiltless thought,
The honor more makes my mishap the less,
That I a man must plead before the gods,
Gracious forbearers of the world's amiss,
For her, whose beauty how it hath enticed,
This heavenly senate may with me aver.
(George Peele: The Arraignment of Paris, IV. i. 61-75. 1584.)
This specimen shows the new measure introduced into the drama in
connection with the earlier rimed septenary. Peele's verse in general is
characterized by sweetness and fluency, but there is still no hint of
the possibilities of the unrimed decasyllabics.
Schröer, in the article cited from Anglia, enumerates the following
additional specimens of blank verse before the appearance of Marlowe's
Tamburlaine; Grimald's Death of Zoroas and Death of Cicero, in
Tottel's Songs and Sonnets, 1557; Jocasta, by Gascoigne and
Kinwelmarshe, 1566; Turberville's translation of Ovid's Heroical
Epistles, 1567; Spenser's unrimed sonnets, in Van der Noodt's Theatre
for Worldlings, 1569; Barnaby Rich's Don Simonides, 1584; parts of
Lyly's Woman in the Moon, 1584; Greene's "Description of Silvestro's
Lady," in Morando, 1587; The Misfortunes of Arthur, 1587;—the last
two appearing probably in the same year with Tamburlaine, whether
earlier or later is uncertain. Most of these specimens are short, and
all are comparatively unimportant.
Now clear the triple region of the air,
And let the Majesty of Heaven behold
Their scourge and terror tread on emperors.
Smile stars, that reigned at my nativity,
And dim the brightness of your neighbor lamps!
Disdain to borrow light of Cynthia!
For I, the chiefest lamp of all the earth,
First rising in the East with mild aspect,
But fixed now in the Meridian line,
Will send up fire to your turning spheres,
And cause the sun to borrow light of you.
My sword struck fire from his coat of steel
Even in Bithynia, when I took this Turk;
As when a fiery exhalation,
Wrapt in the bowels of a freezing cloud
Fighting for passage, makes the welkin crack,
And casts a flash of lightning to the earth.
(Marlowe: Tamburlaine, Part I, IV. ii. 30-46. pub. 1590.)
Ah, Faustus,
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damned perpetually!
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of Heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come;
Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day; or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul!
O lente, lente, currite noctis equi!
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,
The Devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.
O, I'll leap up to my God! Who pulls me down?
See, see where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!
One drop would save my soul—half a drop: ah, my Christ!
Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ![27]
Yet will I call on him: O spare me, Lucifer!
(Marlowe: Doctor Faustus, sc. xvi. ll. 65-81. Printed 1604; written
before 1593.)
Marlowe is universally and rightly regarded as the first English poet
who used blank verse with the hand of a master, and showed its
possibilities. With him it became practically a new measure. Mr. Symonds
says: "He found the ten-syllabled heroic line monotonous, monosyllabic,
and divided into five feet of tolerably regular alternate short and
long. He left it various in form and structure, sometimes redundant by a
syllable, sometimes deficient, enriched with unexpected emphases and
changes in the beat. He found no sequence or attempt at periods; one
line succeeded another with insipid regularity, and all were made after
the same model. He grouped his verse according to the sense, obeying an
internal law of melody, and allowing the thought contained in his words
to dominate their form.... Used in this fashion, blank verse became a
Proteus. It resembled music, which requires regular time and rhythm;
but, by the employment of phrase, induces a higher kind of melody to
rise above the common and despotic beat of time.... It is true that,
like all great poets, he left his own peculiar imprint on it, and that
his metre is marked by an almost extravagant exuberance, impetuosity,
and height of coloring." (Blank Verse, pp. 22-27.) In the earlier
verse of Tamburlaine, while showing these new qualities of a metrical
master, Marlowe yet kept pretty closely to the individual, end-stopped
line; in his later verse, as illustrated in the fragmentary text of
Faustus, he seems to have attained much more freedom, resembling that
of the later plays of Shakspere.[28]
Is it mine eye, or Valentinus' praise,
Her true perfection, or my false transgression,
That makes me, reasonless, to reason thus?
She's fair, and so is Julia that I love,—
That I did love, for now my love is thawed,
Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire,
Bears no impression of the thing it was.
Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,
And that I love him not, as I was wont:
O! but I love his lady too too much;
And that's the reason I love him so little.
How shall I dote on her with more advice,
That thus without advice begin to love her?...
If I can check my erring love, I will;
If not, to compass her I'll use my skill.
(Shakspere: Two Gentlemen of Verona, II. iv. 196-208; 213, 214. ab.
1590.)
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 imprisoned in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence 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.
(Shakspere: Measure for Measure, III. i. 118-132. ab. 1603.)
This Mr. Symonds cites as "a single instance of the elasticity,
self-restraint, and freshness of the Shaksperian blank verse; of its
freedom from Marlowe's turgidity, or Fletcher's languor, or Milton's
involution; of its ringing sound and lucid vigor.... It illustrates the
freedom from adventitious ornament and the organic continuity of
Shakspere's versification, while it also exhibits his power of varying
his cadences and suiting them to the dramatic utterance of his
characters." (Blank Verse, p. 31.)
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves;
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that
By moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid
(Weak masters though ye be) I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt: the strong-bas'd promontory
Have I made shake; and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves, at my command,
Have wak'd their sleepers, op'd, and let them forth
By my so potent art.
(Shakspere: The Tempest, V. i. 33-50. ab. 1610.)
No attempt can be made to represent adequately the blank verse of
Shakspere. The specimens, chosen respectively from his earlier, middle,
and later periods, illustrate the trend of development of his verse. In
the earlier period it was characterized by the slight use of feminine
endings and enjambement; in the later by marked preference for both,
and by general freedom and flexibility. In other words, Shakspere's own
development represents, in a sort of miniature, that of the history of
dramatic blank verse. According to Furnivall's tables, the proportion of
run-on lines to end-stopped lines in The Two Gentlemen of Verona is
one in ten, while in The Tempest it is one in three. The increased use
of "light" and "weak" endings is closely analogous. Professor Wendell
says of the verse of Cymbeline: "End-stopped lines are so deliberately
avoided that one feels a sense of relief when a speech and a line end
together. Such a phrase as
'How slow his soul sail'd on, how swift his ship'
is deliberately made, not a single line, but two half-lines. Several
times, in the broken dialogue, one has literally to count the syllables
before the metrical regularity of the verse appears.... Clearly this
puzzling style is decadent; the distinction between verse and prose is
breaking down." (William Shakspere, p. 357.)[29]
I, that did help
To fell the lofty cedar of the world
Germanicus; that at one stroke cut down
Drusus, that upright elm; withered his vine;
Laid Silius and Sabinus, two strong oaks,
Flat on the earth; besides those other shrubs,
Cordus and Sosia, Claudia Pulchra,
Furnius and Gallus, which I have grubbed up;
And since, have set my axe so strong and deep
Into the root of spreading Agrippine;
Lopt off and scattered her proud branches, Nero,
Drusus; and Caius too, although replanted.
If you will, Destinies, that after all,
I faint now ere I touch my period,
You are but cruel; and I already have done
Things great enough. All Rome hath been my slave;
The senate sate an idle looker-on,
And witness of my power; when I have blushed
More to command than it to suffer: all
The fathers have sat ready and prepared,
To give me empire, temples, or their throats,
When I would ask 'em; and, what crowns the top,
Rome, senate, people, all the world have seen
Jove but my equal; Cæsar but my second.
'Tis then your malice, Fates, who, but your own,
Envy and fear to have any power long known.
(Ben Jonson: Sejanus, V. iv. 1603.)
Jonson's blank verse, says Mr. Symonds, is that "of a scholar—pointed,
polished, and free from the lyricisms of his age. It lacks harmony and
is often labored; but vigorous and solid it never fails to be." He also
instances the opening lines of the Sad Shepherd as exceptional in
their "delicate music." Beaumont's verse is in many ways similar in
structure to Jonson's, yet commonly more melodious.
"He is all
(As he stands now) but the mere name of Cæsar,
And should the Emperor enforce him lesser,
Not coming from himself, it were more dangerous:
He is honest, and will hear you. Doubts are scattered,
And almost come to growth in every household;
Yet, in my foolish judgment, were this mastered,
The people, that are now but rage, and his,
Might be again obedience. You shall know me
When Rome is fair again; till when, I love you."
No name! This may be cunning; yet it seems not,
For there is nothing in it but is certain,
Besides my safety. Had not good Germanicus,
That was as loyal and as straight as he is,
If not prevented by Tiberius,
Been by the soldiers forced their emperor?
He had, and 'tis my wisdom to remember it:
And was not Corbulo (even that Corbulo,
That ever fortunate and living Roman,
That broke the heart-strings of the Parthians,
And brought Arsaces' line upon their knees,
Chained to the awe of Rome), because he was thought
(And but in wine once) fit to make a Cæsar,
Cut off by Nero? I must seek my safety;
For 'tis the same again, if not beyond it.
(Fletcher: Valentinian, IV. i. ab. 1615.)
I can but grieve my ignorance:
Repentance, some say too, is the best sacrifice;
For sure, sir, if my chance had been so happy
(As I confess I was mine own destroyer)
As to have arrived at you, I will not prophesy,
But certain, as I think, I should have pleased you;
Have made you as much wonder at my courtesy,
My love and duty, as I have disheartened you.
Some hours we have of youth, and some of folly;
And being free-born maids, we take a liberty,
And, to maintain that, sometimes we strain highly....
A sullen woman fear, that talks not to you;
She has a sad and darkened soul, loves dully;
A merry and a free wench, give her liberty,
Believe her, in the lightest form she appears to you,
Believe her excellent, though she despise you;
Let but these fits and flashes pass, she will show to you
As jewels rubbed from dust, or gold new burnished.
(Fletcher: The Wild-Goose Chase, IV. i. 1621.)
The verse of Fletcher is highly individual among the Jacobean
dramatists, though in a sense typical of the breaking down of blank
verse, in the direction of prose, which was going on at this period. The
distinguishing feature of Fletcher's verse is the constant use of
feminine endings, and the extension of these to triple and even
quadruple endings, by the addition of one or more syllables.
Twelve-syllable lines (not alexandrines, but ordinary lines with triple
endings) are not at all uncommon; and the additional syllable or
syllables may even be emphatic. In general the tendency was in the
direction of the freedom of conversational prose. Such a line as
"Methinks you are infinitely bound to her for her journey"
would not be recognized, standing by itself, as a five-stress iambic
verse; properly read, however, it takes its place without difficulty in
the scheme of the metre.[30]
Whatever ails me, now a-late especially,
I can as well be hanged as refrain seeing her;
Some twenty times a day, nay, not so little,
Do I force errands, frame ways and excuses,
To come into her sight; and I've small reason for't,
And less encouragement, for she baits me still
Every time worse than other; does profess herself
The cruellest enemy to my face in town;
At no hand can abide the sight of me,
As if danger or ill luck hung in my looks.
I must confess my face is bad enough,
But I know far worse has better fortune,
And not endur'd alone, but doted on;
And yet such pick-hair'd faces, chins like witches',
Here and there five hairs whispering in a corner,
As if they grew in fear of one another,
Wrinkles like troughs, where swine-deformity swills
The tears of perjury, that lie there like wash
Fallen from the slimy and dishonest eye;
Yet such a one plucks sweets without restraint.
(Thomas Middleton: The Changeling, II. i. ab. 1623.)
Middleton carried on the work of fitting blank verse for plausibly
conversational, as distinguished from poetic, effects. Often his lines
are more difficult to scan than Fletcher's, and still less seek
melodiousness for its own sake. Characteristic specimens are verses like
these:
"I doubt I'm too quick of apprehension now."
"With which one gentleman, far in debt, has courted her."
"To call for, 'fore me, and thou look'st half ill indeed."
What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut
With diamonds? or to be smothered
With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls?
I know death hath ten thousand several doors
For men to take their exits; and 'tis found
They go on such strange geometrical hinges,
You may open them both ways; any way, for Heaven sake,
So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers
That I perceive death, now I am well awake,
Best gift is they can give or I can take....
—Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength
Must pull down Heaven upon me:—
Yet stay; Heaven-gates are not so highly arched
As princes' palaces; they that enter there
Must go upon their knees.—Come, violent death,
Serve for mandragora to make me sleep!—
Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out,
They then may feed in quiet.
(John Webster: The Duchess of Malfi, IV. ii. 1623.)
"Webster," says Mr. Symonds, "used his metre as the most delicate and
responsive instrument for all varieties of dramatic expression....
Scansion in the verse of Webster is subordinate to the purpose of the
speaker." (Blank Verse, pp. 45-47.) He also calls attention to such
remarkable lines as—
"Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young."
"Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out."
Are you not frightened with the imprecations
And curses of whole families, made wretched
By your sinister practices?—
—Yes, as rocks are,
When foamy billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved,
When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness.
I am of a solid temper, and, like these,
Steer on, a constant course: with mine own sword,
If called into the field, I can make that right
Which fearful enemies murmured at as wrong.
Now, for these other piddling complaints
Breathed out in bitterness; as when they call me
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder
On my poor neighbor's right, or grand incloser
Of what was common, to my private use;
Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries,
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold,
I only think what 'tis to have my daughter
Right honorable; and 'tis a powerful charm
Makes me insensible of remorse, or pity,
Or the least sting of conscience.
(Philip Massinger: A New Way to Pay Old Debts, IV. i. 1633.)
Massinger's verse is more regular than that of Fletcher and others, in
the matter of extra final syllables and the like, but free and flexible
in the use of run-on lines and generally progressive movement.[31] It is
an error to assume that there was no good blank verse written in this
period when the drama in general is said to have been in a state of
"decadence." The verse of Ford, for example, is noticeably strong and
restrained (compare the remark of Mr. Symonds, on its "glittering
regularity"). On the other hand, one may see the dramas of Richard Brome
for specimens of the decadent metre at its worst. Brome wrote comedies
both in prose and verse, and there is little difference between the two
forms in his hands. See also the crude and lax verse of some of the
early plays of Dryden, illustrated on p. 234 below. It was verse of this
kind which, as Mr. Gosse observes, justified the introduction of the
heroic couplet in all its strictness.
All in a moment through the gloom were seen
Ten thousand banners rise into the air
With orient colors waving: with them rose
A forest huge of spears: and thronging helms
Appear'd, and serried shields in thick array
Of depth immeasurable: anon they move
In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood
Of flutes and soft recorders; such as rais'd
To height of noblest temper heroes old
Arming to battle, and in stead of rage
Deliberate valor breath'd, firm and unmov'd
With dread of death to flight or foul retreat,
Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage
With solemn touches, troubl'd thoughts, and chase
Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and pain
From mortal or immortal minds....
... And now his heart
Distends with pride, and hardening in his strength
Glories: for never since created man
Met such embodied force, as nam'd with these
Could merit more than that small infantry
Warr'd on by cranes: though all the giant brood
Of Phlegra with th' heroic race were joined
That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each side
Mixed with auxiliar gods; and what resounds
In fable or romance of Uther's son
Begirt with British and Armoric knights;
And all who since, baptiz'd or infidel,
Jousted in Aspramont or Montalban,
Damasco, or Morocco, or Trebizond,
Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore
When Charlemagne with all his peerage fell
By Fontarabbia.
(Milton: Paradise Lost, Book I. ll. 544-559; 571-587. 1667.)
With head a while inclined,
And eyes fast fixed, he stood, as one who prayed,
Or some great matter in his mind revolved:
At last, with head erect, thus cried aloud:—
"Hitherto, Lords, what your commands imposed
I have performed, as reason was, obeying,
Not without wonder or delight beheld;
Now, of my own accord, such other trial
I mean to show you of my strength, yet greater,
As with amaze shall strike all who behold."
This uttered, straining all his nerves he bowed;
As with the force of winds and waters pent
When mountains tremble, those two massy pillars,
With horrible convulsion to and fro
He tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drew
The whole roof after them with burst of thunder
Upon the heads of all who sat beneath.
(Milton: Samson Agonistes, ll. 1636-1652. 1671.)
The blank verse of Milton is characterized by greater freedom and
flexibility than that of any earlier poet. The single line practically
ceases to be the unit of the verse, which is divided rather into
metrical paragraphs, or, as some would even call them, stanzas.
Professor Corson quotes an interesting passage from a letter of
Coleridge, giving an account of a conversation in which Wordsworth
expressed his view of this sort of blank verse. "My friend gave his
definition and notion of harmonious verse, that it consisted (the
English iambic blank verse above all) in the apt arrangement of pauses
and cadences, and the sweep of whole paragraphs,
with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
and not in the even flow, much less in the prominence or antithetic
vigor of single lines, which were indeed injurious to the total effect,
except where they were introduced for some specific purpose." (Corson's
Primer of English Verse, p. 218.) In like manner Mr. Symonds says:
"The most sonorous passages begin and end with interrupted lines,
including in one organic structure, periods, parentheses, and paragraphs
of fluent melody.... In these structures there are many pauses which
enable the ear and voice to rest themselves, but none are perfect, none
satisfy the want created by the opening hemistich, until the final and
deliberate close is reached." (Blank Verse pp. 56, 57.)
In Milton's own prefatory note to Paradise Lost, he called his blank
verse "English heroic verse without rime." Rime he spoke of as "the
invention of a barbarous age, ... graced indeed since by the use of some
famous modern poets,"—not least among them, he might have said, being
John Milton himself. He described also the special character of his
verse in saying that "true musical delight ... consists only in apt
numbers, fit quantity of syllables, and the sense variously drawn out
from one verse into another,"—that is, by enjambement. "This neglect
then of rime so little is to be taken for a defect, ... that it rather
is to be esteemed an example set, the first in English, of ancient
liberty recovered to heroic poem from the troublesome and modern bondage
of riming."[32]
It appears from this note that Milton regarded his heroic blank verse as
a different measure from the familiar dramatic blank verse. The latter
he used in Samson Agonistes, the verse-structure of which will be seen
to differ from that of Paradise Lost; the most salient distinction is
the more frequent use of feminine endings. Mr. Symonds remarks
interestingly on the "difference between Shaksperian and Miltonic,
between dramatic and epical blank verse. The one is simple in
construction and progressive, the other is complex and stationary....
The one exhibits a thought, in the process of formation, developing
itself from the excited fancy of the speaker. The other presents to us
an image crystallized and perfect in the poet's mind; the one is in
time, the other in space—the one is a growing and the other a complete
organism.... The one, if we may play upon a fancy, resembles Music, and
the other Architecture." (Blank Verse, p. 58.)
Methinks I do not want
That huge long train of fawning followers,
That swept a furlong after me.
'Tis true I am alone;
So was the godhead, ere he made the world,
And better served himself than served by nature.
And yet I have a soul
Above this humble fate. I could command,
Love to do good, give largely to true merit,
All that a king should do; but though these are not
My province, I have scene enough within
To exercise my virtue.
All that a heart, so fixed as mine, can move,
Is, that my niggard fortune starves my love.
(Dryden: Marriage à la Mode, III. i. 1672.)
She lay, and leaned her cheek upon her hand,
And cast a look so languishingly sweet,
As if, secure of all beholders' hearts,
Neglecting, she could take them: boys, like Cupids,
Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds
That played about her face: but if she smiled,
A darting glory seemed to blaze abroad,
That men's desiring eyes were never wearied,
But hung upon the object. To soft flutes
The silver oars kept time; and while they played,
The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight,
And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more;
(Dryden: All for Love, III. i. 1678.)
The first of these specimens of Dryden's blank verse illustrates the
loose form of it found in many of the comedies, ill distinguished from
prose and used interchangeably with prose, as in the case of the late
Jacobean dramatists. It was with All for Love that Dryden dropped the
use of the rimed couplet in tragedy, and turned his hand toward the
construction of really noble blank verse. This play was professedly an
imitation of Shakspere, and the passage here quoted is a paraphrase of
one in Antony and Cleopatra, II. ii. Shakspere's blank verse doubtless
exerted a good influence on the quality of Dryden's. "From this time
on," says Mr. Gosse, "Dryden's blank verse was more severe than any
which had been used, except by Milton, since Ben Jonson." (Eighteenth
Century Literature, p. 14.)
Then hear me, bounteous Heaven!
Pour down your blessings on this beauteous head,
Where everlasting sweets are always springing:
With a continual-giving hand, let peace,
Honor, and safety always hover round her;
Feed her with plenty; let her eyes ne'er see
A sight of sorrow, nor her heart know mourning:
Crown all her days with joy, her nights with rest
Harmless as her own thoughts, and prop her virtue
To bear the loss of one that too much loved;
And comfort her with patience in our parting....
—Then hear me too, just Heaven!
Pour down your curses on this wretched head,
With never-ceasing vengeance; let despair,
Danger, or infamy, nay, all surround me.
Starve me with wantings; let my eyes ne'er see
A sight of comfort, nor my heart know peace;
But dash my days with sorrow, nights with horrors
Wild as my own thoughts now, and let loose fury
To make me mad enough for what I lose,
If I must lose him—if I must! I will not.
(Thomas Otway: Venice Preserved, V. ii. 1682.)
This play was one of those marking the return of the serious drama to
blank verse, after the brief domination of the couplet on the stage.
While Otway's verse is not as good as Dryden's best, it is of fairly
even merit, and shows that something had been learned from the practice
of the couplet.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us
(And that there is all nature cries aloud
Through all her works), he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy....
... The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years,
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the wars of elements,
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds.
(Addison: Cato, V. i. ll. 10-18; 25-31. 1713.)
Tell us, ye dead! will none of you, in pity
To those you left behind, disclose the secret?
Oh! that some courteous ghost would blab it out,—
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be.
I've heard that souls departed have sometimes
Forewarn'd men of their death. 'Twas kindly done
To knock, and give the alarum. But what means
This stinted charity? 'Tis but lame kindness
That does its work by halves. Why might you not
Tell us what 'tis to die? Do the strict laws
Of your society forbid your speaking
Upon a point so nice? I'll ask no more:
Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine
Enlightens but yourselves. Well, 'tis no matter;
A very little time will clear up all
And make us learn'd as you are, and as close.
(Robert Blair: The Grave. 1743.)
This poem was one of those connected with the revival of blank verse,
for didactic poetry, near the middle of the eighteenth century. Of
Blair's verse Mr. Saintsbury says that it "is by no means to be
despised. Technically its only fault is the use and abuse of the
redundant syllable. The quality ... is in every respect rather moulded
upon dramatic than upon purely poetical models, and he shows little
trace of imitation either of Milton, or of his contemporary, Thomson."
(Ward's English Poets, vol. iii. p. 217.)
Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends,
At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes
Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day
With a continual flow. The cherished fields
Put on their winter-robe of purest white.
'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts
Along the mazy current. Low the woods
Bow their hoar head; and, ere the languid sun
Faint from the west emits his evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill,
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man. Drooping, the laborer-ox
Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them. One alone,
The redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first
Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights
On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the smiling family askance,
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is—
Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs
Attract his slender feet.
(Thomson: The Seasons; Winter. 1726.)
Thomson's Seasons was undoubtedly the most influential of the poems of
the blank-verse revival of this period. Saintsbury says: "His blank
verse in especial cannot receive too much commendation. With that of
Milton, and that of the present Poet Laureate [Tennyson], it must rank
as one of the chief original models of the metre to be found in English
poetry." (Ward's English Poets, vol. iii. p. 169.)
Other influential poems of the same period, written in blank verse, were
Glover's Leonidas (1737), Young's Night Thoughts (1742-1744), and
Akenside's Pleasures of the Imagination (1744). Much earlier than
these had come the curious poem of John Philips on Cider (1708).
Philips is praised by Thomson as the successor of Milton in some lines
of Autumn:
"Philips, Pomona's bard, the second thou
Who nobly durst, in rhyme-unfetter'd verse
With British freedom sing the British song."
In general, the blank verse of all these poets shows the influence of
the couplet and lacks flexibility. Thus Mr. Symonds says: "The use of
the couplet had unfitted poets for its composition. Their acquired
canons of regularity, when applied to loose and flowing metre, led them
astray.... Hence it followed, that when blank verse began again to be
written, it found itself very much at the point where it had stood
before the appearance of Marlowe. Even Thomson ... wrote stiff and
languid blank verse with monosyllabic terminations and monotonous
cadences—a pedestrian style." (Blank Verse, pp. 61, 62.)[33]
Here unmolested, through whatever sign
The sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist,
Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me,
Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy.
Even in the spring and playtime of the year,
That calls the unwonted villager abroad
With all her little ones, a sportive train,
To gather kingcups in the yellow mead,
And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick
A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook,
These shades are all my own. The timorous hare,
Grown so familiar with her frequent guest,
Scarce shuns me; and the stockdove unalarmed
Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends
His long love-ditty for my near approach.
Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm
That age or injury has hollowed deep,
Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves
He has outslept the winter, ventures forth
To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun,
The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play.
He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,
Ascends the neighboring beech; there whisks his brush,
And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud,
With all the prettiness of feigned alarm,
And anger insignificantly fierce.
(Cowper: The Task, book VI. ll. 295-320. 1785.)
"The blank verse of Cowper's Task is admirably adapted to the theme,"
says Professor Corson. "Cowper saw farther than any one before him had
seen, into the secrets of the elaborate music of Milton's blank verse,
and availed himself of those secrets to some extent—to as far an extent
as the simplicity of his themes demanded." (Primer of English Verse,
p. 221.) Professor Ward speaks, however, of the "lumbering movement" of
Cowper's blank verse as being in contrast to "the neatness and ease of
his rhymed couplets." (English Poets, vol. iii. p. 432.) Cowper prided
himself, not without reason, on the individuality of his blank verse. In
a letter to the Rev. John Newton (Dec. 11, 1784) he said: "Milton's
manner was peculiar. So is Thomson's. He that should write like either
of them, would, in my judgment, deserve the name of a copyist, but not
of a poet.... Blank verse is susceptible of a much greater
diversification of manner than verse in rhyme: and why the modern
writers of it have all thought proper to cast their numbers alike, I
know not." In another letter (to Lady Hesketh, March 20, 1786) Cowper
reveals his careful study of Milton's verse: "When the sense requires
it, or when for the sake of avoiding a monotonous cadence of the lines,
of which there is always danger in so long a work, it shall appear to be
prudent, I still leave a verse behind me that has some uneasiness in its
formation. It is not possible to read Paradise Lost, with an ear for
harmony, without being sensible of the great advantage which Milton drew
from such a management.... Uncritical readers find that they perform a
long journey through several hundred pages perhaps without weariness;
they find the numbers harmonious, but are not aware of the art by which
that harmony is brought to pass, much less suspect that a violation of
all harmony on some occasions is the very thing to which they are not a
little indebted for their gratification."
Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast—
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,
To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth!
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
(Coleridge: Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni, ll. 70-85.
1802.)
It was a den where no insulting light
Could glimmer on their tears; where their own groans
They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar
Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse,
Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where.
Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem'd
Ever as if just rising from a sleep,
Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns;
And thus in thousand hugest phantasies
Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe.
Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon,
Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge
Stubborn'd with iron. All were not assembled:
Some chain'd in torture, and some wandering.
Cœus, and Gyges, and Briareus,
Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion,
With many more, the brawniest in assault,
Were pent in regions of laborious breath;
Dungeon'd in opaque element, to keep
Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and all their limbs
Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and screw'd;
Without a motion, save of their big hearts
Heaving in pain, and horribly convuls'd
With sanguine feverous boiling gurge of pulse.
(Keats: Hyperion, book II. 1820.)
"In Keats at last," says Mr. Symonds, "we find again that inner music
which is the soul of true blank verse.... His Hyperion is sung, not
written.... Its music is fluid, bound by no external measurement of
feet, but determined by the sense and intonation of the poet's thought,
while like the crotalos of the Athenian flute-player, the decasyllabic
beat maintains an uninterrupted undercurrent of regular pulsations."
(Blank Verse, p. 64.)
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.
(Wordsworth: Lines Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey. 1798.)
Let not high verse, mourning the memory
Of that which is no more, or painting's woe
Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery
Their own cold powers. Art and eloquence,
And all the shows o' the world, are frail and vain
To weep a loss that turns their lights to shade.
It is a woe 'too deep for tears,' when all
Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit,
Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves
Those who remain behind, not sobs or groans,
The passionate tumult of a clinging hope;
But pale despair and cold tranquillity,
Nature's vast frame, the web of human things,
Birth and the grave, that are not as they were.
(Shelley: Alastor, ll. 707-720. 1815.)
The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest—if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
(Tennyson: Idylls of the King; The Passing of Arthur. 1869.)
But that large-moulded man,
His visage all agrin as at a wake,
Made at me thro' the press, and, staggering back
With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, came
As comes a pillar of electric cloud,
Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains,
And shadowing down the champaign till it strikes
On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and cracks, and splits,
And twists the grain with such a roar that Earth
Reels, and the herdsmen cry; for everything
Gave way before him: only Florian, he
That loved me closer than his own right eye,
Thrust in between; but Arac rode him down:
And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the Prince,
With Psyche's color round his helmet, tough,
Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms;
But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote
And threw him: last I spurr'd; I felt my veins
Stretch with fierce heat; a moment hand to hand,
And sword to sword, and horse to horse we hung,
Till I struck out and shouted; the blade glanc'd;
I did but shear a feather, and dream and truth
Flow'd from me; darkness closed me; and I fell.
(Tennyson: The Princess, v. 1847.)
She knew me, and acknowledg'd me her heir,
Pray'd me to keep her debts, and keep the Faith;
Then claspt the cross, and pass'd away in peace.
I left her lying still and beautiful,
More beautiful than in life. Why would you vex yourself,
Poor sister? Sir, I swear I have no heart
To be your queen. To reign is restless fence,
Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is with the dead.
Her life was winter, for her spring was nipt;
And she loved much: pray God she be forgiven.
(Tennyson: Queen Mary, V. v. 1875.)
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
(Tennyson: The Princess, iv.; "Tears, Idle Tears." 1847.)
The blank verse of Tennyson is probably to be regarded as the most
masterly found among modern poets.[34] Its flexibility is almost
infinite, yet never unmelodious. The last of the specimens just quoted
illustrates his use of blank verse for short lyrical poems,—an unusual
and notable achievement. Perhaps only Collins's Ode to Evening can be
compared with his success in this direction, and Collins used a more
elaborate strophe to fill, in part, the place of rime. Of the unrimed
lyrics in The Princess, Mr. Symonds says that they "are perfect
specimens of most melodious and complete minstrelsy in words." In the
"Tears, Idle Tears," he goes on to say, the verse "is divided into
periods of five lines, each of which terminates with the words 'days
that are no more.' This recurrence of sound and meaning is a substitute
for rhyme, and suggests rhyme so persuasively that it is impossible to
call the poem mere blank verse." See also the specimens on p. 144 above.
In the case of both Tennyson and Browning the student should compare the
form of the narrative blank verse on the one hand with that of the
dramatic on the other. Yet in a sense all Browning's blank verse is
dramatic. It is no less flexible than Tennyson's, but (as in most of
Browning's poetry) sacrifices more of melody in adapting itself to the
thought.
To live, and see her learn, and learn by her,
Out of the low obscure and petty world—
Or only see one purpose and one will
Evolve themselves i' the world, change wrong to right:
To have to do with nothing but the true,
The good, the eternal—and these, not alone,
In the main current of the general life,
But small experiences of every day,
Concerns of the particular hearth and home:
To learn not only by a comet's rush
But a rose's birth,—not by the grandeur, God,
But the comfort, Christ. All this, how far away!
Mere delectation, meet for a minute's dream!—
Just as a drudging student trims his lamp,
Opens his Plutarch, puts him in the place
Of Roman, Grecian; draws the patch'd gown close,
Dreams, "Thus should I fight, save or rule the world!"
Then smilingly, contentedly, awakes
To the old solitary nothingness.
So I, from such communion, pass content.—
O great, just, good God! Miserable me!
(Browning: The Ring and the Book; Caponsacchi. 1868.)
The Ring and the Book Professor Corson calls "the greatest achievement
of the century ... in the effective use of blank verse in the treatment
of a great subject.... Its blank verse, while having a most complex
variety of character, is the most dramatic blank verse since the
Elizabethan era.... One reads it without a sense almost of there being
anything artificial in the construction of the language; ... one gets
the impression that the poet thought and felt spontaneously in blank
verse." (Primer of English Verse, pp. 224, 225.)
This eve's the time,
This eve intense with yon first trembling star
We seem to pant and reach; scarce aught between
The earth that rises and the heaven that bends;
All nature self-abandoned, every tree
Flung as it will, pursuing its own thoughts
And fixed so, every flower and every weed,
No pride, no shame, no victory, no defeat;
All under God, each measured by itself.
These statues round us stand abrupt, distinct,
The strong in strength, the weak in weakness fixed,
The Muse forever wedded to her lyre,
Nymph to her fawn, and Silence to her rose:
See God's approval on his universe!
Let us do so—aspire to live as these
In harmony with truth, ourselves being true!
Take the first way, and let the second come!
(Browning: In a Balcony. 1855.)
The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think?
So, the All-Great were the All-Loving too—
So, through the thunder comes a human voice
Saying, "O heart I made, a heart beats here!
Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself!
Thou hast no power nor may'st conceive of mine,
But love I gave thee, with myself to love,
And thou must love me who have died for thee."
The madman saith He said so: it is strange.
(Browning: Epistle of Karshish. 1855.)
God's works—paint any one, and count it crime
To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works
Are here already; nature is complete:
Suppose you reproduce her—(which you can't)
There's no advantage! you must beat her, then."
For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love
First when we see them painted, things we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;
And so they are better, painted—better to us,
Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;
God uses us to help each other so,
Lending our minds out.
(Browning: Fra Lippo Lippi. 1855.)
Of some of Browning's blank verse Mr. Mayor observes: "The extreme
harshness of many of these lines is almost a match for anything in
Surrey, only what in Surrey is helplessness seems the perversity of
strength in Browning.... The Aristophanic vein in Browning is
continually leading him to trample under foot the dignity of verse and
to shock the uninitiated reader by colloquial familiarities, 'thumps
upon the back,' such as the poet Cowper resented; yet no one can be more
impressive than he is when he surrenders himself to the pure spirit of
poetry, and flows onward in a stream of glorious music, such as that in
which Balaustion pictures Athens overwhelmed by an advance of the sea
(Aristophanes' Apology, p. 2)." (Chapters on English Metre, 2d ed.,
pp. 216, 217.)
But the majestic river floated on,
Out of the mist and hum of that low land,
Into the frosty starlight, and there mov'd,
Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste,
Under the solitary moon: he flow'd
Right for the Polar Star, past Orgunje,
Brimming, and bright, and large: then sands begin
To hem his watery march, and dam his streams,
And split his currents; that for many a league
The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles—
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had
In his high mountain cradle in Pamere,
A foil'd, circuitous wanderer:—till at last
The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide
His luminous home of waters opens, bright
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bath'd stars
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.
(Matthew Arnold: Sohrab and Rustum. 1853.)
Here is the place: but read it low and sweet.
Put out the lamp!
—The glimmering page is clear.
"Now on that day it chanced that Launcelot,
Thinking to find the King, found Guenevere
Alone; and when he saw her whom he loved,
Whom he had met too late, yet loved the more;
Such was the tumult at his heart that he
Could speak not, for her husband was his friend,
His dear familiar friend: and they two held
No secret from each other until now;
But were like brothers born"—my voice breaks off.
Read you a little on.
—"And Guenevere,
Turning, beheld him suddenly whom she
Loved in her thought, and even from that hour
When first she saw him; for by day, by night,
Though lying by her husband's side, did she
Weary for Launcelot, and knew full well
How ill that love, and yet that love how deep!"
I cannot see—the page is dim: read you.
—"Now they two were alone, yet could not speak;
But heard the beating of each other's hearts.
He knew himself a traitor but to stay,
Yet could not stir: she pale and yet more pale
Grew till she could no more, but smiled on him.
Then when he saw that wished smile, he came
Near to her and still near, and trembled; then
Her lips all trembling kissed."
—Ah, Launcelot!
(Stephen Phillips: Paolo and Francesca, III. iii. 1901.)
The blank verse of Stephen Phillips is the most important—one may say
perhaps the only important—that has been written since Tennyson's; and
it is of especial interest as forming an actual revival of the form on
the English stage. Aside from the dramas, it is seen at its best in
Marpessa. Imitating Milton, and at the same time handling the measure
with original force, Mr. Phillips introduces unusual cadences, for which
he has been severely reproached by the critics. Such lines as the
following are typical of these variations from the normal rhythm:
"O all fresh out of beautiful sunlight."
"Agamemnon bowed over, and from his wheel."
"And to dispel shadows and shadowy fear."
"My bloom faded, and waning light of eyes."
For a criticism of Mr. Phillips's verse, see Mr. William Archer's Poets
of the Younger Generation, pp. 313-327.
The alexandrine was introduced into English from French verse, as early
(according to Schipper) as the early part of the thirteenth century.
Early poems in this metre alone, however, are almost wholly wanting, if
they ever existed. The early alexandrines usually appear in conjunction
with the septenary (seven-stress verse). The French alexandrine has
almost always been characterized by a regular and strongly marked medial
cesura, and this very commonly appears in the English form, but by no
means universally.
The French alexandrine is of uncertain origin. Kawczynski would trace it
to the classical Asclepiadean verse, as in
"Mæcenas atavis edite regibus,"
which at least has the requisite number of syllables. It appeared in
France as early as the first part of the twelfth century, and in
four-line stanzas was the favorite for didactic poetry as late as the
beginning of the fifteenth century; otherwise, in the close of the
fourteenth century, it was supplanted by the decasyllabic. In the middle
of the sixteenth century it again won precedence over the
decasyllabic—in part through the influence of Ronsard—and is of course
the standard measure of modern French poetry. The name "alexandrine"
seems to have been applied in the fifteenth century, from the familiar
use of the measure in the Alexander romance. The earliest known mention
of the term is in Herenc's Doctrinal de la secunde Retorique. (See
Stengel's article in Gröber's Grundriss der Romanischen Philologie,
from which these statements are taken.)
The French alexandrine is in a sense a quite different measure from the
English form. Accent is an element of so comparatively slight importance
in the French language and French rhythm, that its place seems partly to
be filled by regularity of cesural pause and regularity in the counting
of syllables. The French alexandrine, therefore, may often be described
as a verse of twelve syllables, divided into two equal parts by a pause,
with marked accents on the sixth and twelfth syllables, but with the
other accents irregularly disposed. Often it seems to an English reader
to have an anapestic effect, and to be best described as anapestic
tetrameter. In English, however, while the regularity in the number of
syllables is followed, and very commonly the medial pause, there is also
observed the regularity of alternate accents which gives the verse the
characteristic form indicated by the term "six-stress."
'Ye nuten hwat ye biddeþ, þat of gode nabbeþ imone;
for al eure bileve is on stokke oþer on stone:
ac þeo, þat god iknoweþ, heo wyten myd iwisse,
þat hele is icume to monne of folke judaysse.'
'Loverd,' heo seyde, 'nu quiddeþ men, þat cumen is Messyas,
þe king, þat wurþ and nuþen is and ever yete was.
hwenne he cumeþ, he wyle us alle ryhtleche;
for he nule ne he ne con nenne mon bipeche.'
(De Muliere Samaritana, ll. 51-58. In Morris's Old English
Miscellany, p. 84; and Zupitza's Alt- und Mittelenglisches
Übungsbuch, p. 83. ab. 1250.)
This early poem illustrates the irregular use of alexandrines near the
time of their introduction into English. The poem opens with a
septenary—
"Tho Iesu Crist an eorthe was, mylde weren his dede;"
and septenaries and alexandrines are used interchangeably. Dr. Triggs
says, in his notes on the poem in McLean's edition of Zupitza's
Übungsbuch, that lines 5, 6, 9-18, 25-28, 39, 40, 43, 44, 49-54, 57,
58, 63, 64, 66, 67, 70-72, 74, 75 are alexandrines. (Introduction, p.
lxii.) The English tendency toward indifference to regularity in the
counting of syllables is also noticeable. In the same way the early poem
called "The Passion of our Lord" (ed. Morris, E.E.T.S. xlix. 37), which
is thought from the heading—"Ici cumence la passyun ihesu crist en
engleys"—to be a translation from the French, shows a preponderance of
alexandrines, although it opens in septenary. See also such poems as the
"Death," "Doomsday," etc., in the Old English Miscellany. The
alexandrine was easily confused by the Middle English writers, not only
with the septenary, but with the native "long line," and it is often
difficult to say just what rhythm was in the writer's mind. Thus a line
like
"Be stille, leve soster, thin herte the to-breke,"
from the Judas, may be regarded either as an alexandrine or a long
four-stress line.
In Westsex was þan a kyng, his [name] was Sir Ine.
Whan he wist of the Bretons, of werre ne wild he fine.
Messengers he sent thorghout Inglond
Unto þe Inglis kynges, þat had it in þer hond,
And teld how þe Bretons, men of mykelle myght,
Þe lond wild wynne ageyn þorh force and fyght.
Hastisly ilkone þe kynges com fulle suythe,
Bolde men and stoute, þer hardinesse to kiþe.
In a grete Daneis felde þer þei samned alle,
Þat ever siþen hiderward Kampedene men kalle.
(Robert Manning of Brunne: Chronicle of Peter de Langtoft. Hearne ed.,
vol. i. p. 2. ab. 1325.)
This poem is one of the very few representatives of distinctly
alexandrine verse in Middle English. The original poem being in
alexandrines, Manning followed it closely. In the first part, however,
he put rimes only at the ends of the verses, whereas later he introduced
internal rime, thus resolving the verse into short lines of three
stresses. Schipper observes that the four following lines are each
representative of a familiar type of the French alexandrine:
"Messengers he sent þorghout Inglond
Unto the Inglis kynges, þat had it in þer hond."
"After Ethelbert com Elfrith his broþer,
Þat was Egbrihtes sonne and ȝit þer was an oþer."
(Englische Metrik, vol. i. p. 252.)
The so-called Legend-Cycle is also marked by a sort of alexandrine
couplet. (See ten Brink's English Literature, Kennedy trans., vol. i.
p. 274.)
O! think I, had I wings like to the simple dove,
This peril might I fly, and seek some place of rest
In wilder woods, where I might dwell far from these cares.
What speedy way of wing my plaints should they lay on,
To 'scape the stormy blast that threatened is to me?
Rein those unbridled tongues! break that conjured league!
For I decipher'd have amid our town the strife.
(Earl of Surrey: Psalm. LV. ab. 1540.)
This is a not very successful experiment in unrimed alexandrines. Others
of Surrey's Psalms are in rimed "Poulter's Measure" (alexandrines
alternating with septenary).
O, let me breathe a while, and hold thy heavy hand,
My grievous faults with Shame enough I understand.
Take ruth and pity on my plaint, or else I am forlorn;
Let not the world continue thus in laughing me to scorn.
Madam, if I be he, to whom you once were bent,
With whom to spend your time sometime you were content:
If any hope be left, if any recompense
Be able to recover this forepassed negligence,
O, help me now, poor wretch, in this most heavy plight,
And furnish me yet once again with Tediousness to fight.
(The Marriage of Wit and Science, V. ii., in Dodsley's Old English
Plays, ed. Hazlitt, vol. ii. p. 386. ab. 1570.)
In this play the alexandrine is the dominant measure, though mingled
with occasional septenaries still. (See Schipper, vol. i. p. 256.)
While favor fed my hope, delight with hope was brought,
Thought waited on delight, and speech did follow thought;
Then grew my tongue and pen records unto thy glory,
I thought all words were lost that were not spent of thee,
I thought each place was dark but where thy lights would be,
And all ears worse than deaf that heard not out thy story.
(Sidney: Astrophel and Stella, Fifth Song. [In stanzas aabccb.] ab.
1580.)
See also Sidney's sonnet in alexandrines, p. 272, below.
Of Albion's glorious isle the wonders whilst I write,
The sundry varying soils, the pleasures infinite,
(Where heat kills not the cold, nor cold expels the heat,
The calms too mildly small, nor winds too roughly great,
Nor night doth hinder day, nor day the night doth wrong,
The summer not too short, the winter not too long)
What help shall I invoke to aid my Muse the while?
Thou Genius of the place (this most renowned isle)
Which livedst long before the all-earth-drowning flood,
Whilst yet the world did swarm with her gigantic brood,
Go thou before me still thy circling shores about,
And in this wand'ring maze help to conduct me out.
(Drayton: Polyolbion, ll. 1-12. 1613.)
This is by all odds the longest Modern English poem in alexandrines, and
while the verse is often agreeable, it illustrates the unfitness of the
measure—to English ears—for long, continuous poems.
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
And looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.
(Wordsworth: The Pet Lamb. 1800.)
If hunger, proverbs say, allures the wolf from wood,
Much more the bird must dare a dash at something good:
Must snatch up, bear away in beak, the trifle-treasure
To wood and wild, and then—O how enjoy at leisure!
Was never tree-built nest, you climbed and took, of bird,
(Rare city-visitant, talked of, scarce seen or heard,)
But, when you would dissect the structure, piece by piece,
You found, enwreathed amid the country-product—fleece
And feather, thistle-fluffs and bearded windlestraws—
Some shred of foreign silk, unravelling of gauze,
Bit, maybe, of brocade, mid fur and blow-bell-down:
Filched plainly from mankind, dear tribute paid by town,
Which proved how oft the bird had plucked up heart of grace,
Swooped down at waif and stray, made furtively our place
Pay tax and toll, then borne the booty to enrich
Her paradise i' the waste; the how and why of which,
That is the secret, there the mystery that stings!
(Browning: Fifine at the Fair, ix. 1872.)
Browning has made of the alexandrine in this poem an almost new measure,
hardly more like the alexandrine couplet of earlier days than the
measure of Sordello is like the "heroic couplet" proper. In general,
the modern use of the alexandrine is characterized by increased freedom
in the placing of the cesura. It is also distinguished from the early
French and Middle English forms by the fact that the cesura and the
ending are commonly masculine.
By far the most frequent use of the alexandrine in English poetry is as
a variant from the five-stress line. For instances of this, see the
section on the Spenserian stanza, pp. 102-108, above, and Corson's
chapters on the Spenserian stanza and its influence, in his Primer of
English Verse. In connection with Dryden's use of the alexandrine as a
variant from the heroic couplet, Mr. Saintsbury makes some interesting
observations on the measure: "The metre, though a well-known English
critic has maltreated it of late, is a very fine one; and some of
Dryden's own lines are unmatched examples of that 'energy divine' which
has been attributed to him. In an essay on the alexandrine in English
poetry, which yet remains to be written, and which would be not the
least valuable of contributions to poetical criticism, this use of the
verse would have to be considered, as well as its regular recurrent
employment at the close of the Spenserian stanza, and its continuous
use.... An examination of the Polyolbion and of Fifine at the Fair,
side by side, would, I think, reveal capacities, somewhat unexpected
even in this form of arrangement. But so far as the occasional
alexandrine is concerned, it is not a hyperbole to say that a number,
out of all proportion, of the best lines in English poetry may be found
in the closing verses of the Spenserian stave as used by Spenser
himself, by Shelley, and by the present Laureate, and in the occasional
alexandrines of Dryden. The only thing to be said against this latter
use is, that it demands a very skilful ear and hand to adjust the
cadence." (Life of Dryden, in Men of Letters Series, pp. 172, 173.)
The septenary, or seven-stress verse (sometimes called the
septenarius, from the Latin form of the word) was a familiar measure
of mediæval Latin poetry. There it was more commonly trochaic than
iambic, as in the famous drinking song of the Goliards:
"Meum est propositum in taberna mori:
Vinum sit appositum morientis ori,
Ut dicant cum venerint angelorum chori,
'Deus sit propitius huic potatori!'"
(See the "Confessio Goliae," in Latin Poems attributed to Walter
Mapes, ed. Wright, p. 71.)
Another form of the measure is illustrated by some verses quoted by
Schipper:
"Fortunae rota volvitur, descendo minoratus,
Alter in altum tollitur, nimis exaltatus."
In English, naturally enough, the measure always tended to be iambic. In
both Latin and English there was considerable freedom as to the number
of light syllables. It will be noticed that in the specimens just quoted
from the Latin there is rime not only between the ends of the verses but
between the syllables just preceding the cesura. Where this was the case
there was a tendency toward the breaking up of the verse into a quatrain
of verses in four and three stresses, riming abab; such septenaries,
indeed, were written at pleasure either in couplets or quatrains. We
shall see the same phenomena in the English forms of the measure. But
the seven-stress rhythm is not easily lost or mistaken, in whatever form
it appears, and has a certain charm which at one time appealed very
widely to metrical taste.
The earliest appearance of the septenary in English is in the Poema
Morale, dated about 1170 by Zupitza, by others somewhat later. For a
specimen of this, see p. 127, above. Here there is only end-rime, and
the individuality of the long line is well preserved. There is some
freedom, however, as to the number of light syllables, and some
variation between the iambic and trochaic rhythm.
Blessed beo thu, lavedi, ful of hovene blisse,
Swete flur of parais, moder of miltenisse;
Thu praye Jhesu Crist thi sone that he me i-wisse,
Thare a londe al swo ihc beo, that he me ne i-misse.
(Hymn to the Virgin, in Mätzner's Altenglische Sprachproben, vol. i.
p. 54.)
Mätzner prints this poem in short lines of four and three stresses, the
cesura making such a division natural enough. The next specimen is also
frequently printed with the same division.
Þiss boc iss nemmnedd Orrmulum, forr þi þatt Orrm itt wrohhte,
annd itt iss wrohht off quaþþrigan, off goddspellbokess fowwre,
off quaþþrigan Amminadab, off Cristess goddspellbokess;
forr Crist maȝȝ þurh Amminadab rihht full wel ben bitacnedd;
forr Crist toc dæþ o rodetre all wiþþ hiss fulle wille;
annd forrþi þatt Amminadab o latin spæche iss nemmnedd
o latin boc spontaneus annd onn ennglisshe spæche
þatt weppmann, þatt summ dede doþ wiþþ all hiss fulle wille,
forþi maȝȝ Crist full wel ben þurrh Amminadab bitacnedd.
(The Ormulum, ll. 1-9. ab. 1200.)
In this specimen we have the septenary without rime, a rare form. Orm's
septenaries are also the most regular of the Middle English period,
preserving an almost painful accuracy throughout the 20,000 extant
lines of the poem. In general the measure appears in this period in
combination with alexandrines and other measures, and with much
irregularity. Like the alexandrine, it was sometimes confused with the
long four-stress line. In the well-known poem called "A Little Soth
Sermun" the first line is an unquestionable septenary ("Herkneth alle
gode men and stylle sitteth a-dun"), but presently we find verse of six
stresses, and even short four-stress couplets.
Torne we aȝen in tour sawes, and speke we atte frome
of erld Olyver and his felawes, þat Sarazyns habbeþ ynome.
þe Sarazyns prykaþ faste away, as harde as þay may hye,
and ledeþ wiþ hymen þat riche pray, þe flour of chyvalrye.
(Sir Fyrumbras, ll. 1104-1107. In Zupitza'S Alt- und Mittelenglisches
Übungsbuch, p. 107. ab. 1380.)
In this specimen—from a popular romance—we have the use of cesural
rime as well as end-rime, just as in the Latin specimens cited above.
I tell of things done long ago,
Of many things in few:
And chiefly of this clime of ours
The accidents pursue.
Thou high director of the same,
Assist mine artless pen,
To write the gests of Britons stout,
And acts of English men.
(William Warner: Albion's England, ll. 1-8. 1586.)
Here we have the measure in its "resolved" or divided form, printed as
short four-stress and three-stress lines, although with rime only at the
seventh stress. Compare the "common metre" of modern hymns:
"Must I be carried to the skies
On flowery beds of ease,
While others fought to win the prize
And sailed through bloody seas?"
As when about the silver moon, when air is free from wind,
And stars shine clear, to whose sweet beams, high prospects, and the brows
Of all steep hills and pinnacles, thrust up themselves for shows,
And even the lowly valleys joy to glitter in their sight,
When the unmeasured firmament bursts to disclose her light,
And all the signs in heaven are seen, that glad the shepherd's heart;
So many fires disclosed their beams, made by the Trojan part,
Before the face of Ilion, and her bright turrets show'd.
A thousand courts of guard kept fires, and every guard allow'd
Fifty stout men, by whom their horse eat oats and hard white corn,
And all did wishfully expect the silver-throned morn.
(Chapman: Iliad, book VIII. 1610.)
Chapman's translation of Iliad is the longest modern English poem in
septenaries. Professor Newman, however (whose translation gave rise to
Matthew Arnold's lectures On Translating Homer), used the same measure
unrimed and with feminine endings; thus,—
"He spake, and yelling, held afront the single-hoofed horses."
Arnold objected to Chapman's measure that "it has a jogging rapidity
rather than a flowing rapidity, and a movement familiar rather than
nobly easy."
Rejoice, oh, English hearts, rejoice! rejoice, oh, lovers dear!
Rejoice, oh, city, town and country! rejoice, eke every shire!
For now the fragrant flowers do spring and sprout in seemly sort,
The little birds do sit and sing, the lambs do make fine sport;
And now the birchen-tree doth bud, that makes the schoolboy cry;
The morris rings, while hobby-horse doth foot it feateously;
The lords and ladies now abroad, for their disport and play,
Do kiss sometimes upon the grass, and sometimes in the hay.
(Beaumont: The Knight of the Burning Pestle, IV. v. ab. 1610.)
Here the septenary is introduced in the May-day song of Ralph, the
London apprentice, doubtless because of its popularity for such
unliterary verse.
In somer, when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full mery in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song.
(Ballad of Robin Hood and the Monk, in Gummere's English Ballads, p.
77.)
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
"By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?" ...
... He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
(Coleridge: The Ancient Mariner, ll. 1-4, 614-617. 1798.)
These specimens show the ballad stanza, which is made of a sort of
septenary resolved into short lines of four and three accents. It is
often assumed that the measure was derived from the Latin septenary; but
owing to the difficulty of supposing that a foreign metre should have
been adopted for the most popular of all forms of poetry, some scholars
prefer to think that the ballad stanza of this form is the same as that
in which all lines have four accents (see specimen on p. 157, above),
the last accent of the second and fourth lines having dropped off by
natural processes. On the ballad stanzas in general, see Gummere's
English Ballads, Appendix II. p. 303. Compare with the present
specimens the metre of Cowper's John Gilpin.
That cross he now was fastening there, as the surest power and best
For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude nest
In which, from burning heat, or tempest driving far and wide,
The innocent boy, else shelterless, his lonely head must hide.
(Wordsworth: The Norman Boy. 1842.)
This is a rare instance of the use of the long septenary in
nineteenth-century poetry. Certainly in Wordsworth's verses the metrical
effect cannot be called happy; the measure is made especially clumsy by
the introduction of hypermetrical light syllables. In the succeeding
specimen the same measure is used with feminine ending.
O poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless singing!
O Christians, at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was clinging!
O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling,
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling!
(Elizabeth Barrett Browning: Cowper's Grave. 1833.)
In the Elizabethan age the alexandrine and the septenary were each used
chiefly in conjunction with the other, in alternation of six-stress and
seven-stress verses. The name commonly applied to the combination is
taken from Gascoigne's Notes of Instruction (1575), where he says:
"The commonest sort of verse which we use now adayes (viz. the long
verse of twelve and fourtene sillables) I know not certainly howe to
name it, unlesse I should say that it doth consist of Poulters measure,
which giveth xii. for one dozen and xiiii. for another." (Arber's
Reprint, p. 39.) It strikes the reader with surprise to find the measure
thus spoken of as "the commonest sort of verse," but a glance at any of
the early Elizabethan anthologies will show the justness of Gascoigne's
words. Yet the measure, while exceedingly popular, seems to have been
instinctively avoided by the best poets (after the days of Surrey and
Sidney); hence it is unfamiliar to modern readers.
The use of alexandrines and septenaries together, we have seen, was
common even in the Middle English period, but not in regular
alternation. The Chronicle of Robert of Gloucester (about 1300) mingles
both measures, but with alexandrines predominating. In some of the early
Mystery Plays they are found in alternation; for example, where Jacob,
in one of the Towneley plays, is relating his hunger to Esau:
"Meat or drink, save my life, or bread, I reck not what:
If there be nothing else, some man give me a cat."
See also the specimen from The Marriage of Wit and Science, p. 256,
above.
Schipper says that he does not know who first brought the two measures
together in alternate use for lyrical poetry. Guest says that the
Poulter's Measure came into fashion soon after 1500 (History of English
Rhythms), but gives no examples so early. The history of the measure
should be further investigated.
After the Elizabethan period the Poulter's Measure practically
disappears from English poetry. A curious suggestion of it may be found
in a little poem of Leigh Hunt's (Wealth and Womanhood), cited by
Schipper, who calls the verse "Poulter's Measure in trochaics":
"Have you seen an heiress in her jewels mounted,
Till her wealth and she seemed one, and she might be counted?"
Laid in my quiet bed, in study as I were,
I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear:
And every thought did show so lively in mine eyes,
That now I sighed, and then I smiled, as cause of thought doth rise.
(Earl of Surrey: How no Age is Content with his Own Estate, in
Tottel's Songs and Sonnets. Arber's Reprint, p. 30. Pub. 1557.)
Her forehead jacinth like, her cheeks of opal hue,
Her twinkling eyes bedeck'd with pearl, her lips as sapphire blue;
Her hair like crapal stone, her mouth O heavenly wide;
Her skin like burnish'd gold, her hands like silver ore untried.
(Sir Philip Sidney: Mopsa, in the Arcadia. ab. 1580.)
The sonnet is an Italian verse-form, in fourteen five-stress lines,
introduced into England at the time of the Italian literary influences
of the sixteenth century. Almost from the first, the English sonnet has
been divided into two classes: one based on more or less strict
imitation of the structure of the Italian form, and variously called the
Italian, the regular, or the legitimate sonnet; the other taking the
Italian sonnet as the point of departure, but constructed according to
more familiar English rime-schemes, and commonly called the Shaksperian
or the English sonnet.
The origin of the sonnet in southern Europe is a matter of some
disagreement. Some scholars trace it to the canzone strophe (e.g.
Gaspary, in his Geschichte der Italienischen Literatur), others to the
combination of the ottava rima with a six-line stanza (Welti, in his
Geschichte des Sonettes in der deutschen Dichtung), others to
Provençal and even German influence. (See Schipper, vol. ii. pp. 835
ff., and Lentzner's Das Sonett und seine Gestaltung in der englischen
Dichtung, p. 1.) It seems first to have been a recognized form in Italy
in the latter part of the thirteenth century (see Tomlinson's The
Sonnet: its Origin, Structure, and Place in Poetry); and was made
glorious by Dante, Michael Angelo, Tasso, Ariosto, and—above
all—Petrarch. On the different forms of the Italian sonnet, see
Tomlinson's essay, just cited.
"The object of the regular or legitimate Italian sonnet," says Mr.
Tomlinson, "is to express one, and only one, idea, mood, sentiment, or
proposition, and this must be introduced ... in the first quatrain, and
so far explained in the second, that this may end in a full point; while
the office of the first tercet is to prepare the leading idea of the
quatrains for the conclusion, which conclusion is to be perfectly
carried out in the second tercet, so that it may contain the fundamental
idea of the poem." (pp. 27, 28.)
The Italian form is always marked by the division into octave and
sestet, although English usage has been very irregular in marking this
division by a full pause. The octave is based on only two rimes
(abbaabba); the sestet on either two or three, the most common
arrangements being cdecde, cdcdcd, cdedce, and cddcee.
With regard to the pause at the point of division Lentzner says: "It
should not be a full pause, because this would produce the effect of a
gap or breaking-off, ...—not like the speaker who has reached the end
of what he has to say, but like one who reflects on what has already
been said, and then takes fresh breath to complete his theme."[35]
Most critics prefer those forms of sestet which avoid a final riming
couplet. This Mr. Courthope explains as follows: "The reason for the
avoidance of the couplet in the second portion of the sonnet is, I
think, plain. In the first eight lines the thought ascends to a climax;
this part of the sonnet may be said to contain the premises of the
poetical syllogism. In the last six lines the idea descends to a
conclusion, and as the two divisions are of unequal length it is
necessary that the lesser should be the more individualised. Hence
while, in the first part, the expression of the thought is massed and
condensed by reduplications of sound, and the general movement is
limited by quatrains; in the second part the clauses are separated by
the alternation of the rhymes, the movement is measured by tercets, and
the whole weight of the rhetorical emphasis is thrown into the last
line." (History of English Poetry, vol. ii. p. 91.)
The sonnet has remained, since its introduction into English poetry, a
favorite form among poets and critics, but has never become genuinely
popular. It is suited, of course, only for the expression of dignified
and careful thinking; and the difficulty of giving it unity and
confining the content to the precise limit of fourteen lines has made
perfect success in the form a rare attainment. Furthermore, the
complexity of the rime-scheme—the distance at which one rime responds
to another—makes the appreciation of the form a matter of some
delicacy, less suited to the prevailingly simple taste of the English
ear than to the more complex taste of the Italian.
The following specimens are classified only in the two principal groups
of the Italian and the English form. The common test of the Italian form
is that the rime-scheme shall separate the first eight lines from the
rest, these eight lines ordinarily showing "inclusive rime" of the
abba type; the test of the English form is that the rime-scheme shall
separate the first twelve lines from the last two, the twelve lines
ordinarily showing alternate rime.
Schipper groups English sonnets in five classes: (1) the strict Italian
form, with pause between octave and sestet; (2) the Surrey-Shakspere or
English form; (3) the Spenserian form; (4) the Miltonic form, with
correct rime-arrangement but general neglect of the bipartite structure;
(5) the modern Italian or Wordsworthian form, following the regular
rime-scheme in general, but often with a third or even a fourth rime in
the octave, and treated as a single strophe. (Englische Metrik, vol.
ii. p. 878.)[36]
In this group the student of the subject should note the detailed
variations of the rime-scheme of the sestet, and the varying practice of
the poets as to the division between octave and sestet.
In view of the connection of Petrarch's sonnets with Wyatt's
introduction of the form into England, the first of them is reproduced
as a typical specimen of the strict Italian form.
Voi ch' ascoltate in rime sparse il suono
Di quei sospiri ond' io nudriva 'l core
In su 'l mio primo giovenile errore,
Quand' era in parte altr' uom da quel ch' i' sono,
Del vario stile, in ch' io piango e ragiono
Fra le vane speranze e 'l van dolore,
Ove sia chi per prova intenda amore
Spero trovar pietà, non che perdono.
Ma ben veggi' or sí come al popol tutto
Favola fui gran tempo, onde sovente
Di me medesmo meco mi vergogno;
E del mio vaneggiar vergogna è 'l frutto,
E 'l pentirsi, e 'l conoscer chiaramente
Che quanto piace al mondo è breve sogno.
(Petrarca: Sonetto i.)
The longe love that in my thought I harber,
And in my heart doth kepe his residence,
Into my face preaseth with bold pretence,
And there campeth, displaying his banner.
She that me learns to love, and to suffer,
And willes that my trust, and lustes negligence
Be reined by reason, shame, and reverence,
With his hardinesse takes displeasure.
Wherwith love to the hartes forest he fleeth,
Leavyng his enterprise with paine and crye,
And there him hideth and not appeareth.
What may I do? when my maister feareth,
But in the field with him to live and dye,
For good is the life, endyng faithfully.
(Sir Thomas Wyatt: The lover hideth his desire, etc., in Tottel's
Songs and Sonnets, p. 33. pub. 1557.)
It was Wyatt who introduced the sonnet into England. Thirty-one of his
sonnets were published in Tottel's Miscellany, of which about a third
are said to be translations or paraphrases of Petrarch's. Wyatt
followed, of course, the regular Italian structure, but used
unhesitatingly the form of sestet with the concluding couplet
(cddcee). On this point Mr. Courthope says: "Wyatt was evidently
unaware of the secret principle underlying the extremely complex
structure of the Italian sonnet; ... and being unfortunately misled by
his admiration for the Strambotti of Serafino, which sum up the
conclusion in a couplet, he endeavored to construct his sonnets on the
same principle, thereby leading all sonnet writers before Milton on a
wrong path." (History of English Poetry, vol. ii. p. 91.)
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear 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,—
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 sun-burn'd brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows,
And others' feet still seem'd 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,' said my Muse to me, 'Look in thy heart, and write.'
(Sir Philip Sidney: Astrophel and Stella, i. ab. 1580.)
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What, may it be that e'en 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 languish'd grace,
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd 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?
(Sir Philip Sidney: Astrophel and Stella, xxxi. ab. 1580.)
Sidney's favorite form for the sonnet sestet was that shown in these
specimens (cdcdee), a form that suggests the influence of the Surrey
or English sonnet rather than the Italian. The first of the sonnets is
of course exceptional in being written in alexandrines, but is among the
finest in the sequence. See also Sidney's sonnet of the English type, p.
291, below.
The Astrophel and Stella (containing 110 sonnets) is the earliest of
the great sonnet-sequences or sonnet-cycles of English poetry, those of
Spenser, Shakspere, Rossetti, and Mrs. Browning being later
representatives. In the Elizabethan age the fashion of writing sonnets,
and sonnet-sequences in particular, was at its height, especially in the
last decade of the century (1590-1600). On this subject, see the
Introduction to Professor Schelling's Elizabethan Lyrics, in the
Athenæum Press Series, and Mr. Sidney Lee's Life of Shakspere. Other
noteworthy sonnet-sequences besides those of Sidney, Spenser, and
Shakspere were Constable's Diana, Daniel's Delia, Lodge's Phyllis,
Watson's Tears of Fancy, Barnes's Parthenophil, Giles Fletcher's
Lycia, and Drayton's Idea,—all published in the years 1592-1594. A
now forgotten poet by the name of Lok produced more than four hundred
sonnets, proving himself an Elizabethan rival to Wordsworth.
I know that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought
In time's great periods shall return to naught;
That fairest states have fatal nights and days.
I know how all the Muse's heavenly lays,
With toil of spirit which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought;
And that naught lighter is than airy praise.
I know frail beauty like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords;
That love a jarring is of minds' accords,
Where sense and will invassall reason's power.
Know what I list, this all can not me move,
But that, O me! I both must write and love.
(William Drummond of Hawthornden: Sense of the Fragility of All
Things, etc. 1616.)
Drummond was a sonneteer of great skill, and used many original
combinations of rime-schemes,—some forty in all,—yet usually
approximating to the Italian type. Leigh Hunt says: "Drummond's sonnets,
for the most part, are not only of the legitimate order, but they are
the earliest in the language that breathe what may be called the habit
of mind observable in the best Italian writers of sonnets; that is to
say, a mixture of tenderness, elegance, love of country, seclusion, and
conscious sweetness of verse." (Essay on the Sonnet, in The Book of the
Sonnet, vol. i. pp. 78, 79.)
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure: then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men do with thee go—
Rest of their bones, and souls' delivery.
Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die.
(John Donne: Holy Sonnets, X. 1635.)
Donne's series of "Holy Sonnets" was one of the few Elizabethan
sequences, or cycles, which dealt with other than amatory subjects. The
seven sonnets of the series called La Corona are bound together into a
"crown of sonnets,"—an Italian fashion, according to which the first
line of each sonnet is the same as the last of the sonnet preceding, and
the last line of the last sonnet the same as the first line of the
first.
When 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.
(Milton: On his Blindness. ab. 1655.)
Milton learned the sonnet direct from the Italian, and wrote five in
that language. While following the Italian rime-schemes, however, he was
not careful to observe any division between octave and sestet. Like
Donne, he turned the sonnet to other subjects than that of love, or—in
Landor's words—
"He caught the sonnet from the dainty hand
Of Love, who cried to lose it, and he gave
The notes to Glory."
(To Lamartine.)
Compare, also, Wordsworth's saying that in Milton's hand
"The Thing became a trumpet, whence he blew
Soul-animating strains—alas, too few!"
Besides the eighteen English sonnets in regular form, Milton wrote a
"tailed," or "caudated," sonnet, following an Italian fashion,—"On the
New Forcers of Conscience under the Long Parliament." "He intended it,"
says Masson, "to be what may be called an Anti-Presbyterian and
Pro-Toleration Sonnet; but by going beyond fourteen lines, converted it
into what the Italians called a 'sonnet with a tail.'" (Globe ed., p.
440.) The "tail" rimes cfffgg.
Deem not devoid of elegance the sage,
By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled,
Of painful pedantry the poring child,
Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page,
Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage.
Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smiled
On his lone hours? Ingenuous views engage
His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styled,
Intent. While cloistered Piety displays
Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores
New manners, and the pomp of elder days,
Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores.
Nor rough nor barren are the winding ways
Of hoar Antiquity, but strown with flowers.
(Thomas Warton: In a Blank Leaf of Dugdale's 'Monasticon.' ab. 1775.)
After Milton, the sonnet fell into disuse for a century. "Walsh," says
Mr. Gosse, "is the author of the only sonnet written in English between
Milton's, in 1658, and Warton's, about 1750." (Ward's English Poets,
vol. iii. p. 7.) See, however, that of Gray on West, written in 1742,
quoted p. 295, below. To the Warton brothers, pioneers in so many ways
of the romantic revival, chief credit is given for the revival of the
sonnet in the eighteenth century. Other sonneteers of the period were
William Mason, Thomas Edwards, Benjamin Stillingfleet, and Thomas
Russell (see Seccombe's Age of Johnson, pp. 254, 255, and Beers's
English Romanticism in the Eighteenth Century, pp. 160, 161).
O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile.
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:
Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
(William Lisle Bowles: To Time. 1789.)
Bowles (1762-1850) wrote numerous sonnets, and was influential in
carrying on the movement begun by the Wartons. His sonnets were admired,
in particular, by Coleridge and Wordsworth, the former poet dedicating
to him a sonnet beginning:
"My heart has thanked thee, Bowles! for those soft strains
Whose sadness soothes me."
His sonnets were, however, neglectful of the regular Italian structure,
so that under his influence, as Leigh Hunt observed, "the illegitimate
order ... became such a favorite with lovers of easy writing who could
string fourteen lines together, that ... it continued to fill the press
with heaps of bad verses, till the genius of Wordsworth succeeded in
restoring the right system." (Essay on the Sonnet, p. 85.) But see the
notes on Wordsworth's sonnets, p. 280, below.
Mary! 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 heavenly 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.
(Cowper: To Mrs. Unwin. 1793.)
Nuns 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.
(Wordsworth: The Sonnet. 1806.)
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honors; with this key
Shakspere unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
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!
(Wordsworth: Scorn not the Sonnet. 1827.)
The 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!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for every thing, 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.
(Wordsworth: The World is too much with us. 1806.)
Wordsworth's complaint as to the number of Milton's sonnets ("alas, too
few!") certainly cannot be applied to his own. They number about five
hundred, ranking him as the most prolific English sonneteer. These
include some of the finest sonnets in the language, and very many of
admittedly indifferent quality. Mr. Swinburne regards his sonnets as on
the whole "the best out of sight" in our poetry. In general he followed
the Italian model, but with very great liberty. He not only practised
great variety of rime-arrangement in the sestet, but frequently altered
the scheme of the octave to such forms as abbaacca; see, for example,
the specimen beginning "Scorn not the Sonnet." Wordsworth also showed no
regard for the careful division of thought between octave and sestet.
Indeed in a letter to Dyce, in 1833, he said that he regarded the sonnet
not as a piece of architecture, but as "an orbicular body,—a sphere or
a dew-drop." (Works, ed. Knight, vol. xi. p. 232.) Its excellence
seemed to him to consist mainly in a "pervading sense of intense unity."
Nevertheless, he admitted that "a sonnet will often be found excellent,
where the beginning, the middle, and the end are distinctly marked, and
also where it is distinctly separated into two parts, to which, as I
before observed, the strict Italian model, as they write it, is
favorable."
Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And lo! creation widened in man's view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,
Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind?
Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife?
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?
(Joseph Blanco White: To Night. ab. 1825. In The Book of the Sonnet,
i. 258.)
This famous sonnet was called by Coleridge "the best in the English
language." He seems, however, to have been led to this opinion rather by
the thought than the form.
I met a traveler from an antique land,
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
(Shelley: Ozymandias of Egypt. 1817.)
Shelley wrote but few sonnets, and all but one (To the Nile) are
irregular in structure. The rime-scheme of the present specimen is, of
course, wholly eccentric.
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead:
That is the Grasshopper's; he takes the lead
In summer luxury; he has never done
With his delights, for, when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
(Keats: The Grasshopper and Cricket. 1817.)
Keats's sonnets are for the most part regular in both rime-scheme and
bipartite structure; but a number of the posthumous sonnets are in the
English form. The present specimen (which competes with the more
familiar sonnet on Chapman's Homer for the chief place among those of
Keats) is a particularly good example of the bipartite structure and its
organic relation to the thought of the sonnet.
Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,
With the first sight of thee didst make our race
Forever stare! O flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided from the breast below!
Thou that on dry land horribly dost go
With a split body and most ridiculous pace,
Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,
Long-useless-finned, haired, upright, unwet, slow!
O breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air,
How canst exist? How bear thyself, thou dry
And dreary sloth! What particle canst thou share
Of the only blessed life, the watery?
I sometimes see of ye an actual pair
Go by, linked fin by fin! most odiously.
(Leigh Hunt: The Fish to the Man. 1836.)
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing, and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors,—another home than this?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Fill'd by dead eyes, too tender to know change?
That's hardest! If to conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief tries more, as all things prove:
For grief indeed is love, and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love—
Yet love me—wilt thou? Open thine heart wide,
And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.
(Elizabeth Barrett Browning: Sonnets from the Portuguese, xxxv.
1850.)
The forty-four Sonnets from the Portuguese (the title, of course,
being purely fanciful) constitute one of the chief sonnet-sequences of
the modern period. While true to the Italian rime-structure, Mrs.
Browning cannot be said to have treated the sonnet either as a two-part
poem or as a unit. Only three of the series, says Professor Corson (the
first, fourth, and thirteenth), "can be said to realize with any
distinctness the idea and the peculiar artistic effect of the sonnet
proper." Hence while calling them "the most beautiful love-poems in the
language," he thinks "they cannot be classed as sonnets." (Primer of
English Verse, pp. 175, 176.)
A Sonnet is a moment's monument,—
Memorial from the 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.
(Rossetti: Sonnet preceding The House of Life. 1881.)
When 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?
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 image 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?
(Rossetti: The House of Life: Sonnet iv. Lovesight. 1870.)
The sonnets of Rossetti are undoubtedly the most perfect representatives
of the Italian form in English poetry of the nineteenth century, and
The House of Life (in 101 sonnets) is probably to be regarded as the
most important sonnet-sequence since the Elizabethan age. The bipartite
character of Rossetti's sonnets is marked, in editions of his poems, by
the printing of the octave and sestet with a space between them.
They rose to where their sovran eagle sails,
They kept their faith, their freedom, on the height,
Chaste, frugal, savage, armed by day and night
Against the Turk; whose inroad nowhere scales
Their headlong passes, but his footstep fails,
And red with blood the Crescent reels from fight
Before their dauntless hundreds, in prone flight
By thousands down the crags and through the vales.
O smallest among peoples! rough rock-throne
Of Freedom! warriors beating back the swarm
Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years,
Great Tsernagora! never since thine own
Black ridges drew the cloud and brake the storm
Has breathed a race of mightier mountaineers.
(Tennyson: Montenegro. 1877.)
It is curious that the two chief representatives of English poetry of
the Victorian period, Tennyson and Browning, should neither of them have
given much attention to the sonnet nor have achieved any notable success
in the form. Among Tennyson's poems there are some seventeen sonnets, of
which the present specimen was considered by the poet to be the best. It
represents a common form of the bipartite structure, where the octave is
a narrative, and the sestet a comment upon what has been narrated. In
the following specimen, from Matthew Arnold, the structure is similar.
Lentzner quotes the East London, in his monograph on the English
sonnet, as a case where the octave represents the thought in particular,
the sestet in the abstract; in other cases the order is the reverse.
'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
And the pale weaver, through his window seen
In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited.
I met a preacher there I knew, and said:
'Ill and o'er-worked, how fare you in this scene?'
'Bravely!' said he, 'for I of late have been
Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the Living Bread!'
O human soul! so long as thou canst so
Set up a mark of everlasting light
Above the howling senses' ebb and flow,
To cheer thee and to right thee if thou roam,
Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night!
Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home.
(Matthew Arnold: East London. 1867.)
"Why?" Because all I haply can and do,
All that I am now, all I hope to be,—
Whence comes it save from fortune setting free
Body and soul the purpose to pursue,
God traced for both? If fetters, not a few,
Of prejudice, convention, fall from me,
These shall I bid men—each in his degree
Also God-guided—bear, and gayly too?
But little do or can the best of us:
That little is achieved through Liberty.
Who, then, dares hold, emancipated thus—
His fellow shall continue bound? Not I.
Who live, love, labor freely, nor discuss
A brother's right to freedom. That is "Why."
(Browning: Why I am a Liberal. 1885.)
Browning's sonnets are few in number, mostly occasional, and none of
them can be considered notable. For a study of them, see the article by
Lentzner in Anglia, vol. xi. p. 500. Dr. Lentzner includes nine in his
list, not all of which are included in Browning's collected poems. Three
are so closely connected as practically to form a poem in three stanzas
(appended to Jochanan Hakkadosh, 1883).
One saith: the whole world is a Comedy
Played for the mirth of God upon his throne,
Whereof the hidden meanings will be known
When Michael's trumpet thrills through earth and sea.
Fate is the dramaturge; Necessity
Allots the parts; the scenes, by Nature shown,
Embrace each element and every zone,
Ordered with infinite variety.Another
saith: no calm-eyed Sophocles
Indites the tragedy of human doom,
But some cold scornful Aristophanes,
Whose zanies gape and gibber in thick gloom,
While nightingales, shrill 'mid the shivering trees,
Jar on the silence of the neighboring tomb.
(John Addington Symonds: from Sonnets on the Thought of Death. ab.
1880.)
Yon silvery billows breaking on the beach
Fall back in foam beneath the star-shine clear,
The while my rhymes are murmuring in your ear
A restless lore like that the billows teach;
For on these sonnet-waves my soul would reach
From its own depths, and rest within you, dear,
As, through the billowy voices yearning here,
Great Nature strives to find a human speech.
A sonnet is a wave of melody:
From heaving waters of the impassioned soul
A billow of tidal music one and whole
Flows in the octave; then, returning free,
Its ebbing surges in the sestet roll
Back to the deeps of Life's tumultuous sea.
(Theodore Watts-Dunton: The Sonnet's Voice; a Metrical Lesson by the
Sea-shore. Athenæum, Sept. 17, 1881.)
The "sonnet on the sonnet" has become so familiar in recent times that a
volume of such sonnets has been compiled, and a writer of humorous verse
has satirized the fashion in a "Sonnet on the Sonnet on the Sonnet."
Doubtless the two specimens quoted from Wordsworth lead all others of
the class; but the present specimen is an interesting attempt to
represent the characteristic metrical expressiveness of the form.
Oft have I seen at some cathedral door
A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Kneel to repeat his Paternoster o'er;
Far off the noises of the world retreat;
The loud vociferations of the street
Become an undistinguishable roar.
So, as I enter here from day to day,
And leave my burden at this minster gate,
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,
The tumult of the time disconsolate
To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
While the eternal ages watch and wait.
(Longfellow: Sonnets on the Divina Commedia, i. 1864.)
Caliph, 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 Iona 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.
(William Watson: To the Sultan, in The Year of Shame. 1897.)
Mr. William Archer says of Mr. Watson's political sonnets, that the form
becomes in his hands "a weapon like the sling of David. In the octave he
whirls it round and round with ever-gathering momentum, and in the
sestet sends his scorn or rebuke singing through the air, arrow-straight
to its mark." (Poets of the Younger Generation, p. 503.)
From Tuskane came my Ladies worthy race:
Faire Florence was sometyme her auncient seate:
The Western yle, whose pleasaunt shore dothe face
Wilde Cambers clifs, did geve her lively heate:
Fostered she was with milke of Irishe brest:
Her sire, an Erle; her dame, of princes blood.
From tender yeres, in Britain she doth rest,
With kinges childe, where she tasteth costly food.
Honsdon did first present her to mine yien:
Bright is her hewe, and Geraldine she hight.
Hampton me taught to wishe her first for mine:
And Windsor, alas, dothe chase me from her sight.
Her beauty of kind, her vertues from above.
Happy is he that can obtaine her love.
(Earl of Surrey: Description and praise of his love Geraldine. In
Tottel's Songs and Sonnets, p. 9. Pub. 1557.)
Surrey experimented with the Italian sonnet as it had been introduced
into England by his master Wyatt, but soon devised a variation from the
Italian form, and wrote a majority of his sonnets in the new English
form (nine out of the sixteen which are printed in Tottel's Miscellany).
This new form is divided, not into octave and sestet, but into three
quatrains, with alternate rime, and a couplet. It produces, therefore,
an effect quite different from that of the legitimate Italian sonnet,
the couplet at the end giving it a more epigrammatic structure.
Surrey's form seems more consonant with common English taste for
simplicity of rime-structure, and, besides being honored by its adoption
by Shakspere, has remained a favorite side by side with the more
"correct" original.[37]
Come, Sleep! 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.
O make me in those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of 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.
(Sidney: Astrophel and Stella, xxxix. ab. 1580.)
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.
And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth:
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 to-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.
(Samuel Daniel: Care-charmer Sleep. 1592.)
Daniel was one of the most skilful of the Elizabethans in the use of the
English form of the sonnet. The greater number of his Sonnets to Delia
are of this type. The subject of the present sonnet was a fashionable
one in the sixteenth century (compare Sidney's, quoted above).
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,—
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, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
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 would'st, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!
(Drayton: Love's Farewell. 1594.)
Rossetti called this sonnet "perhaps the best in the language."
Drayton's sonnet-sequence, the Idea, follows the Shaksperian form; and
the present specimen illustrates how the important division of this type
of sonnet is between the quatrains and the final couplet.
One day I wrote her name upon the strand;
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide and made my pains his prey.
Vain man! said she, that dost in vain essay
A mortal thing so to immortalize;
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise.
Not so (quoth I); let baser things 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, whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.
(Spenser: Amoretti, lxxv. 1595.)
The sonnets in Spenser's collected poems number 177, of which fifty-six
are in the common English (Surrey) form, the remainder—like the present
specimen—riming ababbcbccdcdee. This order of rimes reminds us of
that in the Spenserian stanza, and must have been devised by Spenser at
about the same time. It has never been adopted by other poets.
When, 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 possest,
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 remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
(Shakspere: Sonnet xxix. 1609.)
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 ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by:
—This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
(Shakspere: Sonnet lxxiii. 1609.)
These two specimens, perhaps the favorites of as many readers as any
which could be chosen, must serve to represent the sonnets of Shakspere.
The whole number of these is 154, and all are in the English form.
Slight irregularities in the rime-scheme will be found in about fifteen.
Number 99 has fifteen lines and 126 (sometimes called the Epilogue to
the first part of the series) has only twelve. Number 20 is wholly based
on feminine rimes.[38]
Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws; they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers,
Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,
Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,
Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears;
Without, our shame; within, our consciences;
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.
Yet all these fences and their whole array
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.
(George Herbert: Sin. 1631.)
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire;
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.
These ears, alas! for other notes repine,
A different object do these eyes require;
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine,
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
To warm their little loves the birds complain;
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more because I weep in vain.
(Gray: On the Death of Richard West. 1742.)
On the place of this sonnet in the eighteenth century, see p. 277,
above.
Oh it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,
To make the shifting clouds be what you please,
Or let the easily-persuaded eyes
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould
Of a friend's fancy; or, with head bent low
And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold
'Twixt crimson bank; and then, a traveler, go
From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land!
Or listening to the tide, with closed sight,
Be that blind bard who, on the Chian strand
By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.
(Coleridge: Fancy in Nubibus. 1819.)
The sonnets of Coleridge, as has already been noted, were written under
the influence of those of Bowles, and are not of the Italian type. He
defined the sonnet as "a short poem in which some lonely feeling is
developed," thus emphasizing, like Wordsworth, the idea of unity rather
than of progressive structure.
Darkly, as by some gloomed mirror glassed,
Herein at times the brooding eye beholds
The great scarred visage of the pompous Past,
But oftener only the embroidered folds
And soiled regality of his rent robe,
Whose tattered skirts are ruined dynasties
And cumber with their trailing pride the globe,
And sweep the dusty ages in our eyes;
Till the world seems a world of husks and bones
Where sightless Seers and Immortals dead,
Kings that remember not their awful thrones,
Invincible armies long since vanquished,
And powerless potentates and foolish sages
Lie 'mid the crumbling of the mossy ages.
(William Watson: History.)
The term Ode is used of English poetry with considerable vagueness. The
Century Dictionary defines the word thus: "A lyric poem expressive of
exalted or enthusiastic emotion, especially one of complex or irregular
metrical form; originally and strictly, such a composition intended to
be sung." Compare with this the definition of Mr. Gosse, in his
collection of English Odes: "Any strain of enthusiastic and exalted
lyrical verse, directed to a fixed purpose, and dealing progressively
with one dignified theme."
Viewed from the purely metrical standpoint, English odes are commonly
either (a) regular Pindaric odes, imitative of the structure of the
Greek ode, or (b) irregular, so-called "Pindaric" or "Cowleyan" odes.
A third group may be made of forms based on the imitation of the choral
odes of the Greek drama. There is also a class of odes called
"Horatian," made up of simple lyrical stanzas; the name "ode" is applied
here only because of the content of the poem or because of resemblance
to the so-called odes (properly carmina or songs) of Horace, and since
these Horatian odes show no metrical peculiarities they will not be
represented here.[39]
The characteristic effect of the ode is produced by the varying lengths
of lines employed, and the varying distances at which the rimes answer
one another. This variety, in the hands of a master of verse, is capable
of splendid effectiveness, but it gives dangerous license to the
unskilled writer.
III.1 The Strophe, or Turn
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make men 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 of flower and light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.
III.2 The Antistrophe, or Counter-turn
Call, noble Lucius, then for wine,
And let thy looks with gladness shine;
Accept this garland, plant it on thy head,
And think, nay know, thy Morison's not dead.
He leap'd the present age,
Possess'd with holy rage,
To see that bright eternal day;
Of which we priests and poets say
Such truths as we expect for happy men:
And there he lives with memory, and Ben.
III.3 The Epode, or Stand
Jonson, who sung this of him, ere he went,
Himself, to rest,
Or taste a part of that full joy he meant
To have express'd,
In this bright asterism!—
Where it were friendship's schism,
Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,
To separate these twi-
Lights, the Dioscuri;
And keep the one half from his Harry.
But fate doth so alternate the design,
Whilst that in heaven, this light on earth must shine.
(Ben Jonson: A Pindaric Ode on the death of Sir H. Morison. 1629.)
This ode of Jonson's is apparently the earliest, and remained for a long
time the only, notable English ode based on the strict structure of the
Greek original. The Greek ode was commonly divided into the strophe, the
antistrophe, and the epode; the strophe and antistrophe being identical
in structure, though varying in different odes, and the epode being of
different structure. Jonson therefore followed the classical form
carefully, and introduced English terms to express the original three
divisions.
Professor Bronson observes, in his Introduction to the Odes of Collins:
"It is a commonplace that the Pindaric Ode in English is an artificial
exotic, of slight native force, and unable to reproduce the effects of
the Greek original. The reason is obvious. The Greek odes were
accompanied by music and dancing, the singers moving to one side during
the strophe, retracing their steps during the antistrophe, ... and
standing still during the epode. The ear was thus helped by the eye, and
the divisions of the ode were distinct and significant. But in an
English Pindaric the elaborate correspondences and differences between
strophe, antistrophe, and epode are lost upon most readers, and even the
critical reader derives from them a pleasure intellectual rather than
sensuous." (Edition of Collins, Athenæum Press Series, Introduction, pp.
lxxiv, lxxv.)
I1
Daughter of Memory, immortal Muse,
Calliope, what poet wilt thou choose,
Of Anna's name to sing?
To whom wilt thou thy fire impart,
Thy lyre, thy voice, and tuneful art,
Whom raise sublime on thy ethereal wing,
And consecrate with dews of thy Castalian spring?
I2
Without thy aid, the most aspiring mind
Must flag beneath, to narrow flights confin'd,
Striving to rise in vain;
Nor e'er can hope with equal lays
To celebrate bright Virtue's praise.
Thine aid obtain'd, even I, the humblest swain,
May climb Pierian heights, and quit the lowly plain.
I3
High in the starry orb is hung,
And next Alcides' guardian arm,
That harp to which thy Orpheus sung,
Who woods and rocks and winds could charm;
That harp which on Cyllene's shady hill,
When first the vocal shell was found,
With more than mortal skill
Inventor Hermes taught to sound:
Hermes on bright Latona's son,
By sweet persuasion won,
The wondrous work bestow'd;
Latona's son, to thine
Indulgent, gave the gift divine:
A god the gift, a god th' invention show'd.
(Congreve: A Pindaric Ode on the victorious progress of her Majesty's
Arms. 1706.)
To Congreve is due the credit for the revival of the regular ode in the
eighteenth century, after it had been long forgotten by English poets.
Meantime the irregular form, devised by Cowley, had become popular; and
against the license of this Congreve protested in his Discourse on the
Pindaric Ode, prefixed to his Ode of 1706. (See Mr. Gosse's
Introduction to English Odes, p. xvii., and his Life of Congreve, p.
158.)
Congreve said in his Discourse: "The following ode is an attempt towards
restoring the regularity of the ancient lyric poetry, which seems to be
altogether forgotten, or unknown, by our English writers. There is
nothing more frequent among us than a sort of poems entitled Pindaric
Odes, pretending to be written in imitation of the manner and style of
Pindar, and yet I do not know that there is to this day extant, in our
language, one ode contrived after his model.... The character of these
late Pindarics is a bundle of rambling incoherent thoughts, expressed in
a like parcel of irregular stanzas, which also consist of such another
complication of disproportioned, uncertain, and perplexed verses and
rhymes.... On the contrary, there is nothing more regular than the odes
of Pindar, both as to the exact observation of the measures and numbers
of his stanzas and verses, and the perpetual coherence of his
thoughts....
"Though there be no necessity that our triumphal odes should consist of
the three afore-mentioned stanzas, yet if the reader can observe that
the great variation of the numbers in the third stanza (call it epode,
or what you please) has a pleasing effect in the ode, and makes him
return to the first and second stanzas with more appetite than he could
do if always cloyed with the same quantities and measures, I cannot see
why some use may not be made of Pindar's example, to the great
improvement of the English ode. There is certainly a pleasure in
beholding anything that has art and difficulty in the contrivance,
especially if it appears so carefully executed that the difficulty does
not show itself till it is sought for....
"Having mentioned Mr. Cowley, it may very well be expected that
something should be said of him, at a time when the imitation of Pindar
is the theme of our discourse. But there is that great deference due to
the memory, great parts, and learning, of that gentleman, that I think
nothing should be objected to the latitude he has taken in his Pindaric
odes. The beauty of his verses is an atonement for the irregularity of
his stanzas.... Yet I must beg leave to add that I believe those
irregular odes of Mr. Cowley may have been the principal, though
innocent, occasion of so many deformed poems since, which, instead of
being true pictures of Pindar, have (to use the Italian painters' term)
been only caricatures of him."
(Discourse on the Pindaric Ode, in Chalmers's English Poets, vol. x.
p. 300.)
Who shall awake the Spartan fife,
And call in solemn sounds to life
The youths whose locks divinely spreading,
Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,
At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?
What new Alcæus, fancy-blest,
Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,
At Wisdom's shrine awhile its flame concealing
(What place so fit to seal a deed renowned?),
Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing,
It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound?
O goddess, in that feeling hour,
When most its sounds would court thy ears,
Let not my shell's misguided power
E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell
How Rome before thy weeping face,
With heaviest sound, a giant statue, fell,
Push'd by a wild and artless race
From off its wide ambitious base,
When Time his Northern sons of spoil awoke,
And all the blended work of strength and grace,
With many a rude repeated stroke,
And many a barb'rous yell, to thousand fragments broke....
Beyond the measure vast of thought,
The works the wizard Time has wrought!
The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,
Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand;
No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary,
He pass'd with unwet feet thro' all our land.
To the blown Baltic then, they say,
The wild waves found another way,
Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding;
Till all the banded West at once 'gan rise,
A wide wild storm ev'n Nature's self confounding,
With'ring her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise.
This pillar'd earth so firm and wide,
By winds and inward labors torn,
In thunders dread was push'd aside,
And down the should'ring billows borne.
And see, like gems, her laughing train,
The little isles on every side!
Mona, once hid from those who search the main,
Where thousand elfin shapes abide,
And Wight, who checks the west'ring tide;
For thee consenting Heaven has each bestowed,
A fair attendant on her sovereign pride.
To thee this blest divorce she ow'd,
For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last abode!
(Collins: Ode to Liberty, strophe and antistrophe. 1746.)
This ode consists of strophe, epode, antistrophe, and second epode. The
antistrophe corresponds metrically to the strophe, as usual; the epodes
are in four-stress couplets. It was Collins's habit to place the epode
between the strophe and antistrophe, perhaps, as Professor Bronson
suggests, in order that it may produce "an impression of its own
analogous to that of the Greek epode, namely, an impression of relief
and repose." Mr. Bronson says further of Collins's odes: "Collins was
less scholarly than Gray, but he was bolder and more original; and
consciously or unconsciously he so constructed his odes that their
organic parts stand out clearly distinct and produce effects analogous
to those produced by the Greek ode. In brief, his method was, first, to
make large divisions of the thought correspond to the large divisions of
the form; and, second, to throw out into relief the complex strophe and
antistrophe by contrasting them with a simple epode. The reader may not
perceive the minute correspondences in form between strophe and
antistrophe, but he can hardly fail to feel that the two answer to one
another in a general way." (Athenæum Press edition of Collins,
Introduction, p. lxxv.)
III1
Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon strayed,
To him the mighty Mother did unveil
Her awful face. The dauntless Child
Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled.
This pencil take (she said) whose colors 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.
III2
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,
Clos'd 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 cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.
III3
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—
Oh! 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.
(Gray: The Progress of Poesy. 1757.)
Gray's Progress of Poesy is probably to be regarded as the chief of
all English odes of the regular Pindaric form. Mr. Lowell said, indeed,
that it "overflies all other English lyrics like an eagle." The Bard
is in precisely the same form, and shows the same skill in the wielding
of the intricately varying melodies of the lines of different length.
Whom thunder's dismal noise,
And all that Prophets and Apostles louder spake,
And all the creatures' plain conspiring voice,
Could not, whilst they liv'd, awake,
This mightier sound shall make
When dead t' arise,
And open tombs, and open eyes,
To the long sluggards of five thousand years.
This mightier sound shall wake its hearers' ears.
Then shall the scatter'd atoms crowding come
Back to their ancient home.
Some from birds, from fishes some,
Some from earth, and some from seas,
Some from beasts, and some from trees.
Some descend from clouds on high,
Some from metals upwards fly,
And where th' attending soul naked and shivering stands,
Meet, salute, and join their hands,
As dispers'd soldiers at the trumpet's call
Haste to their colors all.
Unhappy most, like tortur'd men,
Their joints new set, to be new-rack'd again,
To mountains they for shelter pray;
The mountains shake, and run about no less confus'd than they.
Stop, stop, my Muse! allay thy vig'rous heat,
Kindled at a hint so great.
Hold thy Pindaric Pegasus closely in,
Which does to rage begin,
And this steep hill would gallop up with violent course;
'Tis an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse,
Fierce, and unbroken yet,
Impatient of the spur or bit;
Now prances stately, and anon flies o'er the place;
Disdains the servile law of any settled pace;
Conscious and proud of his own natural force,
'Twill no unskilful touch endure,
But flings writer and reader too that sits not sure.
(Cowley: The Resurrection, strophes iii. and iv. 1656).
Cowley, as has already appeared, introduced the irregular ode into
English poetry, calling it "Pindaric" under a misapprehension of the
real structure of the Greek odes. He published fifteen "Pindarique Odes"
in 1656 (see the Preface to these, in Grosart's edition of his works,
vol. ii. p. 4). The present specimen illustrates the really not
unskilful use which Cowley made of the varying cadences of the form, and
also sets forth—in the amusing concluding lines—his own idea of its
difficulties.
Under the influence of Cowley's odes, the new form speedily became
popular. According to Dr. Johnson, "this lax and lawless versification
so much concealed the deficiencies of the barren, and flattered the
laziness of the idle, that it immediately over-spread our books of
poetry; all the boys and girls caught the pleasing fashion, and they who
could do nothing else could write like Pindar." (Life of Cowley.)
Compare also the remarks of Mr. Gosse: "Until the days of Collins and
Gray, the ode modelled upon Cowley was not only the universal medium for
congratulatory lyrics and pompous occasional pieces, but it was almost
the only variety permitted to the melancholy generations over whom the
heroic couplet reigned supreme." (Seventeenth Century Studies, p.
216.)
It has been the habit of modern critics to treat the irregularities of
the Cowleyan ode with no little contempt, and it is undoubtedly true
that in the hands of small poets its liberties are dangerous; but it is
also true that some of the greatest modern poets have adopted the form
for some of their best work, and that they have generally preferred it
to that of the regular Pindaric ode.
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground;
When in the valley of Jehoshaphat
The judging God shall close the book of Fate,
And there the last assizes keep
For those who wake and those who sleep;
When rattling bones together fly
From the four corners of the sky;
When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,
Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,
And foremost from the tomb shall bound,
For they are covered with the lightest ground;
And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing,
Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shalt go,
As harbinger of heaven, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learn'd below.
(Dryden: To the Pious Memory of Mistress Anne Killigrew, strophe x.
1686.)
See also specimen from the Ode for St. Cecilia's Day, quoted above, p.
52.
Dryden's odes for St. Cecilia's Day (especially the Alexander's Feast)
are among the most highly esteemed of his poems; but parts, at least, of
the ode on Mistress Killigrew are no less fine, and in this case we have
a purely literary ode, whose irregularities are not designed—as in the
case of the others—to fit choral rendering. The conclusion of the ode,
here quoted, seems to owe something of both substance and form to the
conclusion of Cowley's Resurrection Ode (see preceding specimen). Dr.
Johnson called Dryden's Killigrew Ode "undoubtedly the noblest ode that
our language ever has produced."
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial.
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest;
But soon he saw the brisk awak'ning viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.
(Collins: The Passions. 1746.)
I marked Ambition in his war-array!
I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry—
"Ah! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stay!
Groans not her chariot on its onward way?"
Fly, mailed Monarch, fly!
Stunned by Death's twice mortal mace,
No more on murder's lurid face
The insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye!
Manes of the unnumbered slain!
Ye that gasped on Warsaw's plain!
Ye that erst at Ismail's tower,
When human ruin choked the streams,
Fell in conquest's glutted hour,
Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams!
Spirits of the uncoffined slain,
Sudden blasts of triumph swelling,
Oft, at night, in misty train,
Rush around her narrow dwelling!
The exterminating fiend is fled—
(Foul her life, and dark her doom)—
Mighty armies of the dead
Dance, like death-fires, round her tomb!
Then with prophetic song relate
Each some tyrant-murderer's fate!
(Coleridge: Ode on the Departing Year, strophe iii. 1796.)
This ode was evidently intended to be in the regular Pindaric form, and
was divided into strophes, antistrophes, and epodes; but it soon broke
into irregularity. On Coleridge's odes see some remarks by Mr. Theodore
Watts in the article on Poetry in the Encyclopædia Britannica.
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 cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
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,
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 splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day....
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 power 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,
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.
(Wordsworth: Intimations of Immortality, strophes v. and ix. 1807.)
In this poem the English ode may be said to have reached its high-water
mark. Professor Corson observes: "The several metres are felt, in the
course of the reading of the Ode, to be organic—inseparable from what
each is employed to express. The rhymes, too, with their varying
degrees of emphasis, according to the nearness or remoteness, and the
length, of the rhyming verses, are equally a part of the expression....
The feelings of the reader of English poetry get to be set, so to speak,
to the pentameter measure, as in that measure the largest portion of
English poetry is written; and, accordingly, other measures derive some
effect from that fact. In the theme-metre, generally, the more
reflective portions of the Ode, its deeper tones, are expressed. The
gladder notes come in the shorter metres.... Wordsworth never wrote any
poem of which it can be more truly said than of his great Ode, 'Of the
soul the body form doth take.'" (Primer of English Verse, pp. 32-34.)
Then gentle winds arose
With many a mingled close
Of wild Æolian sound and mountain-odor keen;
And where the Baian ocean
Welters with airlike motion,
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green,
Moving the sea-flowers in those purple caves
Even as the ever stormless atmosphere
Floats o'er the Elysian realm,
It bore me like an Angel, o'er the waves
Of sunlight, whose swift pinnace of dewy air
No storm can overwhelm;
I sailed, where ever flows
Under the calm Serene
A spirit of deep emotion
From the unknown graves
Of the dead kings of Melody.
Shadowy Aornos darkened o'er the helm
The horizontal ether; heaven stripped bare
Its depths over Elysium, where the prow
Made the invisible water white as snow;
From that Typhæan mount, Inarime,
There streamed a sunlight vapor, like the standard
Of some ethereal host;
Whilst from the coast,
Louder and louder, gathering round, there wandered
Over the oracular woods and divine sea
Prophesyings which grew articulate—
They seize me—I must speak them—be they fate!
(Shelley: Ode to Naples, strophe ii. 1819.)
Bury the Great Duke
With an empire's lamentation,
Let us bury the Great Duke
To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation,
Mourning when their leaders fall,
Warriors carry the warrior's pall,
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.
Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?
Here, in streaming London's central roar.
Let the sound of those he wrought for,
And the feet of those he fought for,
Echo round his bones for evermore.
Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
As fits an universal woe,
Let the long long procession go,
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,
And let the mournful martial music blow;
The last great Englishman is low....
... We revere, and while we hear
The tides of Music's golden sea
Setting toward eternity,
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,
Until we doubt not that for one so true
There must be other nobler work to do
Than when he fought at Waterloo,
And Victor he must ever be.
For though the Giant Ages heave the hill
And break the shore, and evermore
Make and break, and work their will;
Though world on world in myriad myriads roll
Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,
What know we greater than the soul?
On God and Godlike men we build our trust.
Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears:
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears:
The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears;
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
He is gone who seemed so great.—
Gone; but nothing can bereave him
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in state,
And that he wears a truer crown
Than any wreath that man can weave him.
Speak no more of his renown,
Lay your earthly fancies down,
And in the vast cathedral leave him.
God accept him, Christ receive him.
(Tennyson: On the Death of the Duke of Wellington, strophes i, ii,
iii, ix (in part). 1852.)
This ode of Tennyson's is one of the few poems in which he gave himself
such liberty of form (compare some of the irregular measures of Maud).
It shows his usual skill in the adaptation of metrical effects to the
purposes of description. Dr. Henry Van Dyke has suggested that the
varying—almost lawless—movements of the opening lines are designed to
suggest the surging of the crowd through the streets of London, before
the entrance into the cathedral for the funeral.
Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release!
Thy God, in these distempered days,
Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways,
And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace!
Bow down in prayer and praise!
No poorest in thy borders but may now
Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow.
O Beautiful! my Country! ours once more,
Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair
O'er such sweet brows as never other wore,
And letting thy set lips,
Freed from wrath's pale eclipse,
The rosy edges of their smile lay bare,
What words divine of lover or of poet
Could tell our love and make thee know it,
Among the Nations bright beyond compare?
What were our lives without thee?
What all our lives to save thee?
We reck not what we gave thee;
We will not dare to doubt thee.
But ask whatever else, and we will dare!
(Lowell: Harvard Commemoration Ode, strophe xii. 1865.)
This is undoubtedly the finest of odes by American poets, and remains
one of the glories of new-world poetry. Its irregular measures were
designed by Mr. Lowell to fit the poem for public reading (see his
letter to Mr. Gosse on the subject, quoted in the Appendix to Gosse's
Seventeenth Century Studies).
In the Year of the great Crime,
When the false English nobles and their Jew,
By God demented, slew
The Trust they stood thrice pledged to keep from wrong,
One said, Take up thy Song,
That breathes the mild and almost mythic time
Of England's prime!
But I, Ah, me,
The freedom of the few
That, in our free Land, were indeed the free,
Can song renew?
Ill singing 'tis with blotting prison-bars,
How high soe'er, betwixt us and the stars;
Ill singing 'tis when there are none to hear;
And days are near
When England shall forget
The fading glow which, for a little while,
Illumes her yet,
The lovely smile
That grows so faint and wan,
Her people shouting in her dying ear:
Are not jays twain worth two of any swan!
Harsh words and brief asks the dishonor'd Year.
(Coventry Patmore: Ode ix. Printed 1868.)
Mr. Patmore's use of the irregular ode forms is of particular interest.
He made a special study of the form, and applied it more widely than is
commonly done. His first odes were printed (not published) in 1868, and
from one of these the present specimen is taken. Later (1877), in
connection with The Unknown Eros, he set forth his view of the ode
form, treating it not as lawless but as governed by laws of its own.
"Nearly all English metres," he said, "owe their existence as metres to
'catalexis,' or pause, for the time of one or more feet, and, as a rule,
the position and amount of catalexis, are fixed. But the verse in which
this volume is written is catalectic par excellence, employing the
pause (as it does the rhyme) with freedom only limited by the exigencies
of poetic passion. From the time of Drummond of Hawthornden to our own,
some of the noblest flights of English poetry have been taken on the
wings of this verse; but with ordinary readers it has been more or less
discredited by the far greater number of abortive efforts, on the part
sometimes of considerable poets, to adapt it to purposes with which it
has no expressional correspondence; or to vary it by rhythmical
movements which are destructive of its character. Some persons,
unlearned in the subject of this metre, have objected to this kind of
verse that it is 'lawless.' But it has its laws as truly as any other.
In its highest order, the lyric or 'ode,' it is a tetrameter, the line
having the time of eight iambics. When it descends to narrative, or the
expression of a less exalted strain of thought, it becomes a trimeter,
having the time of six iambics, or even a dimeter, with the time of
four; and it is allowable to vary the tetrameter 'ode' by the occasional
introduction of passages in either or both of these inferior measures,
but not, I think, by the use of any other. The license to rhyme at
indefinite intervals is counterbalanced ... by unusual frequency in the
recurrence of the same rhyme." (From Patmore's Prefatory Note to The
Unknown Eros; quoted by William Sharp, in the Introduction to Great
Odes, p. xxxii.)[40]
On the shores of a Continent cast,
She won the inviolate soil
By loss of heirdom of all the Past,
And faith in the royal right of Toil!
She planted homes on the savage sod:
Into the wilderness lone
She walked with fearless feet,
In her hand the divining-rod,
Till the veins of the mountains beat
With fire of metal and force of stone!
She set the speed of the river-head
To turn the mills of her bread;
She drove her ploughshare deep
Through the prairie's thousand-centuried sleep.
To the South, and West, and North,
She called Pathfinder forth,
Her faithful and sole companion
Where the flushed Sierra, snow-starred,
Her way to the sunset barred,
And the nameless rivers in thunder and foam
Channeled the terrible canyon!
Nor paused, till her uttermost home
Was built, in the smile of a softer sky
And the glory of beauty yet to be,
Where the haunted waves of Asia die
On the strand of the world-wide sea.
(Bayard Taylor: National Ode, strophe iii. 1876.)
Soon shall the Cape Ann children shout in glee,
Spying the arbutus, spring's dear recluse;
Hill lads at dawn shall hearken the wild goose
Go honking northward over Tennessee;
West from Oswego to Sault Sainte-Marie,
And on to where the Pictured Rocks are hung,
And yonder where, gigantic, willful, young,
Chicago sitteth at the northwest gates,
With restless violent hands and casual tongue
Moulding her mighty fates,
The Lakes shall robe them in ethereal sheen;
And like a larger sea, the vital green
Of springing wheat shall vastly be outflung
Over Dakota and the prairie states.
By desert people immemorial
On Arizonan mesas shall be done
Dim rites unto the thunder and the sun;
Nor shall the primal gods lack sacrifice
More splendid, when the white Sierras call
Unto the Rockies straightway to arise
And dance before the unveiled ark of the year,
Sounding their windy cedars as for shawms,
Unrolling rivers clear
For flutter of broad phylacteries;
While Shasta signals to Alaskan seas
That watch old sluggish glaciers downward creep
To fling their icebergs thundering from the steep,
And Mariposa through the purple calms
Gazes at far Hawaii crowned with palms
Where East and West are met,—
A rich seal on the ocean's bosom set
To say that East and West are twain,
With different loss and gain:
The Lord hath sundered them; let them be sundered yet....
... Ah no!
We have not fallen so,
We are our fathers' sons: let those who lead us know!
'Twas only yesterday sick Cuba's cry
Came up the tropic wind, 'Now help us, for we die!'
Then Alabama heard,
And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho
Shouted a burning word.
Proud state with proud impassioned state conferred,
And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth,
East, west, and south, and north,
Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and young,
Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan,
By the unforgotten names of eager boys
Who might have tasted girls' love and been stung
With the old mystic joys
And starry griefs, now the spring nights come on,
But that the heart of youth is generous,—
We charge you, ye who lead us,
Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain!
Turn not their new-world victories to gain!
One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the bays
Of their dear praise,
One jot of their pure conquest put to hire,
The implacable republic will require.
(William Vaughn Moody: An Ode in Time of Hesitation, strophes iii. and
ix. 1900.)
Different from either of the two classes of odes already represented are
the irregular choral measures used by a few English poets in translation
or imitation of the odes of the Greek drama.
Chorus.
O dearly bought revenge, yet glorious!
Living or dying thou hast fulfilled
The work for which thou wast foretold
To Israel, and now liest victorious
Among thy slain self-killed;
Not willingly, but tangled in the fold
Of dire Necessity, whose law in death conjoined
Thee with thy slaughtered foes, in number more
Than all thy life had slain before.
Semi-chorus.
While their hearts were jocund and sublime,
Drunk with idolatry, drunk with wine
And fat regorged of bulls and goats,
Chaunting their idol, and preferring
Before our living Dread, who dwells
In Silo, his bright sanctuary,
Among them he a spirit of phrenzy sent,
Who hurt their minds,
And urged them on with mad desire
To call in haste for their destroyer.
They, only set on sport and play,
Unweetingly importuned
Their own destruction to come speedy upon them.
So fond are mortal men,
Fallen into wrath divine,
As their own ruin on themselves to invite,
Insensate left, or to sense reprobate,
And with blindness internal struck.
Semi-chorus.
But he, though blind of sight,
Despised, and thought extinguished quite,
With inward eyes illuminated,
His fiery virtue roused
From under ashes into sudden flame,
And as an evening dragon came,
Assailant on the perched roosts
And nests in order ranged
Of tame villatic fowl, but as an eagle
His cloudless thunder bolted on their heads.
So Virtue, given for lost,
Depressed and overthrown, as seemed,
Like that self-begotten bird
In the Arabian woods embost,
That no second knows nor third,
And lay erewhile a holocaust,
From out her ashy womb now teemed,
Revives, reflourishes, then vigorous most
When most unactive deemed;
And, though her body die, her fame survives,
A secular bird, ages of lives.
(Milton: Samson Agonistes, ll. 1660-1707. 1671.)
Of this passage Mr. Swinburne says: "It is hard to realize and hopeless
to reproduce the musical force of classic metres so recondite and
exquisite as the choral parts of a Greek play. Even Milton could not;
though with his godlike instinct and his godlike might of hand he made a
kind of strange and enormous harmony by intermixture of assonance and
rhyme with irregular blank verse, as in that last Titanic chorus of
Samson which utters over the fallen Philistines the trumpet-blast and
thunder of its triumphs." (Essays and Studies, pp. 162, 163.)
The lyre's voice is lovely everywhere;
In the court of gods, in the city of men,
And in the lonely rock-strewn mountain-glen,
In the still mountain air.
Only to Typho it sounds hatefully,—
To Typho only, the rebel o'erthrown,
Through whose heart Etna drives her roots of stone,
To embed them in the sea.
Wherefore dost thou groan so loud?
Wherefore do thy nostrils flash,
Through the dark night, suddenly,
Typho, such red jets of flame?
Is thy tortured heart still proud?
Is thy fire-scathed arm still rash?
Still alert thy stone-crushed frame?
Doth thy fierce soul still deplore
Thine ancient rout by the Cilician hills,
And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore?
Do thy bloodshot eyes still weep
The fight which crowned thine ills,
Thy last mischance on this Sicilian deep?
Hast thou sworn, in thy sad lair,
Where erst the strong sea-currents sucked thee down,
Never to cease to writhe, and try to rest,
Letting the sea-stream wander through thy hair?
That thy groans, like thunder prest,
Begin to roll, and almost drown
The sweet notes whose lulling spell
Gods and the race of mortals love so well,
When through thy caves thou hearest music swell?
But an awful pleasure bland
Spreading o'er the Thunderer's face,
When the sound climbs near his seat,
The Olympian council sees;
As he lets his lax right hand,
Which the lightnings doth embrace,
Sink upon his mighty knees.
And the eagle, at the beck
Of the appeasing, gracious harmony,
Droops all his sheeny, brown, deep-feathered neck,
Nestling nearer to Jove's feet;
While o'er his sovran eye
The curtains of the blue films slowly meet.
And the white Olympus-peaks
Rosily brighten, and the soothed gods smile
At one another from their golden chairs,
And no one round the charmed circle speaks.
Only the loved Hebe bears
The cup about, whose draughts beguile
Pain and care, with a dark store
Of fresh-pulled violets wreathed and nodding o'er;
And her flushed feet glow on the marble floor.
(Matthew Arnold: Empedocles on Etna, Act II. Song of Callicles. 1853.)
Wherefore to me, this fear—
Groundedly stationed here
Fronting my heart, the portent-watcher—flits she?
Wherefore should prophet-play
The uncalled and unpaid lay,
Nor—having spat forth fear, like bad dreams—sits she
On the mind's throne beloved—well-suasive Boldness?
For time, since, by a throw of all the hands,
The boat's stern-cables touched the sands,
Has passed from youth to oldness,—
When under Ilion rushed the ship-borne bands.
And from my eyes I learn—
Being myself my witness—their return.
Yet, all the same, without a lyre, my soul,
Itself its teacher too, chants from within
Erinus' dirge, not having now the whole
Of Hope's dear boldness: nor my inwards sin—
The heart that's rolled in whirls against the mind
Justly presageful of a fate behind.
But I pray—things false, from my hope, may fall
Into the fate that's not-fulfilled-at-all!
Especially at least, of health that's great
The term's insatiable: for, its weight
—A neighbor, with a common wall between—
Ever will sickness lean;
And destiny, her course pursuing straight,
Has struck man's ship against a reef unseen.
Now, when a portion, rather than the treasure
Fear casts from sling, with peril in right measure,
It has not sunk—the universal freight,
(With misery freighted over-full,)
Nor has fear whelmed the hull.
Then too the gift of Zeus,
Two-handedly profuse,
Even from the furrows' yield for yearly use
Has done away with famine, the disease;
But blood of man to earth once falling,—deadly, black,—
In times ere these,—
Who may, by singing spells, call back?
Zeus had not else stopped one who rightly knew
The way to bring the dead again.
But, did not an appointed Fate constrain
The Fate from gods, to bear no more than due,
My heart, outstripping what tongue utters,
Would have all out: which now, in darkness, mutters
Moodily grieved, nor ever hopes to find
How she a word in season may unwind
From out the enkindling mind.
(Browning: Agamemnon; chorus. 1877.)
Of the same general metrical character as the irregular odes are certain
poems (like some of Patmore's) with no regularly organized structure and
varying lengths of line. See, for example, Milton's verses At a Solemn
Music and On Time; Swinburne's Thalassius and On the Cliffs; and
William Morris's On a fair Spring Morning. Compare, also, the effect
of the irregular strophic forms in Southey's Curse of Kehama,
Shelley's Queen Mab, and the like.[41]
While English verse is generally admitted to be based on a different
system from that of Greek and Latin poetry (the element of accent
obscuring that of quantity in English prosody, as the element of
quantity obscures that of accent in classical prosody), there have been
repeated attempts to introduce the more familiar classical measures into
English. Most of these attempts have been academic and have attracted
the attention only of critics and scholars; a few have interested the
reading public.
Imitations of classical verse in English may conveniently be divided
into two classes: imitations of lyrical measures, and imitations of the
dactylic hexameter. The latter group is of course much the larger,
especially in modern poetry. It will appear that the classical measures
might also be divided into two groups according to another distinction:
those attempting to observe the quantitative prosody of the original
language, and those in which the original measure is transmuted into
frankly accentual verse.
The original impulse toward this classical or pseudo-classical verse was
a product of the Renaissance, when all forms of art not based on Greek
and Latin models were suspected. Rime, not being found in the poetry of
the classical languages, was treated as a product of the dark ages,—the
invention of "Goths and Huns." See Roger Ascham's Schoolmaster (1570)
for the most characteristic representative of this phase of thought in
England. The new forms of verse were, naturally enough, first tried in
Italy. Schipper traces the beginning of the movement to Alberti
(1404-1484). A century later Trissino wrote his Sophonisbe and Italia
Liberata in unrimed verse, in professed imitation of Homer, and was
looked upon as the inventor of versi sciolti, that is, verses "freed"
from rime (compare the remarks of Milton in the prefatory note to
Paradise Lost). In 1539 Claudio Tolomei wrote Versi e Regole della
Poesia Nuova, a systematic attempt to introduce the classical
versification. He also wrote hexameters and sapphics. In France there
were similar efforts in the sixteenth century. Mousset translated Homer
into hexameters in 1530, and A. de Baïf, a member of the "Pleiade"
(1532-1589), devised some French hexameters which he called vers
baïfins. The English experiments were worked out independently, and yet
under the same neo-classical influences. On this subject, see Schipper,
vol. ii. pp. 2-12, 439-464.
Reason, tell me thy mind, if here be reason
In this strange violence, to make resistance
Where sweet graces erect the stately banner
Of Virtue's regiment, shining in harness
Of Fortune's diadems, by Beauty mustered:
Say, then, Reason, I say, what is thy counsel?
(Sir Philip Sidney: Phaleuciakes, from the Arcadia, ab. 1580.)
This is the measure commonly called "Phalæcian." Compare Tennyson's
imitation of it, in his Hendecasyllabics quoted below.
O sweet woods, the delight of solitariness!
O how much I do like your solitariness!
Where man's mind hath a freed consideration
Of goodness to receive lovely direction.
Where senses do behold the order of heavenly host,
And wise thoughts do behold what the Creator is.
(Sir Philip Sidney: Asclepiadics, from the Arcadia. ab. 1580.)
This is the measure now called "Lesser Asclepiadean."
My Muse, what ails this ardor
To blaze my only secrets?
Alas, it is no glory
To sing my own decay'd state.
Alas, it is no comfort
To speak without an answer;
Alas, it is no wisdom
To show the wound without cure.
(Sir Philip Sidney: Anacreontics, from the Arcadia. ab. 1580.)
Sidney was a member of the little group of classical students who called
themselves the "Areopagus," and who were interested in introducing
classical measures into English verse. Others of the group were Gabriel
Harvey and Edmund Spenser, from whose correspondence most of our
information regarding the movement is derived. (See the letters in
Grosart's edition of Harvey's Works, vol. i. pp. 7-9, 20-24, 35-37,
75-76, 99-107.) Spenser's only known efforts in the same direction are
also preserved in this correspondence; a poem in twenty-one iambic
trimeters, and this "tetrasticon":—
"See yee the blindfoulded pretie god, that feathered archer,
Of lovers miseries which maketh his bloodie game?
Wote ye why his moother with a veale hath coovered his face?
Trust me, least he my loove happely chaunce to beholde."
It would seem that Spenser was attempting, more conscientiously than
Sidney did, to follow the classical rules of quantity in making his
verses; hence they are more difficult to read according to English
rhythm. Sidney's experiments in the classical versification are perhaps
the most successful, to modern taste, of all those made in the
Elizabethan period. Among the other songs in the Arcadia will be found
sapphics and hexameters.
See especially Spenser's letter of April, 1580, and Harvey's reply (op.
cit., vol. i. pp. 35, 99), for notable passages indicating the
seriousness with which the members of the "Areopagus" were trying to
orm English verse so as to bring it under the rules of classical
prosody. The relations of quantity and accent were not understood, as
indeed they may be said still not to be understood for the English
language. Spenser suggests, in a frequently quoted passage, that in the
word carpenter the middle syllable is "short in speech, when it shall
be read long in verse,"—that is, because the vowel is followed by two
consonants; hence it "seemeth like a lame gosling that draweth one legge
after her.... But it is to be wonne with custome, and rough words must
be subdued with use." Harvey resented the idea that the common
pronunciation of words could be departed from in order to conform them
to arbitrary metrical rules, and in his reply said: "You shall never
have my subscription or consent ... to make your Carpēnter our
Carpĕnter, an inche longer or bigger, than God and his Englishe
people have made him.... Else never heard I any that durst presume so
much over the Englishe ... as to alter the quantitie of any one
sillable, otherwise than oure common speache and generall receyved
custome woulde beare them oute." But while all English verse must be
consistent with "the vulgare and naturall mother prosodye," Harvey does
not despair of finding a system that shall be at the same time
"countervaileable to the best tongues" in making possible quantitative
verse. The whole passage is well worth reading. The best account of the
movement toward classical versification in the days of the "Areopagus"
will be found in Professor Schelling's Poetic and Verse Criticism in
the Reign of Elizabeth (Publications of the University of
Pennsylvania).
O ye Nymphes most fine who resort to this brooke,
For to bathe there your pretty breasts at all times:
Leave the watrish bowres, hyther and to me come at my request nowe.
And ye Virgins trymme who resort to Parnass,
Whence the learned well Helicon beginneth:
Helpe to blase her worthy deserts, that all els mounteth above farre.
(William Webbe: Sapphic Verse, in A Discourse of English Poetrie.
1586.)
Webbe was another of those who believed "that if the true kind of
versifying in immitation of Greekes and Latines, had been practised in
the English tongue, ... it would long ere this have aspyred to as full
perfection, as in anie other tongue whatsoever." So he added to his
Discourse (see Arber Reprint, pp. 67-84) a discussion of the
principles of quantitative prosody, and some specimens of what might be
done by way of experiment.[42] The Sapphics from which the present
specimen is taken are a paraphrase of Spenser's praise of Elizabeth in
the fourth eclogue of the Shepherd's Calendar. (For a specimen of
Webbe's hexameters, see p. 334, below.)
Greatest in thy wars,
Greater in thy peace,
Dread Elizabeth;
Our muse only truth,
Figments cannot use,
Thy ritch name to deck
That itselfe adorns:
But should now this age
Let all poesye fayne,
Fayning poesy could
Nothing faine at all
Worthy halfe thy fame.
(Thomas Campion: Iambic Dimeter, "an example Lyrical," in Observations
in the Art of English Poesie. 1602.)
Rose-cheekt Lawra come
Sing thou smoothly with thy beawtie's
Silent musick, either other
Sweetely gracing.
Lovely formes do flowe
From concent devinely framed,
Heav'n is musick, and thy beawtie's
Birth is heavenly.
(Thomas Campion: Trochaic Dimeter, ib.)
The full title of Campion's work was: "Observations in the Art of
English Poesie; wherein it is demonstratively proved, and by example
confirmed, that the English toong will receive eight severall kinds of
numbers, proper to it selfe, which are all in this booke set forth, and
were never before this time by any man attempted." Campion, like other
classical versifiers, condemned rime as a barbarity; but in imitating
the classical measures he does not violate the normal English accent, so
that his verses read smoothly in English rhythm. Curiously enough, he
includes among his innovations an iambic measure which proves to be
ordinary decasyllabic verse:
"Goe numbers boldly passe, stay not for ayde
Of shifting rime, that easie flatterer,
Whose witchcraft can the ruder eares beguile".
Professor Schelling exclaims: "Where could the musical Doctor have kept
his ears all this time? to propose this measure thus innocently for the
drama, when the English stage had been ringing with his 'licentiate
iambics' for more than two decades!"
The second of the specimens quoted above Campion describes as a dimeter
"whose first foote may either be a Sponde or Trochy: the two verses
following are both of them Trochaical, and consist of foure feete, the
first of either of them being a Spondee or Trochy, the other three only
Trochyes. The fourth and last verse is made of two Trochyes. The number
is voluble and fit to expresse any amorous conceit." (See also another
of Campion's measures, in Part One, p. 27.)[43]
In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries few, if any, notable English
poems were written in the classical measures. Goldsmith, in one of his
essays (xviii, on Versification), maintained the possibility of reducing
English words to the classical prosody, and said: "We have seen several
late specimens of English hexameters and sapphics so happily composed
that, by attaching them to the idea of ancient measure, we found them in
all respects as melodious and agreeable to the ear as the works of
Virgil and Anacreon, or Horace." But whose these were it seems to be
impossible to say.
Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order—
Bleak blows the blast;—your hat has got a hole in't,
So have your breeches!
Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, "Knives and
Scissors to grind O!"
(Canning and Frere: Sapphics; the Friend of Humanity and the
Knife-Grinder, in the Anti-Jacobin, November, 1797).
These "Sapphics" were a burlesque of some by Southey in similar stanzas,
opening:
"Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell,
Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey,
Weary and way-sore."
"In this poem," said the Anti-Jacobin, not unjustly, "the pathos of
the matter is not a little relieved by the absurdity of the metre."
O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies,
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity,
God-gifted organ-voice of England,
Milton, a name to resound for ages;
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel,
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories,
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean
Rings to the roar of an angel onset.
(Tennyson: Milton; Alcaics.)
O you chorus of indolent reviewers,
Irresponsible, indolent reviewers,
Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem
All composed in a metre of Catullus,
All in quantity, careful of my motion,
Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him,
Lest I fall unawares before the people,
Waking laughter in indolent reviewers.
Should I flounder awhile without a tumble
Thro' this metrification of Catullus,
They should speak to me not without a welcome,
All that chorus of indolent reviewers.
Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble,
So fantastical is the dainty metre.
Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me
Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers.
(Tennyson: Hendecasyllabics.)
On the first of these stanzas of Tennyson, compare his stanzas to
Maurice, and note, p. 77, above. With the hendecasyllabics, compare the
"Phaleuciakes" of Sidney, p. 331, above, and "Hendecasyllabics" in
Swinburne's Poems and Ballads.
Tennyson took no little interest in the relations of classical and
English metres, and seems to have believed in the possibility of genuine
English quantitative verse. He did not, however, regard it as of
practical value, and treated his own experiments as trifles. In his
Memoirs, written by his son, Tennyson is said to have observed that he
knew the quantity of every English word except scissors, a mysterious
saying which may be set beside Southey's declaration that Egypt is the
only spondee in the English language. His son also preserves an
extemporaneous line composed by Tennyson to illustrate the observance of
quantity "regardless of accent":
"All men alike hate slops, particularly gruel;"
and a sapphic stanza, also extemporized, quantitative but conforming to
common accent:
"Faded ev'ry violet, all the roses;
Gone the glorious promise; and the victim,
Broken in this anger of Aphrodite,
Yields to the victor."
(Memoir, vol. ii. p. 231.)
God, on verdurous Helicon
Dweller, child of Urania,
Thou that draw'st to the man the fair
Maiden, O Hymenæus, O
Hymen, O Hymenæus!
(Robinson Ellis: Poems of Catullus, LXI. 1871.)
Mr. Ellis's translations from Catullus are all "in the metres of the
original," and are among the most interesting specimens of modern
classical versifying. "Tennyson's Alcaics and Hendecasyllabics," he said
in his Preface, "suggested to me the new principle on which I was to go
to work. It was not sufficient to reproduce the ancient metres, unless
the ancient quantity was reproduced also." Of special interest is the
imitation of the "almost unapproachable" galliambic verse of the Attis
(pp. 49-53):
"When awoke the sun, the golden, that his eyes heaven-orient
Scann'd lustrous air, the rude seas, earth's massy solidity,
When he smote the shadowy twilight with his healthy team sublime,
Then arous'd was Attis; o'er him sleep hastily fled away
To Pasithea's arms immortal with a tremulous hovering."
As Mr. Ellis observes, the metre of Tennyson's Boadicea was modelled
on this of Catullus. Compare also Mr. George Meredith's Phaëthon,
"attempted in the galliambic measure":
"At the coming up of Phœbus, the all-luminous charioteer,
Double-visaged stand the mountains in imperial multitudes,
And with shadows dappled, men sing to him, Hail, O Beneficent;
For they shudder chill, the earth-vales, at his clouding, shudder to black."
—Saw the white implacable Aphrodite,
Saw the hair unbound and the feet unsandalled
Shine as fire of sunset on western waters;
Saw the reluctant
Feet, the straining plumes of the doves that drew her,
Looking always, looking with necks reverted,
Back to Lesbos, back to the hills whereunder
Shone Mitylene.
(Swinburne: Sapphics, in Poems and Ballads.)
Love, what ailed thee to leave life that was made lovely, we thought, with love?
What sweet visions of sleep lured thee away, down from the light above?
What strange faces of dreams, voices that called, hands that were raised to wave,
Lured or led thee, alas, out of the sun, down to the sunless grave?
(Swinburne: Choriambics, in Poems and Ballads, Second Series, 1878.)
Swinburne's imitations of classical measures are frankly accentual, with
no effort to introduce fixed quantities into English.
Lady, reserved by the heavens to do pastors' company honor,
Joining your sweet voice to the rural Muse of a desert,
Here you fully do find this strange operation of love,
How to the woods Love runs, as well as rides to the palace,
Neither he bears reverence to a prince nor pity to beggar,
But (like a point in midst of a circle) is still of a nearness,
All to a lesson he draws, neither hills nor caves can avoid him.
(Sir Philip Sidney: Dorus and Zelmane, in the Arcadia. ab. 1580.)
Sidney was evidently trying to write genuinely quantitative hexameters.
Thus "of love," in the third line, may be regarded as a quantitative
spondee (the o being followed by two consonants), although the of
would not naturally be stressed. In like manner it is very possible that
"pallace" was spelled with two l's in order to make the first syllable
seem long.
Sidney's hexameters are the first in literary verse which have come down
to us; but there must have been earlier efforts at least by the time of
Ascham's Schoolmaster (1570), which vigorously attacked "our rude
beggerly ryming, brought first into Italie by Gothes and Hunnes, ... and
at last receyved into England by men of excellent wit in deede, but of
small learning, and less judgement in that behalfe." (Arber Reprint, p.
145.) One hexameter distich by a contemporary and friend of Ascham's,
Master Watson of Cambridge, is handed down to us by Webbe, as being
"common in the mouthes of all men":
"All travellers doo gladlie report great praise to Ulisses
For that he knewe manie mens maners, and saw many citties."
(Discourse of English Poetrie, p. 72.)
But the Queene in meane while with carks quandare deepe anguisht,
Her wound fed by Venus, with firebayt smoldred is hooked.
Thee wights doughtye manhood leagd with gentilytye nobil,
His woords fitlye placed, with his hevnly phisnomye pleasing,
March throgh her hert mustring, al in her brest deepelye she printeth.
Theese carcking cratchets her sleeping natural hynder.
Thee next day foloing Phœbus dyd clarifye brightlye
Thee world with luster, watrye shaads Aurora remooved,
When to her deere sister with woords haulf gyddye she raveth.
"Sister An, I merveyle, what dreams me terrefye napping,
What newcom travayler, what guest in my harborye lighted?
How brave he dooth court yt? what strength and coorrage he carryes?
I beleve yt certeyn (ne yet hold I yt vaynelye reported)
That fro the great linnadge of gods his pettegre shooteth."
(Richard Stanyhurst: Vergil's Æneid, bk. iv. 1582.)
Stanyhurst's Vergil is one of the curiosities of Elizabethan
literature, not only from its verse-form but from its spelling and
diction. The translator declares himself a disciple of Ascham, in his
antipathy to rimed verse; "What Tom Towly is so simple," he asks, "that
wyl not attempt too bee a rithmoure?" In an address to the Learned
Reader he explains his system of English quantitative prosody. In 1593
Stanyhurst's hexameters were severely noticed in a passage by Thomas
Nash directed primarily against the classical versifying of Gabriel
Harvey. "The hexamiter verse," said Nash, "I graunt to be a gentleman of
an auncient house (so is many an English begger), yet this clyme of ours
he cannot thrive in; our speech is too craggy for him to set his plough
in; hee goes twitching and hopping in our language, like a man running
upon quagmiers, up the hill in one syllable and down the dale in
another, retaining no part of that stately smooth gate which he vaunts
himselfe with among the Greeks and Latins.... Master Stannyhurst (though
otherwise learned) trod a foule lumbring boystrous wallowing measure, in
his translation of Virgil." (Works of Nash, Grosart edition, vol. ii.
pp. 237, 238.)
Stanyhurst was also ridiculed by Joseph Hall, in the Satires of his
Virgidemiarum (1597):
"Another scorns the home-spun thread of rhymes,
Match'd with the lofty feet of elder times:
Give me the numbred verse that Virgil sung,
And Virgil's self shall speak the English tongue:
Manhood and garboiles shall he chaunt with chaunged feet
And head-strong dactyls making music meet.
The nimble dactyl striving to out-go,
The drawling spondees pacing it below.
The lingring spondees, labouring to delay,
The breathless dactyls with a sudden stay.
Whoever saw a colt wanton and wild
Yok'd with a slow-foot ox on fallow field,
Can right areed how handsomely besets
Dull spondees with the English dactylets."
(Chalmers's English Poets, vol. v. p. 266.)
Compare the lines of Chapman, in his Hymn to Cynthia, where he says
that
"sweet poesy
Will not be clad in her supremacy
With those strange garments (Rome's hexameters)
As she is English; but in right prefers
Our native robes."
See also, in Arber's edition of Stanyhurst in the English Scholar's
Library, an account of another work in hexameters, published
anonymously in 1599: the First Booke of the Preservation of King Henry
the VII. This writer admired Stanyhurst's effort, but desired "him to
refile" his verses into more polished English:
"If the Poet Stanihurst yet live and feedeth on ay-er,
I do request him (as one that wisheth a grace to the meter)
With wordes significant to refile and finely to polishe
Those fower Æneis, that he late translated in English."
In the same connection the writer tells us definitely what is to be
hoped from the "trew kind of Hexametred and Pentametred verse." "First
it will enrich our speach with good and significant wordes: Secondly it
will bring a delight and pleasure to the skilfull Reader, when he seeth
them formally compyled: And thirdly it will incourage and learne the
good and godly Students, that affect Poetry, and are naturally enclyned
thereunto, to make the like: Fourthly it will direct a trew Idioma, and
will teach trew Orthography."[44]
Tityrus, happilie thou lyste tumbling under a beech tree,
All in a fine oate pipe these sweete songs lustilie chaunting:
We, poore soules goe to wracke, and from these coastes be remooved,
And fro our pastures sweete: thou Tityr, at ease in a shade plott
Makst thicke groves to resound with songes of brave Amarillis.
(William Webbe: Vergil's First Eclogue, in A Discourse of English
Poetrie. 1586.)
Webbe prefaces his hexameters with a reference to those made by Gabriel
Harvey, and says: "I for my part, so farre as those examples would leade
me, and mine owne small skyll affoorde me, have blundered upon these
fewe; whereinto I have translated the two first Æglogues of Virgill:
because I thought no matter of my owne invention, nor any other of
antiquitye more fitte for tryal of thys thyng, before there were some
more speciall direction, which might leade to a lesse troublesome manner
of wryting." (Arber Reprint, p. 72.)
Thou, who roll'st in the firmament, round as the shield of my fathers,
Whence is thy girdle of glory, O Sun! and thy light everlasting?
Forth thou comest in thy awful beauty; the stars at thy rising
Haste to their azure pavilions; the moon sinks pale in the waters;
But thou movest alone; who dareth to wander beside thee?
Oaks of the mountains decay, and the hard oak crumbles asunder;
Ocean shrinks and again grows; lost is the moon from the heavens;
Whilst thou ever remainest the same to rejoice in thy brightness.
(William Taylor: Paraphrase of Ossian's Hymn to the Sun. 1796.)
When English hexameters were revived at the end of the eighteenth
century, it was in good part under German influence. Bodmer, Klopstock,
and Voss, followed later by Goethe, made the German hexameter popular;
and William Taylor of Norwich, who in many ways helped to familiarize
his countrymen with German literature, became interested in the form. In
1796, the year of Goethe's Hermann und Dorothea, he contributed to the
Monthly Magazine an article called "English Hexameters Exemplified,"
in which occurred the paraphrase from Ossian here quoted. Taylor pointed
out that the hexameter of the Germans was purely accentual. They were
"obliged, by the scarceness of long vowels and the rifeness of short
syllables in their language, to tolerate the frequent substitution of
trochees for spondees in their hexameter verse; and they scan, like
other modern nations, by emphasis, not by position." (Quoted in J. W.
Robberds's Memoir of William Taylor of Norwich, vol. i. pp. 157 ff.)
Most later writers of English hexameters have followed the line here
indicated, and have frankly abandoned the effort to represent the
quantities of classical prosody.
Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the mother,
Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the Sun, the rejoicer!
Guardian and friend of the moon, O Earth, whom the comets forget not,
Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and again they behold thee!
Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of creation?)
Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon thee enamoured!
(Coleridge: Hymn to the Earth. 1799.)
Coleridge made several experiments in hexameters at this time, and
planned, together with Southey, a long hexameter poem on Mohammed. To
Wordsworth he sent an experiment of the same kind in a lighter vein:
"Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk or on table;
Place it on table or desk; and your right hands loosely half-closing,
Gently sustain them in air, and extending the digit didactic,
Rest it a moment on each of the forks of the five-forked left hand,
Twice on the breadth of the thumb, and once on the tip of each finger,
Read with a nod of the head in a humoring recitativo;
And, as I live, you will see my hexameters hopping before you.
This is a galloping measure, a hop, and a trot, and a gallop!"
(Wordsworth's Memoirs, quoted in Coleridge's Poems, Aldine edition,
vol. ii. p. 307.)
Coleridge also translated from Schiller the well-known distich
describing and exemplifying the elegiac verse of Ovid:
"In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column;
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back."
This distich, it is interesting to find, was revised by Tennyson so as
to represent the measure quantitatively rather than accentually:
"Up springs hexameter, with might, as a fountain arising,
Lightly the fountain falls, lightly the pentameter."
Lift up your heads, ye gates; and ye everlasting portals,
Be ye lift up! Behold, the Worthies are there to receive him,—
They who, in later days or in elder ages, ennobled
Britain's dear name. Bede I beheld, who, humble and holy,
Shone like a single star, serene in a night of darkness.
Bacon also was there, the marvellous Friar; and he who
Struck the spark from which the Bohemian kindled his taper;
Thence the flame, long and hardly preserved, was to Luther transmitted,—
Mighty soul; and he lifted his torch, and enlightened the nations.
(Southey: A Vision of Judgment, ix. 1821.)
Southey followed the example of William Taylor in attempting to
construct hexameters "which would be perfectly consistent with the
character of our language, and capable of great richness, variety and
strength," yet which should not profess to follow "rules which are
inapplicable to our tongue." (Preface to Vision of Judgment, Southey's
Works, ed. 1838, vol. x. p. 195.)
[45]
In the same Preface he briefly
reviewed the history of earlier efforts to introduce the classical
measures into English. It is to be feared that Southey's hexameters are
to be counted among the worst of modern times.
Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,
Sat the lovers and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry
Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway
Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.
(Longfellow: Evangeline, Part. I. 1847.)
Evangeline is undoubtedly the most popular and widely read poem in
English hexameters, and may be said to have revived the vogue of the
measure in the middle of the nineteenth century. Yet its metrical
qualities have not pleased most careful critics. Matthew Arnold said
that the reception which the poem met with indicated that the dislike
for the metre "is rather among professional critics than among the
general public. Yet," he went on to say, "a version of Homer in
hexameters of the Evangeline type would not satisfy the judicious, nor
is the definite establishment of this type to be desired." (On
Translating Homer, Macmillan ed., p. 284.) Mr. Arnold had previously
suggested that the "lumbering effect" of such hexameters as Longfellow's
is "caused by their being much too dactylic"; more spondees should be
introduced.
The editor of the Riverside edition of Evangeline remarks
interestingly: "The measure lends itself easily to the lingering
melancholy which marks the greater part of the poem. The fall of the
verse at the end of the line and the sharp recovery at the beginning of
the next will be snares to the reader, who must beware of a jerking
style of delivery.... A little practice will enable one to acquire that
habit of reading the hexameter which we may liken, roughly, to the
climbing of a hill, resting a moment on the summit, and then descending
the other side."
Longfellow's hexameters were criticised most severely by his countryman,
Edgar Poe. Poe denied the possibility of any adequate representation of
the classical hexameter in English, largely because of the impossibility
of using English spondees. The only genuine hexameters he knew, he
declared, were some he had himself made, running:
"Do tell! when may we hope to make men of sense out of the Pundits,
Born and brought up with their snouts deep down in the mud of the Frog-pond?"
(See Poe's Works, ed. Stedman and Woodberry, vol. vi. p. 104.)
Another interesting American experiment in hexameters is found in the
Home Pastorals of Bayard Taylor (1869-1874). Taylor modeled his verses
after those of the Germans, particularly Goethe's in Hermann und
Dorothea. See, for example, the opening lines of November:
"Wrapped in his sad-colored cloak, the Day, like a Puritan, standeth
Stern in the joyless fields, rebuking the lingering color,—
Dying hectic of leaves and the chilly blue of the asters,—
Hearing, perchance, the croak of a crow on the desolate tree-top,
Breathing the reek of withered reeds, or the drifted and sodden
Splendors of woodland, as whoso piously groaneth in spirit:
'Vanity, verily; yea, it is vanity, let me forsake it!'"
But as the light of day enters some populous city,
Shaming away, ere it come, by the chilly day-streak signal,
High and low, the misusers of night, shaming out the gas-lamps—
All the great empty streets are flooded with broadening clearness
Which, withal, by inscrutable simultaneous access
Permeates far and pierces to the very cellars lying in
Narrow high back-lane, and court, and alley of alleys:—
He that goes forth to his walks, while speeding to the suburb,
Sees sights only peaceful and pure; as laborers settling
Slowly to work, in their limbs the lingering sweetness of slumber;
Humble market-carts, coming in, bringing in, not only
Flower, fruit, farm-store, but sounds and sights of the country
Dwelling yet on the sense of the dreamy drivers; soon after
Half-awake servant-maids unfastening drowsy shutters
Up at the windows, or down, letting in the air by the doorway,
School-boys, school-girls soon, with slate, portfolio, satchel,
Hampered as they haste, those running, these others maidenly tripping;...
Meantime above purer air untarnished of new-lit fires;
So that the whole great wicked artificial civilised fabric—
All its unfinished houses, lots for sale, and railway out-works—
Seems reaccepted, resumed to Primal Nature and Beauty.
(Arthur Hugh Clough: The Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich. 1848.)
Clough's hexameters are quite unlike any others in English poetry, both
in their metrical quality and in their use for serio-comic verse. As
Matthew Arnold observed, they are "excessively, needlessly rough," but
their free, garrulous effect has a charm of its own. Clough also wrote
some hexameters intended to be strictly quantitative. (For a detailed
criticism of the verse of the Bothie, see Robert Bridges's Milton's
Prosody, 1901 ed., Appendix J.)
It was Clough's hexameters, together with some "English Hexameter
Translations" by Dr. Hawtrey and Mr. Lockhart (1847), that chiefly
encouraged Matthew Arnold to believe that the measure might be well
adapted to a translation of Homer. "The hexameter, whether alone or with
the pentameter, possesses a movement, an expression, which no metre
hitherto in common use amongst us possesses, and which I am convinced
English poetry, as our mental wants multiply, will not always be content
to forego." (Ib., p. 210.) Mr. James Spedding replied to Mr. Arnold's
suggestion, from the point of view of the classical scholar, urging that
only hexameters purely quantitative could properly represent those of
Vergil. He illustrated his views by an amusing "hexametrical dialogue,"
conducted alternately in Vergilian measure and "in that of Longfellow."
Of the former are the lines:
"Verses so modulate, so tuned, so varied in accent,
Rich with unexpected changes, smooth, stately, sonorous,
Rolling ever forward, tidelike, with thunder, in endless
Procession, complex melodies—pause, quantity, accent,
After Virgilian precedent and practice, in order
Distributed—could these gratify th' Etonian ear-drum?"
(James Spedding: Reviews and Discussions, 1879. p. 327.)
Arnold, however, wisely declined to be led into a discussion of the
relations of accent and quantity in English. "All we are here concerned
with," he said, "is the imitation, by the English hexameter, of the
ancient hexameter in its effect upon us moderns.... The received
English type, in its general outlines, is, for England, the necessary
given type of this metre; it is by rendering the metrical beat of its
pattern, not by rendering the accentual beat of it, that the English
language has adapted the Greek hexameter.... I look with hope towards
continued attempts at perfecting and employing this rhythm; but my
belief in the immediate success of such attempts is far less confident
than has been supposed." (See the whole passage, On Translating Homer,
pp. 275-284.)
The hexameters of Dr. Hawtrey, quoted by Arnold, are these:
Clearly the rest I behold of the dark-eyed sons of Achaia;
Known to me well are the faces of all; their names I remember;
Two, two only remain, whom I see not among the commanders,
Kastor fleet in the car,—Polydeukes brave with the cestus,—
Own dear brethren of mine,—one parent loved us as infants.
Are they not here in the host, from the shores of loved Lakedaimon,
Or, though they came with the rest in ships that bound through the waters,
Dare they not enter the fight or stand in the council of heroes,
All for fear of the shame and the taunts my crime has awakened?
—So said she. They long since in Earth's soft arms were reposing,
There, in their own dear land, their fatherland, Lakedaimon.
(From English Hexameter Translations, p. 242.)
Arnold also illustrated his doctrine in some hexameters of his own,
which have not usually been regarded as a happy experiment. They run in
part as follows:
"Truly, yet this time will we save thee, mighty Achilles!
But thy day of death is at hand; nor shall we be the reason—
No, but the will of heaven, and Fate's invincible power.
For by no slow pace nor want of swiftness of ours
Did the Trojans obtain to strip the arms from Patroclus;
But that prince among gods, the son of the lovely-haired Leto,
Slew him fighting in front of the fray, and glorified Hector.
But, for us, we vie in speed with the breath of the West-Wind,
Which, men say, is the fleetest of winds; 'tis thou who art fated
To lie low in death, by the hand of a god and a mortal."
(Ib., p. 234.)
Tennyson evidently viewed with small respect these various efforts to
render Homer in English hexameters. See his lines beginning:
"These lame hexameters the strong-wing'd music of Homer!
No—but a most burlesque barbarous experiment."
(In Quantity: Hexameters and Pentameters.)
Compare the amusing lines of Walter Savage Landor:
"Askest thou if in my youth I have mounted, as others have mounted,
Galloping Hexameter, Pentameter cantering after,
English by dam and by sire; bit, bridle, and saddlery, English;
English the girths and the shoes; all English from snaffle to crupper;
Everything English about, excepting the tune of the jockey?....
Seldom my goosequill, of goose from Germany, fatted in England,
(Frolicsome though I have been) have I tried on Hexameter, knowing
Latin and Greek are alone its languages. We have a measure
Fashioned by Milton's own hand, a fuller, a deeper, a louder.
.... Peace be with all! but afar be ambition to follow the Roman,
Led by the German uncombed and jigging in dactyl and spondee,
Lumbering shapeless jackboots which nothing can polish or supple.
Much as old metres delight me, 'tis only where first they were nurtured,
In their own clime, their own speech: than pamper them here, I would rather
Tie up my Pegasus tight to the scanty-fed rack of a sonnet."
(English Hexameters, in The Last Fruit off an Old Tree.)
In like manner Mr. Swinburne says: "I must say how inexplicable it seems
to me that Mr. Arnold, of all men, should be a patron of English
hexameters. His own I have tried in vain to reduce by scansion into any
metrical feet at all; they look like nothing on earth, and sound like
anapests broken up and driven wrong.... And at best what ugly bastards
of verse are these self-styled hexameters! how human tongues or hands
could utter or could write them except by way of burlesque improvisation
I could never imagine, and never shall." (Essays and Studies, p. 163.)
From this condemnation Mr. Swinburne excepts only the hexameters of Dr.
Hawtrey, "but that is simply a graceful interlude of pastime."
See also the essay called "Remarks on English Hexameters," in the Horæ
Hellenicæ of Professor John Stuart Blackie.
Hovering over the water he came, upon glittering pinions,
Living, a wonder, outgrown from the tight-laced fold of his sandals;
Bounding from billow to billow, and sweeping the crests like a sea-gull;
Leaping the gulfs of the surge, as he laughed in the joy of his leaping.
Fair and majestic he sprang to the rock; and the maiden in wonder
Gazed for a while, and then hid in the dark-rolling wave of her tresses,
Fearful, the light of her eyes; while the boy (for her sorrow had awed him)
Blushed at her blushes, and vanished, like mist on the cliffs at the sunrise.
Fearful at length she looked forth: he was gone: she, wild with amazement,
Wailed for her mother aloud: but the wail of the wind only answered.
(Charles Kingsley: Andromeda. 1858.)
Kingsley believed in the possibility of representing the quantitative
verse of classical poetry in English, and at the same time holding to
genuinely English rhythm.[46] Thus he tried to introduce more real
spondees into his hexameters than Longfellow and others had done.
Compare such a line as Longfellow's—
"Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice"—
with Kingsley's—
"Then as a pine upon Ida when south-west winds blow landward."
In the former the dissyllabic feet are in no sense spondees; in the
latter there is an effort to fill them with genuinely long syllables.
Lover whose vehement kisses on lips irresponsive are squandered,
Lover that wooest in vain Earth's imperturbable heart;
Athlete mightily frustrate, who pittest thy thews against legions,
Locked with fantastical hosts, bodiless arms of the sky;
Sea that breakest for ever, that breakest and never art broken,
Like unto thine, from of old, springeth the spirit of man,—
Nature's wooer and fighter, whose years are a suit and a wrestling,
All their hours, from his birth, hot with desire and with fray.
(William Watson: Hymn to the Sea, ii.)
Here the alternate lines represent the "pentameter" of the Latin elegiac
verse, where the light syllables were omitted at the cesura and the end
of the line.
When they came to the fair-flowing river and to the places
Where stood pools in plenty prepared, and water abundant
Gushed up, a cure for things manifold uncleanly, the mules were
Unyoked from the waggons, driven off to the bindweed pastures
By the rushing swirling river, and the women set about it
Unloading the waggons, carrying clothes down to the water,
One with other striving, stepping hastily into the wash-troughs.
When washing and rinsing were done, they brought the linen down
On to the sea-shore, and set it all out thereupon in rows
Where the pebbles thrown up by the waves most thickly abounded.
(William Johnson Stone: Translation of Odyssey, vi. 85 ff., in The
Use of Classical Measures in English. 1899.)
Mr. Stone, like the Elizabethan classical versifiers, seeks to write
purely quantitative verse in English, and, so far from aiming at the
same time to preserve the rhythm of the usual English hexameter, he
regards the clash between accent and quantity as a beauty rather than a
defect. The verses he intends to be read "with the natural accent
unimpaired," the reader listening for the regular quantities at the same
time.
The views of Mr. Stone on the nature of English accent and quantity are
perhaps unique among modern writers on the subject. "The ordinary
unemphatic English accent is exactly a raising of pitch, and nothing
more," as in Greek. "The accent of emphasis is something quite different
in character from the ordinary accent." To those who insist that to
them the second syllable of carpenter is distinctly short, Mr. Stone
replies: "You are associating yourselves by such an admission with the
vulgar actors of Plautus rather than the educated readers of Virgil;"—a
truly terrible charge! Mr. Stone gives an interesting critical history
of earlier efforts to introduce classical measures into English. His
monograph is reprinted, but without the specimen translation, as the
second part of the 1901 edition of Robert Bridges's Milton's Prosody.
For further discussion of the relations of classical and English
prosody, and of accent and quantity in English, see Schipper, vol. i.
pp. 21-27; A. J. Ellis: article in the Transactions of the Philological
Society, 1875-1876; T. D. Goodell: article on "Quantity in English
Verse," in the Proceedings of the American Philological Society, 1885;
Edmund Gurney: The Power of Sound, pp. 429-439; J. M. Robertson:
Appendix to New Essays towards a Critical Method, 1897; and the
discussion in Part Three of the present volume.
A number of artificial lyrical forms, originating in the ingenuity of
the mediæval Provençal poets, were adopted by the Middle English
imitators of the Romance lyrists, and were revived with no little vigor
in the Victorian period. Chief among the influential models for these
forms, in early times, were the poems of Machault (1284-1377), Deschamps
(1328-1415), Froissart (1337-1410), and Villon (1431-1485). Again in the
seventeenth century such forms as the rondeau were revived in France by
Voiture (1598-1648), but with little effect in England. Finally, in the
nineteenth century, the forms were reintroduced by M. Théodore de
Banville, and later into England by Mr. Lang, Mr. Austin Dobson, Mr.
Gosse, and others. For the history of these fashions in outline, see the
admirable introduction to Mr. Gleeson White's Ballades and Rondeaus
(1893); also Mr. Andrew Lang's Lays and Lyrics of Old France (1872);
Mr. Austin Dobson's "Note on some Foreign Forms of Verse," in the
collection of Latter Day Lyrics (1878); and an article by Mr. Edmund
Gosse in the Cornhill Magazine, July, 1877.
Says Mr. Dobson: "It may be conceded that the majority of the forms now
in question are not at present suited for ... the treatment of grave or
elevated themes. What is modestly advanced for some of them ... is that
they may add a new charm of buoyancy,—a lyric freshness,—to amatory
and familiar verse, already too much condemned to faded measures and
out-worn cadences. Further, ... that they are admirable vehicles for the
expression of trifles or jeux d'esprit. They have also a humbler and
obscurer use. If, to quote the once-hackneyed, but now
too-much-forgotten maxim of Pope—
'Those move easiest that have learned to dance,'
what better discipline, among others, could possibly be devised for
'those about to versify' than a course of Rondeaux, Triolets, and
Ballades?" Mr. Dobson refers to the article by Mr. Gosse already cited,
and "to the Odes Funambulesques, the Petit Traité de Poésie
Française, and other works of M. Théodore de Banville. To M. de
Banville in particular and to the second French Romantic School in
general, the happy modernization in France of the old measures of Marot,
Villon, and Charles of Orleans is mainly to be ascribed." (Latter Day
Lyrics, ed. W. D. Adams, pp. 334 ff.)[47]
Says Mr. Gleeson White: "The taste for these tours de force in the art
of verse-making is no doubt an acquired one; yet to quote the first
attempt to produce a lyric with a repeated burden would take one back to
the earliest civilization.... Whether the first refrains were used for
decorative effect only, or to give the singer time to recollect or
improvise the next verse, it matters little, since the once mere adjunct
was made in later French use an integral and vital part of the verse.
The charm of these strictly written verses is undoubtedly increased by
some knowledge of their technical rules.... To approach ideal
perfection, nothing less than implicit obedience to all the rules is the
first element of success; but the task is by no means finished there.
Every quality that poetry demands, whether clearness of thought,
elegance of expression, harmonious sound, or faultless rhythm, is needed
as much in these shapes as in unfettered verse.... It may be said,
without fear of exaggeration, that all the qualities required to form a
perfect lyric in poetry are equally needful here, plus a great many
special ones the forms themselves demand. To the students of any art
there is always a peculiar charm when the highest difficulties are
surmounted with such ease that the consummate art is hidden to all who
know not the magic password to unveil it." (Ballades and Rondeaus,
Introduction, pp. xli, xlii.) "No one is compelled to use these complex
forms, but if chosen, their laws must be obeyed to the letter if success
is to be obtained. The chief pleasure they yield consists in the
apparent spontaneity, which is the result of genius, if genius be indeed
the art of taking infinite pains; or, if that definition is rejected,
they must yet exhibit the art which conceals art, whether by intense
care in every minute detail, or a happy faculty for naturally wearing
these fetters." (Ib., pp. l, li.)
The ballade commonly consists of three stanzas, with an envoy. In modern
usage the stanzas usually contain either eight or ten lines, and the
envoy half as many as the stanza; but in earlier usage both stanza and
envoy varied, and the latter might be omitted altogether. The rimes in
all the stanzas must be identical in the corresponding lines, but the
riming words must be different. The most characteristic element is the
refrain,—the keynote of the poem,—which forms the last line of each
stanza, including the envoy. The favorite rime-scheme for the eight-line
stanza is ababbcbc, with the envoy bcbc. Mr. White says of the envoy
that it "is not only a dedication, but should be the peroration of the
subject, and richer in its wording and more stately in its imagery than
the preceding verses, to convey the climax of the whole matter, and
avoid the suspicion that it is a mere postscript."
Flee fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse,
Suffyce unto thy good, though hit be smal;
For hord hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse,
Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal;
Savour no more than thee bihove shal;
Werk wel thy-self, that other folk canst rede;
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.
Tempest thee noght al croked to redresse,
In trust of hir that turneth as a bal:
Gret reste slant in litel besinesse;
And eek be war to sporne ageyn an al;
Stryve noght, as doth the crokke with the wal.
Daunte thy-self, that dauntest otheres dede;
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.
That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse;
The wrastling for this worlde axeth a fal.
Her nis non hoom, her nis but wildernesse:
Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out of thy stal!
Know thy contree, look up, thank God of al;
Hold the hye wey, and lat thy gost thee lede:
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.
Envoy
Therfore, thou vache, leve thyn old wrecchednesse
Unto the worlde; leve now to be thral;
Crye him mercy, that of his hy goodnesse
Made thee of noght, and in especial
Draw unto him, and pray in general
For thee, and eek for other, hevenlich mede;
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.
(Chaucer: Balade de bon conseyl. ab. 1385.)
Here Chaucer follows the rules of the ballade carefully, but in the
"rime royal" stanza. It will be noticed that the rime-word "al" seems to
be repeated, but it is used each time in a distinct sense,
hence—according to the rules of Chaucer's time, as of modern French—is
regarded as a different rime-word each time.
Compare, also, Chaucer's Fortune ("Balades de visage sanz
peinture"), made of three ballades, with one envoy; the Balade to
Rosemound and Moral Balade on Gentilesse, without envoys; the
ballades on Lak of Stedfastnesse and the Compleint of Chaucer to his
Empty Purse, with envoys addressed to the king; also the ballade in the
Prologue to the Legend of Good Women, B-text, ll. 249-269. The
Compleynt of Venus, like Fortune, is in three ballades, with one
envoy, and is of special interest as being based on three French
ballades of Graunson.[48] Says Chaucer:
"And eek to me hit is a greet penaunce,
Sith rym in English hath swich scarsitee,
To folowe word by word the curiositee
Of Graunson, flour of hem that make in Fraunce."
In the Prologue to the Legend of Good Women, when Chaucer is accused
by the god of love for his translation of the Romance of the Rose,
Alcestis defends him by enumerating his other works, which include:
"many an ympne for your halydayes,
That highten Balades, Roundels, Virelayes."
(B-text, ll. 422 f.)
On the roundels, see below; none of Chaucer's virelays have come down to
us. Chaucer's contemporary, John Gower, also wrote ballades, but in
French.
Tell me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where's Hipparcha, 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 Héloise, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, 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-year?
White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,
With a voice like any mermaiden,—
Bertha Broadfoot, 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?
(Rossetti: The Ballad of Dead Ladies, from the French of François
Villon, 1450.)
This is a notable translation of a notable ballade, but it will be
observed that it does not follow the strict rules as to the number of
rimes. In Mr. Andrew Lang's Ballades of Blue China is a formally
correct translation.
Where are the cities of the plain?
And where the shrines of rapt Bethel?
And Calah, built of Tubal-Cain?
And Shinar whence King Amraphal
Came out in arms, and fought, and fell,
Decoyed into the pits of slime
By Siddim, and sent sheer to hell;
Where are the cities of old time?
Where now is Karnak, that great fane
With granite built, a miracle?
And Luxor smooth without a stain,
Whose graven scriptures still we spell?
The jackal and the owl may tell,
Dark snakes around their ruins climb,
They fade like echo in a shell;
Where are the cities of old time?
And where is white Shusan, again,
Where Vashti's beauty bore the bell,
And all the Jewish oil and grain
Were brought to Mithridath to sell,
Where Nehemiah would not dwell,
Because another town sublime
Decoyed him with her oracle?
Where are the cities of old time?
Envoy
Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell,
Above their wasted toil and crime
The waters of oblivion swell:
Where are the cities of old time?
(Edmund Gosse: Ballad of Dead Cities.)
In this ballade Mr. Gosse finely reproduces the more serious tones of
the old form, and imitates the ancient custom of addressing the envoy to
royalty. This motif, of old things lost, is a favorite one for the
serious ballade, being suggested by Villon's Ballade of Dead Ladies.
Compare Mr. Lang's Ballade of Dead Cities, in Ballades of Blue
China.
On the other hand, the next specimen illustrates the use of the form for
the light familiarity of vers de société and parody.
He lived in a cave by the seas,
He lived upon oysters and foes,
But his list of forbidden degrees
An extensive morality shows;
Geological evidence goes
To prove he had never a pan,
But he shaved with a shell when he chose,
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze,
He worshipp'd the river that flows,
And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees,
And bogies, and serpents, and crows;
He buried his dead with their toes
Tucked up, an original plan,
Till their knees came right under their nose,
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
His communal wives, at his ease,
He would curb with occasional blows;
Or his state had a queen, like the bees
(As another philosopher trows):
When he spoke it was never in prose,
But he sang in a strain that would scan,
For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose)
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
Envoy
Max, proudly your Aryans pose,
But their rigs they undoubtedly ran,
For, as every Darwinian knows,
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
(Andrew Lang: Ballade of Primitive Man.)
In Mr. Lang's Ballades of Blue China this appears as a double
ballade, with three more stanzas.
From the sunny climes of France,
Flying to the west,
Came a flock of birds by chance,
There to sing and rest:
Of some secrets deep in quest,—
Justice for their wrongs,—
Seeking one to shield their breast,
One to write their songs.
Melodies of old romance,
Joy and gentle jest,
Notes that made the dull heart dance
With a merry zest;—
Maids in matchless beauty drest,
Youths in happy throngs;—
These they sang to tempt and test
One to write their songs.
In old London's wide expanse
Built each feathered guest,—
Man's small pleasure to entrance,
Singing him to rest,—
Came, and tenderly confessed,
Perched on leafy prongs,
Life were sweet if they possessed
One to write their songs.
Envoy
Austin, it was you they blest:
Fame to you belongs!
Time has proven you're the best
One to write their songs.
(Frank Dempster Sherman: To Austin Dobson.)
Mr. Austin Dobson is said to have been the first to reintroduce the
ballade into English poetry, and the present specimen is a tribute to
his success by an American poet.
Bird of the bitter bright gray golden morn
Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years,
First of us all and sweetest singer born
Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears
Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears;
When song new-born put off the old world's attire
And felt its tune on her changed lips expire,
Writ foremost on the roll of them that came
Fresh girt for service of the latter lyre,
Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
(Swinburne: Ballad of François Villon, Prince of all Ballad-Makers,
st. i.)
This specimen represents the ballade in ten-line stanzas.
There is also an extended form of the ballade, called the Chant Royal,
with five stanzas and envoy, the stanzas consisting of eleven verses.
The usual rime-scheme is ababccddede, with envoy ddede. For
admirable specimens, see Mr. Dobson's Dance of Death and Mr. Gosse's
Praise of Dionysus, in Ballades and Rondeaus, pp. 98, 100. Mr. White
says of this form: "The chant royal in the old form is usually devoted
to the unfolding of an allegory in its five stanzas, the envoy supplying
the key; but this is not always observed in modern examples. Whatever be
the subject, however, it must always march in stately rhythm with
splendid imagery, using all the poetic adornments of sonorous,
highly-wrought lines and rich embroidery of words, to clothe a theme in
itself a lofty one. Unless the whole poem is constructed with intense
care, the monotony of its sixty-one lines rhymed on five sounds is
unbearable." (Ballades and Rondeaus, Introduction, p. liv.)
Rondel is the old French form of the word rondeau, and the terms are
therefore naturally interchangeable. They have been applied to a number
of different forms, all characterized by a refrain so repeated as to
link together different parts of the structure. Two of these forms are
particularly familiar. The first (called more commonly the rondel)
consists of fourteen lines, with only two rimes; the first two lines
constitute the refrain, and are commonly repeated as the seventh and
eighth and again as the thirteenth and fourteenth. The rime-scheme
varies, but is often ABba, abAB, abbaAB (the capitals indicating the
repeated lines of the refrain). Sometimes the form is shortened to
thirteen lines, the second line of the refrain not being repeated at the
close. The second principal form (called more commonly the rondeau)
consists of thirteen lines, with two rimes, and an unrimed refrain,
taken from the opening words of the first line, which follows the eighth
line and is again repeated at the end. The common rime-scheme is
aabba,aab (refrain), aabba
(refrain). Both these forms are found in early French poetry, together
with many variations. The modern distinction between rondeau and
rondel is artificial but convenient.
i. "Rondel" Type
Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres weders over-shake,
And driven awey the longe nightes blake!
Seynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte,
Thus singen smale foules for thy sake:
Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres weders over-shake.
Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte,
Sith ech of hem recovered hath his make;
Ful blisful may they singen whan they wake:
Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres weders over-shake,
And driven awey the longe nightes blake.
(Chaucer: Qui bien aime a tard oublie, in The Parlement of Foules,
ll. 680-692. ab. 1380.)
This is the "roundel" sung by the birds "to do Nature honour and
plesaunce." "The note" we are told was made in France. It will be seen
that Chaucer employs a form with three-line refrain, of which the first
two lines are twice repeated, the last only once: ABB,abAB,abbABB. The
same form is used in the three roundels of Merciles Beaute.
Too hard it is to sing
In these untuneful times,
When only coin can ring,
And no one cares for rhymes!
Alas! for him who climbs
To Aganippe's spring:—
Too hard it is to sing
In these untuneful times!
His kindred clip his wing;
His feet the critic limes;
If Fame her laurel bring
Old age his forehead rimes:—
Too hard it is to sing
In these untuneful times!
(Austin Dobson: Too hard it is to sing.)
Underneath this tablet rest,
Grasshopper by autumn slain,
Since thine airy summer nest
Shivers under storm and rain.
Freely let it be confessed
Death and slumber bring thee gain
Spared from winter's fret and pain,
Underneath this tablet rest.
Myro found thee on the plain,
Bore thee in her lawny breast,
Reared this marble tomb amain
To receive so small a guest!
Underneath this tablet rest,
Grasshopper by autumn slain.
(Edmund Gosse: After Anyte of Tegea.)
In this the second line of the refrain is omitted where we should expect
it as line eight, the scheme of the first part of the rondel being
changed to ABab, abbA.
The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.
From camp and church, the fireside and the street,
She signs to come, and strife and song have been.
A summer night descending, cool and green
And dark, on daytime's dust and stress and heat,
The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.
O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien
And hopeful faces look upon and greet
This last of all your lovers, and to meet
Her kiss, the Comforter's, your spirit lean.—
The ways of Death are soothing and serene.
(W. E. Henley: The Ways of Death.)
ii. "Rondeau" Type
Ma foi, c'est fait de moi, car Isabeau
M'a conjuré de lui faire un rondeau.
Cela me met en peine extrême.
Quoi! treize vers, huit en -èau, cinq en -ème!
Je lui ferais aussitôt un bateau.
En voilà cinq pourtant en un monceau,
Faisons-en huit, en invoquant Brodeau,
Et puis mettons, par quelque stratagème:
Ma foi, c'est fait.
Si je pouvais encore de mon cerveau
Tirer cinq vers, l'ouvrage serait beau;
Mais cependant je suis dedans l'onzième:
Et si je crois que je fais le douzième,
En voilà treize ajustés au niveau.
Ma foi, c'est fait!
(Voiture: Rondeau, ab. 1640. In Œuvres de Voiture, ed. Ubicini,
vol. ii. p. 314.)
This is perhaps the most famous of rondeaus of the type which Voiture
did much to make popular.
What no pardy ye may be sure
Thinck not to make me to yor lure
With wordes and chere so contrarieng
Swete and sowre contrewaing
To much it were still to endure
Trouth is tryed where craft is in ure
But though ye have had my herte cure
Trow ye I dote withoute ending
What no pardy
Though that with pain I do procure
For to forgett that ons was pure
Wtin my hert shall still that thing
Unstable unsure and wavering
Be in my mynde without recure
What no pardye.
(Sir Thomas Wyatt: Rondeau in Wyatt MS., reproduced in Anglia, vol.
xviii. p. 478. ab. 1540.)
Besides the rondeaus found in the Wyatt MS., three poems of Wyatt's,
published in Tottel's Songs and Sonnets (1557), were evidently
intended as rondeaus (see Arber's Reprint, pp. 53, 73). The editor, not
understanding the form or thinking it too unfamiliar to be popular,
seems to have changed it to a sort of sonnet, omitting the refrain at
the end and making a complete line of it as the ninth of the poem. These
hidden rondeaus were discussed by Mr. Dobson in the Athenæum for 1878
(vol. i. p. 380); see also Alscher's Sir Thomas Wyatt und seine
Stellung, etc.
Thou fool! if madness be so rife,
That, spite of wit, thou'lt have a wife,
I'll tell thee what thou must expect—
After the honeymoon neglect,
All the sad days of thy whole life;
To that a world of woe and strife,
Which is of marriage the effect—
And thou thy woe's own architect,
Thou fool!
Thou'lt nothing find but disrespect,
Ill words i' th' scolding dialect,
For she'll all tabor be, or fife;
Then prythee go and whet thy knife,
And from this fate thyself protect,
Thou fool!
(Charles Cotton: Rondeau. ab. 1675. Quoted by Guest, English
Rhythms, Skeat ed., p. 645.)
A good rondeau I was induced to show
To some fair ladies some short while ago;
Well knowing their ability and taste,
I asked should aught be added or effaced,
And prayed that every fault they'd make me know.
The first did her most anxious care bestow
To impress one point from which I ne'er should go:
"Upon a good beginning must be based
A good rondeau."
Zeal bid the other's choicest language glow:
She softly said: "Recount your weal or woe,
Your every subject, free from pause or haste;
Ne'er let your hero fail, nor be disgraced."
The third: "With varying emphasis should flow
A good rondeau."
(J. R. Best: Ung Bon Rondeau, in Rondeaulx. Translated from the
French, ed. 1527. 1838. Quoted in Ballades and Rondeaus, Introduction,
p. xxxviii.)
Death, of thee do I make my moan,
Who hadst my lady away from me,
Nor wilt assuage thine enmity
Till with her life thou hast my own;
For since that hour my strength has flown.
Lo! what wrong was her life to thee,
Death?
Two we were, and the heart was one;
Which now being dead, dead I must be,
Or seem alive as lifelessly
As in the choir the painted stone,
Death!
(Rossetti: To Death, of his Lady, from the French of Villon, 1450.)
This represents an early short form of the rondeau.
With pipe and flute the rustic Pan
Of old made music sweet for man;
And wonder hushed the warbling bird,
And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,—
The rolling river slowlier ran.
Ah! would,—ah! would, a little span,
Some air of Arcady could fan
This age of ours, too seldom stirred
With pipe and flute!
But now for gold we plot and plan;
And from Beersheba unto Dan
Apollo's self might pass unheard,
Or find the night-jar's note preferred.—
Not so it fared, when time began
With pipe and flute!
(Austin Dobson: With Pipe and Flute.)
What is to come we know not. But we know
That what has been was good—was good to show,
Better to hide, and best of all to bear.
We are the masters of the days that were:
We have lived, we have loved, we have suffered—even so.
Shall we not take the ebb who had the flow?
Life was our friend. Now, if it be our foe—
Dear, though it break and spoil us!—need we care
What is to come?
Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow,
Or the gold weather round us mellow slow:
We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare
And we can conquer, though we may not share
In the rich quiet of the afterglow
What is to come.
(W. E. Henley: What is to Come.)
A man must live! We justify
Low shift and trick to treason high,
A little vote for a little gold,
To a whole senate bought and sold,
With this self-evident reply.
But is it so? Pray tell me why
Life at such cost you have to buy?
In what religion were you told
"A man must live"?
There are times when a man must die.
Imagine for a battle-cry
From soldiers with a sword to hold—
From soldiers with the flag unrolled—
This coward's whine, this liar's lie,
"A man must live"!
(Charlotte Perkins Stetson: A Man Must Live.)
A Roundel is wrought as a ring or a starbright sphere,
With craft of delight and with cunning of sound unsought,
That the heart of the hearer may smile if to pleasure his ear
A roundel is wrought.
Its jewel of music is carven of all or of aught—
Love, laughter, or mourning—remembrance of rapture or fear—
That fancy may fashion to hang in the ear of thought.
As a bird's quick song runs round, and the hearts in us hear—
Pause answers to pause, and again the same strain caught,
So moves the device whence, round as a pearl or tear,
A roundel is wrought.
(Swinburne: The Roundel, in A Century of Roundels.)
Mr. Swinburne has reintroduced the old word-form "roundel," to
distinguish this style of rondeau, of his own devising, with nine long
lines, riming aba, bab, aba, the refrain riming also with the b
lines.
This highly intricate form was originally used for pastoral or idyllic
verse, and it is commonly reserved, as Mr. Dobson observes, for subjects
"full of sweetness and simplicity." In its typical form it consists of
nineteen lines, divided into five groups or stanzas of three and one of
four. There are but two rimes, and the two verses which constitute the
refrain recur again and again, line 1 reappearing as line 6, line 12,
and line 18, while line 3 reappears as line 9, line 15, and line 19. The
rime scheme of all the tercets is aba, of the conclusion abaa. Those
villanelles are considered most highly finished in which the refrain
recurs with slightly different significations.
On the history of this form, see J. Boulmier's Les Villanelles, Paris,
1878. The modern development of the villanelle has been largely
influenced by the work of Passerat (1534-1602), whose most famous
villanelle is the following specimen:
J'ay perdu ma tourterelle;
Est-ce-point elle que j'oy?
Je veux aller après elle.
Tu regrettes ta femelle;
Hélas! aussy fay-je moy:
J'ay perdu ma tourterelle.
Si ton amour est fidèle,
Aussy est ferme ma foy;
Je veux aller après elle.
Ta plainte se renouvelle?
Toujours plaindre je me doy:
J'ay perdu ma tourterelle.
En ne voyant plus la belle
Plus rien de beau je ne voy:
Je veux aller après elle.
Mort, que tant de fois j'apelle,
Prens ce que se donne à toy:
J'ai perdu ma tourterelle.
Je veux aller après elle.
(Jean Passerat: Villanelle.)
When I saw you last, Rose,
You were only so high;—
How fast the time goes!
Like a bud ere it blows,
You just peeped at the sky,
When I saw you last, Rose!
Now your petals unclose,
Now your May-time is nigh;—
How fast the time goes!
And a life,—how it grows!
You were scarcely so shy
When I saw you last, Rose!
In your bosom it shows
There's a guest on the sly;
How fast the time goes!
Is it Cupid? Who knows!
Yet you used not to sigh,
When I saw you last, Rose;—
How fast the time goes!
(Austin Dobson: When I Saw You Last, Rose.)
A dainty thing's the Villanelle.
Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme,
It serves its purpose passing well.
A double-clappered silver bell
That must be made to clink in chime,
A dainty thing's the Villanelle;
And if you wish to flute a spell,
Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime,
It serves its purpose passing well.
You must not ask of it the swell
Of organs grandiose and sublime—
A dainty thing's the Villanelle;
And, filled with sweetness, as a shell
Is filled with sound, and launched in time,
It serves its purpose passing well.
Still fair to see and good to smell
As in the quaintness of its prime,
A dainty thing's the Villanelle,
It serves its purpose passing well.
(W. E. Henley: Villanelle.)
Wouldst thou not be content to die
When low-hung fruit is hardly clinging
And golden Autumn passes by?
Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky,
While sunset bells are faintly ringing,
Wouldst thou not be content to die?
For wintry webs of mist on high
Out of the muffled earth are springing,
And golden Autumn passes by.
O now when pleasures fade and fly,
And Hope her southward flight is winging,
Wouldst thou not be content to die?
Lest Winter come, with wailing cry
His cruel icy bondage bringing,
When golden Autumn hath passed by;
And thou with many a tear and sigh,
While life her wasted hands is wringing,
Shall pray in vain for leave to die
When golden Autumn hath passed by.
(Edmund Gosse: Villanelle.)
Spring knocks at winter's frosty door:
In boughs by wild March breezes swayed
The bonnie bluebirds sing once more.
The brooks have burst their fetters hoar,
And greet with noisy glee the glade;
Spring knocks at winter's frosty door.
The swallow soon will northward soar,
The rush uplift its gleaming blade,
The bonnie bluebirds sing once more.
Soon sunny skies their gold will pour
O'er meads that breezy maples shade;
Spring knocks at winter's frosty door.
Along the reedy river's shore,
Fleet fauns will frolic unafraid,
The bonnie bluebirds sing once more.
And Love, the Love we lost of yore,
Will come to twine the myrtle braid;
Spring knocks at winter's frosty door,
The bonnie bluebirds sing once more.
(Clinton Scollard: Spring Knocks at Winter's Frosty Door.)
The triolet is really a diminutive form of the Rondeau, and was not
originally distinguished by name. It consists of eight lines, with two
rimes, lines 1 and 2 recurring as lines 7 and 8, and line 1 also as line
4. The rime-scheme is ABaAabAB. Here, as in the villanelle, a change
of signification in the repeated lines is thought to add to the charm of
the form.
A French specimen, from Ranchin, is cited by Mr. Gleeson White as being
called by some "the king of triolets":
Le premier jour du mois de mai
Fut le plus heureux de ma vie:
Le beau dessein que je formai,
Le premier jour du mois de mai!
Je vous vis et je vous aimai.
Si ce dessein vous plut, Sylvie,
Le premier jour du mois de mai
Fut le plus heureux de ma vie.
Easy is the Triolet,
If you really learn to make it!
Once a neat refrain you get,
Easy is the Triolet.
As you see!—I pay my debt
With another rhyme. Deuce take it,
Easy is the Triolet,
If you really learn to make it!
(W. E. Henley.)
Rose kissed me to-day,
Will she kiss me to-morrow?
Let it be as it may,
Rose kissed me to-day.
But the pleasure gives way
To a savor of sorrow;—
Rose kissed me to-day,—
Will she kiss me to-morrow?
I intended an Ode,
And it turned to a Sonnet.
It began à 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.
(Austin Dobson: Rose Leaves.)
In an earlier version of this last "rose-leaf" the ode is said to have
"turned into triolets," when Rose crossed the road "with a bunch of
fresh violets."
A little kiss when no one sees,
Where is the impropriety?
How sweet amid the birds and bees
A little kiss when no one sees!
Nor is it wrong, the world agrees,
If taken with sobriety.
A little kiss when no one sees,
Where is the impropriety?
(Samuel Minturn Peck: Under the Rose.)
Worldly designs, fears, hopes, farewell!
Farewell all earthly joys and cares!
On nobler thoughts my soul shall dwell!
Worldly designs, fears, hopes, farewell!
At quiet, in my peaceful cell,
I'll think on God, free from your snares;
Worldly designs, fears, hopes, farewell!
Farewell all earthly joys and cares!
(Patrick Carey: in Trivial Poems and Triolets, 1651; reprinted by
Scott, 1819; this triolet also quoted in Ballades and Rondeaus,
Introduction, p. xxxvi.)
Originally, the triolet was often used for serious sentiment. The
present and the following specimen are rare instances of its serious use
in English.
In his arms thy silly lamb
Lo! he gathers to his breast!
See, thou sadly bleating dam,
See him lift thy silly lamb!
Hear it cry, "How blest I am!—
Here is love and love is rest."
In his arms thy silly lamb
See him gather to his breast!
(George Macdonald.)
This form, although originally found in Provençal like the others of the
group, has been more used in Italy than in France, and, as the English
form of the word indicates, was introduced into England under Italian
influence. It was invented at the end of the thirteenth century, by the
troubadour Arnaut Daniel, celebrated in the following specimen. The
common form of the sestina has six stanzas of six lines each, with a
tercet at the end. There is usually no rime, but the stanzas are based
on six end-words, which are the same in all stanzas; in the tercet three
of these words are used in the middle of the lines, and three at the
ends. The order of the end-words changes in each stanza according to a
complex system: thus (in the common modern form) if the end-words of the
first stanza be represented by 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, the order in the second
stanza will be 6, 1, 5, 2, 4, 3; in the third, 3, 6, 4, 1, 2, 5; in the
fourth, 5, 3, 2, 6, 1, 4; in the fifth, 4, 5, 1, 3, 6, 2; in the sixth,
2, 4, 6, 5, 3, 1. Sometimes the end-words also rime by twos and threes.
In fair Provence, the land of lute and rose,
Arnaut, great master of the lore of love,
First wrought sestines to win his lady's heart;
For she was deaf when simpler staves he sang,
And for her sake he broke the bonds of rhyme,
And in this subtler measure hid his woe.
"Harsh be my lines," cried Arnaut, "harsh the woe,
My lady, that enthroned and cruel rose,
Inflicts on him that made her live in rhyme!"
But through the metre spake the voice of Love,
And like a wildwood nightingale he sang
Who thought in crabbed lays to ease his heart.
It is not told if her untoward heart
Was melted by her poet's lyric woe,
Or if in vain so amorously he sang.
Perchance through crowd of dark conceits he rose
To nobler heights of philosophic love,
And crowned his later years with sterner rhyme.
This thing alone we know: the triple rhyme
Of him who bared his vast and passionate heart
To all the crossing flames of hate and love,
Wears in the midst of all its storm and woe—
As some loud morn of March may bear a rose—
The impress of a song that Arnaut sang.
"Smith of his mother-tongue," the Frenchman sang
Of Lancelot and of Galahad, the rhyme
That beat so bloodlike at its core of rose,
It stirred the sweet Francesca's gentle heart
To take that kiss that brought her so much woe,
And sealed in fire her martyrdom of love.
And Dante, full of her immortal love,
Stayed his drear song, and softly, fondly sang
As though his voice broke with that weight of woe;
And to this day we think of Arnaut's rhyme,
Whenever pity at the laboring heart
On fair Francesca's memory drops the rose.
Ah! sovereign Love, forgive this weaker rhyme!
The men of old who sang were great at heart,
Yet have we too known woe, and worn thy rose.
(Edmund Gosse: Sestina.)
For a specimen of the rimed sestina, see Swinburne's Poems and
Ballads, Second Series, p. 46.
The Virelai, which we have seen was one of the forms used by Chaucer,
though not represented in his extant poetry, has been but slightly
imitated in English. It was a poem of indeterminate length, composed of
longer and shorter lines, the longer lines in each stanza riming, the
shorter lines in the same stanza also riming, while in the succeeding
stanza the short-line rime of the previous stanza became the long-line
rime. The last stanza took the unrepeated rime of the first stanza as
its new rime; so that in the whole poem each rime was used in two
stanzas. Charles Cotton, one of whose rondeaus has been quoted, also
wrote a virelai. A modern specimen, by Mr. John Payne, is quoted in
Ballades and Rondeaus, p. 276.
The Pantoum is another very interesting form belonging in this group
rather than elsewhere, although it originated not in France but
Malaysia. It was imitated in French by Victor Hugo and other poets, and
through French influence has found a place in English verse. It consists
of an indeterminate number of stanzas of four lines each, the second and
fourth line of each stanza being repeated as the first and third of the
succeeding stanza, while the second and fourth lines of the last stanza
repeat the first and third lines of the first stanza. Thus the whole
forms a sort of interwoven circle, and is used most appropriately to
represent any kind of monotony,—the dull round of repetition. From
Love in Idleness (1883) Mr. White reprints the following admirable
specimen:
Monologue d'outre Tombe.
Morn and noon and night,
Here I lie in the ground;
No faintest glimmer of light,
No lightest whisper of sound.
Here I lie in the ground;
The worms glide out and in;
No lightest whisper of sound,
After a lifelong din.
The worms glide out and in;
They are fruitful and multiply;
After a lifelong din
I watch them quietly.
They are fruitful and multiply,
My body dwindles the while;
I watch them quietly;
I can scarce forbear a smile.
My body dwindles the while,
I shall soon be a skeleton;
I can scarce forbear a smile,
They have had such glorious fun.
I shall soon be a skeleton,
The worms are wriggling away;
They have had such glorious fun,
They will fertilize my clay.
The worms are wriggling away,
They are what I have been;
They will fertilize my clay;
The grass will grow more green.
They are what I have been.
I shall change, but what of that?
The grass will grow more green,
The parson's sheep grow fat.
I shall change, but what of that?
All flesh is grass, one says.
The parson's sheep grow fat,
The parson grows in grace.
All flesh is grass, one says;
Grass becomes flesh, one knows;
The parson grows in grace:
I am the grace he grows.
Grass becomes flesh, one knows.
He grows like a bull of Bashan.
I am the grace he grows;
I startle his congregation.
He grows like a bull of Bashan,
One day he'll be Bishop or Dean.
I startle his congregation;
One day I shall preach to the Queen.
One day he'll be Bishop or Dean,
One of those science-haters;
One day I shall preach to the Queen.
To think of my going in gaiters!
One of those science-haters,
Blind as a mole or bat;
To think of my going in gaiters,
And wearing a shovel hat!
Blind as a mole or bat,
No faintest glimmer of light,
And wearing a shovel hat,
Morning and noon and night.