A Thousand and One Gems of English Poetry. Selected and arranged by C. M. ... Illustrated by J. E. Millais, J. Gilbert, and Birket Foster

Introduction

. The design of the Editor or Compiler of the following volume was to present one great panoramic view of the masterpieces of English poetry, and that of the publishers to issue it in a form and at a price which would recommend it to the taste of the rich, without placing it beyond the means of the poor. The original intention of the Editor was to commence with Chaucer and end with Wordsw-orth, Moore, Rogers, Hood, Campbell, and other poets of the last generation, who have recently passed from among us, thus excluding the works of living writers. To this arrangement the publishers made objection, on the ground, very easily defensible, that some of the brightest gems of the " Thousand and One " are the productions of living genius — both in Great Britain and the United States of America. The Editor yielded the point, but was met with the serious difficulty that it was not in all cases possible to include the works of living writers — even if their con sent could be obtained ; — firstly, because the copyrights were not always their own ; — secondly, because their addresses were not obtain able without great trouble and loss of time ; — and thirdly, because the modern poets, in England and America, were so numerous, that if specimens of all their poetic jewellery were got together, an undue proportion of the volume would be occupied by writers of the second half of the nineteenth century.

Another difficulty which personally was more serious, existed in the dilemma in which the Editor found himself with regard to his own compositions. Had any other than himself been Editor, the publishers were of opinion that his consent would assuredly have been asked for permission to reproduce some of his lyrics and other pieces ; while the Editor, on his part, knew that had such consent been asked, it would have been cheerfully given. If there be, under b

INTRODUCTION.

. IV the circumstances, an apparent sin against good taste in the matter, the publishers must bear the blame ;— for it is they who have put the pressure upon the Editor, and compelled his assent to a selection, which would not have been necessary, if the original idea of the volume had been adhered to. As regards the selection itself, it claims to justify its title, and to afford a fair as well as comprehensive view of the rise, progress, and present state of English poetry. All the " Gems " in the volume are not of equal brilliancy. The diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and pearls of literature are few ;— but there are other " gems " than these, of inferior value, but still gemlike ;— agate, cornelian, amethyst, turquoise, onyx, and scores of others known to the lapidary and jeweller, and prized by them and by the public to whose apprecia tion they are offered.

To the living writers, whose consent has been given to the appearance of their " gems " in these pages, the Editor offers his best thanks ;— to the living writers whose consent has not been asked, he offers his apologies, and would gladly have included some specimens of their genius had time and the bulk of the volume permitted ; and to those who have been asked and who have not replied, he has to explain that wherever permission was possible, he would not act without it. To the publishers of the works of authors recently deceased, and proprietors of their copyrights, he has also to offer his acknowledgments for their courtesy, and for the promptitude with which they entered into what, he supposes, would have been the feelings of those poets if they had been still alive ; — the very natural desire to appear in the immortal company of the Fathers of English Song.

The Editor desires also to acknowledge thankfully the courtesy of Messrs. Ticknor and Fields, of Boston, proprietors of the works of Longfellow, Emerson, Holmes, Lowell, Whittier, &c. ; and of Messrs. Appleton & Co., of New York, publishers of Bryant's poems — in granting exclusive permission to incorporate in this volume selections from the works of those distinguished American writers. London, January, 1S67. OF ENGLISH POETRY. [Geoffrey Chaucer. 1328 — 1400.] How busy they be us to keep and save Both in hele and also in sickness, And alway right sony for our distress ! In every manere thus shew they ruth, That in them is all goodness and all truth. PRAISE OF WOMEN. For, this ye know well, tho' I wouldin lie, In women is all truth and steadfastness ; For, in good faith, I never of them sie But much worship, bounty, and gentleness, Right coming, fair, and full of meekeness ; Good, and glad, and lowly, I you ensure, Is this goodly and angelic creature.

THE YOUNG SQUIRE. WITH him there was his son, a younge Squire, A lover and a lusty bacholer, With lockes crull, as they were laid in press. Of twenty year of age he was I guess. Of his stature he was of even length, And wonderly deliver and great of strength ; And he had been some time in chevachie In Flandres, in Artois, and in Picardy, And borne him well, as of so little space, In hope to standen in his lady's grace Embroidered was he, as it were a mead All full of sieshe flowers white and red. And if it hap a man be in disease, She doth her business and her*full pain With all her might him to comfort and please, If fro his disease him she might restrain : In word ne deed, I wis, she vvoll not faine ; With all her might she doth her business To bringen him out of his heaviness. Lo, here what gentleness these women have, If we could know it for our rudeness !

B A THOUSAND AND ONE QEMS. 2 [The Earl of Surrey. 1506 — 9547. GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS. Singing he was or fluting all the day : He was as fresh as is the month of May. Short was his gown, with sleeves long and wide ; Well could he sit on horse, and faire ride. He coulde songes well make, and indite, Joust, and eke dance, and well pourtray and write. So hot he loved, that by nightertale He slept no more than doth the nightingale. Courteous he was, lowly and serviceable, And carved before his father at the table. Give place, ye lovers, here before That spent your boasts and brags in vain ; My lady's beauty passeth more The best of yours, I dare well sayen, Than doth the sun the candlelight, Or brightest day the darkest night ; And thereto hath a troth as just As had Penelope the fair ; For what she saith ye may it trust, As it by writing sealed were ; — And virtues hath she many mo' Than I with pen have skill to show.

ARCITA'S DYING ADDRESS. " Alas the wo ! alas, the pain es strong That I for you have suffered, and so long ! Alas, the death ! — alas mine Emelie I Alas, departing of our company 1 Alas, mine herte's queen ! — alas, my wife, Mine herte's lady — ender of my life ! What is this world? What axen men to I could rehearse, if that I would, The whole effect of Nature's plaint, When she had lost the perfect mould, The like to whom she could not paint. With wringing hands, how did she cry ! And what she said, I know it aye. have? I know she swore, with raging mind, Her kingdom only set apart, There was no loss by law of kind That could have gone so near her heart ; And this was chiefly all her pain, — " She could not make the like again." Now with his love, now in his colde grave Alone ! withouten any company, Farewell, my sweet ! — farewell, mine Emelie !

" GOOD COUNSEL OF CHAUCER. Sith Nature thus gave her the praise To be the chiefest work she wrought, In faith, methink, some better ways On your behalf might well be sought, Than to compare, as ye have done, To match the caudle with the sun. Fly from the press,* and dwell with soothfastness ; Suffice unto thy good, though it be small, For hoards hath hate, and climbing tickleness ;"t Preise§ hath en vie, and weal is blent o'er all. IIO\Y NO AGE IS CONTENT WITH ITS OWN ESTATE. Savor|| no more than thee behoven shall, RedeU well thy self that other folk can'st rede, And Truth thee shalt deliver — 'tis no Layd in my quiet bed in study as I were, I saw within my troubled head, a heap of thoughts appear, And every thought did shew so lyvely in drede.** That thee is sent receive in buxomness : The wrestling of this world, asketh a fall.

Here is no home, here is but wilderness. Forth, pilgrim, forth — on, best out of thy stall, Look up on high, and thank the God of all! Weivithtt thy lust, and let thy ghost J J thee lead, And Truth thee shalt deliver — 'tis no drede. myne eyes, That now I sight, and then I smilde, as cause of thoughts did ryse. I saw the little boy, in thought how oft that he Did wishe of God, to scape the rod, a tall young man to be, The young man eake that feles his bones with paines opprest How he would be a riche old man, to live and lye at rest ; The riche olde man that sees his end draw * The crowd. . Treasure. J Uncertainty. § Commendation. || Desire. IT Counsel. «" Fear. ft Subdue. Jt Spirit. on so sore, How he would be a boy againe to live so much the more. COMPLAINT OF THE ABSENCE OF HIS LOVE. Whereat full oft I smylde, to see how all those three Soe feeble is the thred that doth the burden stay, Of my poor life in heavy plight that falleth in decay, That but it have elsewhere some ayde or From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree.

And musing thus, I think, the case is very strange, That man from wealth, to live in wo, doth ever seke to change. Thus thoughtfull as I lay, I sawe my withered skyn, How it doth shew my dented chewes, the flesh was worn so thin, And eke my totheless chaps, the gates of my right way, That opes and shuttes, as I do speak, do thus unto me say : The white and horish heres, the messengers of age, That shew like lines of true belief, that this life doth assuage, Biddes the lay hand, and feele them hanging on thy chin. The whiche doth write to ages past, the third now coming in ; Hang up therefore the bitte, of thy yong some succours, The running spindle of my fate anon shall end his course. For since the unhappy houre that dyd me to depart, From my sweet weale one only hoape hath stayed my life apart, Which doth perswade such words unto my sored mynde, Maintaine thy seise, O wofull wight, some better luck to find, For though thou be deprived from thy desired sight Who can thee tell, if thy returne before thy more delight ; Or who can tell thy loss if thou mayst once recover, Some pleasant houres thy wo may wrap, and thee defend and cover. wanton tyme, And thou that therein beaten art, the happiest life defyne.

Whereat I sighed, and sayde, farewell my wonted toye, Trusse up thy packe, and trudge from me, to every little boy, And tell them thus from me, their time Thus in this trust, as yet it hath my life sustained, But now (alas) I see it faint, and I by trust am trayned. The tyme doth flete, and I see how the hours do bende, So fast that I have scant the space to marke my coming end. Westward the sunn from out the east scant most happy is, If to theyr time they reason had, to know the truth of this. shewd his lite, When in the west he hies him straite within the dark of night [awry, And comes as fast, where he began his path From east to west, from west to east, so doth his journey lye. Thy lyfe so short, so frayle, that mortall men lyve here, Soe great a weight, so heavy charge the bodyes that we bere, That when I think upon the distance and the space, That doth so farre divide me from thy dere desired face, I know not how t'attaine the winges that I require, To lyft me up that I might fly to follow my desyre.

Thus of that hope that doth my lyfe somethyng susteyne, [Sir Thomas Wyatt. 1508 — 1554.] A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS HE COULD LOVE. A face that should content me wonderous well, Should not be fatt, but lovely to behold, Of lively look all griefe for to repell With right good grace so would I that it should. Speak without word, such words as none can tell ; Her tress also should be of crisped gold. With wit and these, perchaunce I might be tryde [slide. And knit againe with knot that should not B To me they do redouble still of stormy sighes the voice. For, I am one of them, whom plaint doth well content, It fits me well my absent wealth me semes for to lament, And with my teares t' assy to charge myne Alas I fear, and partly feel full little cloth remaine. Eche place doth bring me griefe where I doe not behold, Those lively eyes which of my thoughts, were wont the keys to hold.

Those thoughts were pleasant sweet whilst I enjoy'd that grace, My pleasure past, my present pain, when I might well embrace. And for because my want should more my eyes twayne, Like as my hart above the brink is fraughted full of payne. And for because thereto, that these fair eyes do treate, Do me provoke, I will retume, my plaint thus to repeate ; For there is nothing els, so toucheth me within, Where they rule all, and I alone, nought but the case or skin. woe increase, In watch and sleep both day and night my will doth never cease. That thing to wishe whereof synce I did lose the sight, Was never thing that mought in ought my wofull hart delight. Th' uneasy life I lead doth teach me for to Wherefore I shall retume to them as well mete, The floods, the seas, the land, the hills, or spring, From whom descends my mortall wo, above all other thing.

So shall myne eyes in paine accompany my heart, That were the guides, that did it lead of love to feel the smart. that doth them intermete, Twene me and those shene lights that wonted for to clere, My darked pangs of cloudy thoughts as bright as Phebus sphere; It teacheth me also, what was my pleasant The crisped gold that doth surmount Appolloe's pride, The lively streames of pleasant starrs that under it doth glyde, Wherein the beames of love doe still instate, The more to feele by such record how that my welth doth bate. If such record (alas) provoke the inflamed mynde, Which sprung that day that I dyd leave the best of me behynde, If love forgeat himselfe by length of absence let, Who doth me guid (0 wofull wretch) unto this baited net : crease theire heate, Which yet so far touch me to near in cold to make me sweat, The wise and pleasant take, so rare or else alone, That gave to me the curties gyft, that earst had never none.

Where doth encrease my care, much better were for me, As dumm as stone all things forgott, still absent for to be. Be far from me alas, and every other thing, I might forbear with better will, then this that did me bring. With pleasand woord and cheer, redress of lingred payne, And wonted oft in kindled will, to vertue Alas the clear christall, the bright transplendant glasse, Doth not bewray the colours hid which underneath it hase. me to trayne. Thus am I forc'd to hear and hearken after As doth the accumbred sprite the thoughtfull throwes discover, Of teares delyte of fervent love that in our hartes we cover, Out by these eyes, it sheweth that evermore delight ; In plaint and teares to seek redress, and eke both day and night. Those kindes of pleasures most wherein men soe rejoice, news, My comfort scant, my large desire in doubtful trust renews.

And yet with more delight to move my wofull case, I must complaine these hands, those armes, that firmly do embrace, Me from myself, and rule the Sterne of my poor life, The sweet disdaynes, the pleasant wrathes, and eke the holy strife, That wonted well to tune in temper just and mete, The rage, that oft did make me err by furour undiscrete. THE AGED LOVER RENOUNCETH LOVE. I lothe that I dyd love, In youth that I thought swete, As time requires for my behove, Methinks they are not mete. My lustes they do me leave, My fancies all are fled, And tract of time begynnes to weave Gray heares upon my hed. For age with stealing steppes Hath clawde me with his crouche, And lusty lyfe away she leapes As there had been none such. All this is hid from me with sharp and ragged hills, At others will my long abode, my depe dyspayr fulfills.

And of my hope sometime ryse up by some redresse, It stumbleth straite for feable faint my fear hath such excesse. Such is the sort of hoape, the less for more desyre, And yet I trust e're that I dye, to see that I require. The resting-place of love, where virtue dwells and growes, There I desire my weary life sometime may take repose, My song thou shalt attaine, to find the pleasant place, Where she doth live by whom I live, may chance to have this grace. When she hath read and seen, the griefe wherein I serve, Between her brests she shall thee put, there shall she thee reserve. My muse doth not delight Me as she dyd before, My hand and pen are not in plight, As they have been of yore. For reason me denyes This youthly ydle ryme, And day by day to me cryes, Leave of these toyes in tyme. The wrinkles in my browe, The furrows in my face, Say lymping age will lodge hym now, Where youth must geve him place.

The harbinger of death, To me I see him ride, The cough, the cold, the gasping breath Doth byd me to provyde A pickax and a spade And eke a shrowding shete, A house of clay for to be made, For such a geaste most mete. Methinkes I hear the clarke Then tell her, that I come, she shall me shortly see, And if for waight the body fayl, the soul shall to her flee. THE LONGER LIFE THE MORE OFFENCE. That knoles the carefull knell, And byddes me leave my woful warke, Ere nature me compell. My kepers knit the knot, That youth did laugh to skorne, Of me that cleane shall be forgot, As I had not been borne. The longer life the more offence, The more offence the greater paine, The greater paine the lesse defence, The lesse defence the lesser gaine ; The loss of gaine long yll doth trye, Wherefore come death and let me dye.

The shorter life, less count I finde, The less account the sooner made, The account soon made, the merier mind, The merier mynd doth thought evade ; Short life in truth this thing doth trye, Wherefore come death and let me dye. Come gentle death, the ebbe of care, The ebbe of care, the flood of life, The flood of life, the joyful fare, The joyful fare, the end of strife, The end of strife, that thing wish I, Wherefore come death and let me die. Thus must I youth geve up, Whose badge I long dyd weare, To them I yelde the wanton cup, That better may it beare. Lo, here the bare hed skull, By whose balde signe I know, That stouping age away shall pull Which youthful yeres did sowe. For beauty with her band These croked cares hath wrought, And shipped me into the land, From whence I fyrst was brought.

And ye that byde behinde, Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer? I pray you, tell anon ; For, in my mind, of all mankind Have ye none other trust As ye of clay were cast by kynd, So shall ye waste to dust. I love but you alone. He. [Anonymous. 1521.] It standeth so ; a deed is do Whereof great harm shall grow : My destiny is for to die A shameful death, I trow ; Or else to flee : the one must be. THE NUT-BROWN MAID. Be it right or wrong, these men among Of women do complain ; Affirming this, how that it is A labour spent in vain, To love them well ; for never a deal None other way I know, But to withdraw as an outlaw, And take me to my bow. Wherefore adieu, my own heart true ! None other rede I can : For I must to the green wood go, Alone a banished man. They love a man again : For let a man do what he can, Their favour to attain, Yet, if a new do them pursue, Their first true lover then Laboureth for nought ; for from their thought He is a banished man.

She. O Lord, what is this worldys bliss, That changeth as the moon ! My Summer's day in lusty May Is derked* before the noon. I hear you say, Farewell : nay, nay, We depart not so soon. Why say ye so ? whither will ye go ? Alas ! what have you done ? All my welfare to sorrow and care Should change, if you were gone ; For in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. I say not nay, but that all day It is both writ and said, That woman's faith is, as who saith, All utterly decayed ; But, nevertheless, right good witness In this case might be laid, That they love true, and continue : Record the Nut-brown Maid : Which, when her love came, her to prove, To her to make his moan, Would not depart ; for in her heart She loved but him alone. He. Then between us let us discuss What was all the manner I can believe, it shall you grieve, And somewhat you distrain ; But, afterward, your paynes hard Within a day or twain Shall soon aslakef: and ye shall take Comfort to you again.

Why should ye ought? for to make thought, Your labour were in vain. Between them two : we will also Tell all the pain, and fear, That she was in. Now I begin, So that ye me answer ; Wherefore, all ye, that present be I pray you, give an ear. "I am the knight ; I come by night, As secret as I can ; Saying, alas ! thus standeth the case, I am a banished man." And thus I do ; and pray you to, As hart'ly, as I can ; For I must to the green wood go, Alone, a banished man. She. She. And I your will for to fulfil In this will not refuse ; Trustying to shew, in wordes few, That men have an ill use (To their own shame) women to blame, And causeless them accuse ; Therefore to you I answer now, All women to excuse, — Now, sith that ye have shewed to me The secret of your mind, I shall be plain to you again, Like as ye shall me find.

Sith it is so, that ye will go, I will not leve behind ; * Derked— darkened. t Aslake— abate. Yet would I to the green wood go, Alone, a banished man, Shall never be said, the nut-brown maid Was to her love unkind : Make you ready, for so am I, Although it were anon ; For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone. She. Though it be song of old and young, That I should be to blame, Theirs be the charge, that speak so large In hurting of my name : For I will prove that faithful love It is devoid of shame ; In your distress, and heaviness, To part with you, the same : And sure all those, that do not so, True lovers are they none ; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. He. Yet I you rede* to take good heed What men will think, and say : Of young, and old it shall be told, That ye be gone away, Your wanton will for to fulfil, In green wood you to play ; And that ye might from your delight No longer make delay.

Rather than ye should thus for me Be called an ill woman, He. I counsel you, remember how, It is no maiden's law, * Rede — advise. -, Nothing to doubt, but to run out To wood with an outlaw : The thorny ways, the deep valleys, The snow, the frost, the rain, The cold, the heat : for dry, or wet, We must lodge on the plain ; And, us above, none other roof But a brake bush, or twain : Which soon should grieve you, I believe, And ye would gladly than That I had to the green wood gone, Alone, a banished man. For ye must there in your hand bear A bow, ready to draw, And, as a thief, thus must you live, Ever in dread and awe ; Whereby to you great harm might grow : Yet had I lever* than, That I did to the green wood go, Alone, a banished man. She. She. I think not nay, but as ye say, It is no maiden's lore : Sith I have here been partynere With you of joy and bliss, I must also part of your woe Endure, as reason is : Yet am I sure of one pleasure ; And shortly, it is this : That, where ye be, me seemeth, parde, I could not fare amiss.

But love may make me for your sake, As I have said before, To come on foot, to hunt, and shoot To get us meat in store ; For so that I your company May have, I ask no more : From which to part, it maketh my heart As cold as any stone ; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. Without more speech, I you beseech That we were soon agone ; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. He. He. For an outlaw this is the law, That men him take and bind ; Without pity, hanged to be, And waver with the wind. if I had need (as God forbid ! ) What rescue could ye find ? Forsooth, I trow, ye and your bow For fear would draw behind : And no marvel ; for little avail Were in your counsel then : ■ Wherefore I will to the green wood go, Alone, a banished man. If you go thither, ye must consider, When ye have lust to dine, There shall no meat be for you gete, Nor drink, beer, ale, nor wine.

No she'tes clean, to lie between, Made of thread and twine ; None other house but leaves and boughs, To cover your head and mine, O mine heart sweet, this evil dye'te Should make you pale and wan ; Wherefore I will to the greenwood go, Alone, a banished man. She. She. Right well know ye that woman be But feeble for to fight ; No womanhede it is indeed Among the wild deer, such an archer As men say that ye be, Ne may not fail of good vitayle, Where is so great plenty ; And water clear of the river Shall be full sweet to me; With which in helef I shall right wele Endure, as ye shall see ; And, or we go, a bed or two I can provide anon ; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. To be bold as a knight : Yet, in such fear if that ye were With enemies day or night, I would withstand, with bow in hand, To grieve them as I might, And you to save; as women have From death men many one ; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.

He. He. Yet take good heed ; for ever I dread That ye could not sustain Lo yet, before, ye must do more, If ye will go with me: * Lever — rather. * Vsa__— in truth. f Hele— health. As cut your hair up by your ear, Your kirtle by the knee ; With bow in hand, for to withstand He. A baron's child to be beguil'd ! It were a cursed deed ; To be felawe * with an outlaw ! Your enemies, if need be : And this same night before daylight, To wood-ward will I flee. Almighty God forbid ! Yet better were the poor squyere Alone to forest yede,t Than ye should say another day, That, by my cursed deed, Ye werebetray'd : Wherefore, good maid, The best rede + that I can, Is, that I to the green wood go, Alone, a banished man. If that ye will all this fulfil, Do it shortly as ye can : Else will I to the greenwood go, Alone, a banished man.