PART TWO (continued 4)
Reading edition
"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.
FOOTNOTES:
VII. IMITATIONS OF ARTIFICIAL FRENCH LYRICAL FORMS
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.)
A.—THE BALLADE
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.)
B.—THE RONDEAU AND RONDEL
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.
C.—THE VILLANELLE
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.)
D.—THE TRIOLET
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.)
E.—THE SESTINA
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.