when we think of Marmion and The Lady of the Lake, we are not astonished to discover lyrics scattered over the broad surface of the Waverley series; King Arthur and The Lost Tales of Miletus prepare us for the verse in The Last Days of Pompeii and Kenelm Chillingly; The Saint's Tragedy and Andromeda account, in this way, for the songs in The Water Babies; from the author of The Inn of Strange Meetings come, naturally, the lyrics in Frances, and the rest; and, if there were no verse in the novels and romances of such poets as George MacDonald and George Meredith, the fact would surely be remarkable. On the other hand, there are writers of prose fiction of whom the everyday reader scarcely thinks as writers also of verse, in however slender a fashion. One does not look for poetry in Pamela, and it is not generally known how prone was the authoress of The Romance of the Forest to "twang the lyre." One does not spontaneously think of Marryat as a lyrist; the fact that G. P. R. James courted the Muse with some elaborateness is familiar to few but literary students; Dickens is not universally associated with "The Ivy Green ;" and Lord Beaconsfield is not often mentioned in connection with song-writing. Yet the aforesaid every-day reader will note with curiosity how many of our fictionists, not usually recognised as poets, have, in their prose works, ventured on at least an occasional "short swallow-flight of song." It will also be observed how many of our most popular lyrics have originally been given to the world as portions and parcels of a novel or a romance. It is not every one who knows, for example, that Lodge's "Love in my bosom like a bee" occurs in his Rosalynde; that Goldsmith's "When lovely woman stoops to folly," is in his Vicar of Wakefield; that Holcroft's "Why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray? is to be found in his Hugh Trevor; that Thackeray's "Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin," is imbedded in his Rebecca and Rowena; that Lover's "What would you do, love?" occurs in his Handy Andy; that Kingsley's "When all the world is young, lad," is in his Water Babies; that MacDonald's "Alas! how easily things go wrong," is to be found in his Phantastes; and the like. Interesting as are these songs, and others like them, apart from their prose setting, the knowledge that they have such a setting will give them, in the eyes of many, an additional interest. The Arcadia, with some songs from which I commence this volume, is freely fitted with such matter, and it would have been easy to have added to the number of the extracts made. But the poet is for the most part terribly turgid in his style; his verses suffer from a plethora of thought; and sometimes, as in the line, "But thou, sure hope, tickle my leaping heart," his diction is not such as nineteenth-century readers can readily regard without a smile. Rich, too, in rhythmical intercalations are the romances of that true but too luxuriant genius, Robert Greene. I confine myself, in the body of this book, to songs actually, or intended to be, sung: otherwise I should have liked to include this characteristic little lyric1-characteristic of the man and of the time, in which, singularly enough, the pleasures of content were somewhat frequently celebrated :— "Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content; "The homely house that harbours quiet rest; The cottage that affords no pride nor care; A mind content both crown and kingdom is." 2 In Greene's case, too, the number of the songs selected might easily have been increased, but I will content myself with merely drawing attention to Orpheus's song "He that did sing the motion of the stars," and Arion's song "Seated upon the crooked dolphin's back," both in Orpharion; to Barmenissa's song "The stately state that wise men count their good," 1 From Farewell to Folly. "My mind to me a kingdom is."-Sir EDWARD Dyer. in Penelope's Web; to the shepherd's wife's song "Ah, what is love? It is a pretty thing," in The Mourning Garment; and to such other lyrics as Doron's description of Samela in Menaphon; the lines, "Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair," in Pandosto; and the "sonnet," "Fair is my love, for April in her face," in Perimedes the Blacksmith. These seem to me to be among the chief blossoms in Greene's flower-garden-a garden in which, no doubt, the weeds are also numerous. Of recent years the merits of Greene as a poet have been eloquently urged by Mr. Edmund Gosse,1 and I shall be glad if the songs I reproduce have the effect of securing for Greene a few additional students. which are also included in his Rosalynde. But the two latter are not, strictly speaking, songs, and can therefore be only mentioned in this place. Mr. Gosse is to be thanked again for disinterring, and making, I hope, popular, that charming poem of Lodge's, beginning, "Love guides the roses of thy lips," The English Poets, vol. i. and including the lines which recall the of a later poet. "Love in thine eyes doth build his bower "Love in thine eyes sits playing" Richardson and Amory, I believe, were guiltless of writing other "poetry" than that which appears in their romances; but Fielding, I need scarcely say, produced some excellent semi-humorous, semi-satiric Smollett is still remembered as a poet by his "Ode to Independence and his "Tears of Scotland"; whilst, as for Goldsmith, if "The Traveller " is not what we call immortal, surely the "Retaliation" will be? Justice, perhaps, has scarcely yet been done to the poetic outcome of Mrs. Radcliffe. We may not be able to agree with Sir Walter Scott that "her poetry partakes of the rich and beautiful colouring which distinguishes her prose composition:" that seems almost too high a commendation. But we may at least manage to accept the more chastened judgment of Mrs. Barbauld: that "there are many elegant pieces of poetry interspersed through the volumes of Mrs. Radcliffe." In addition to those given in this collection, I may name the song of the Spirit, the "sonnet," "In the sightless air I dwell; " "How sweet is love's first gentle sway;" and the "air," "Now at moonlight's fairy hour:" Alas! all hidden within the little-opened pages of The Romance of the Forest. Mrs. Radcliffe, it may be recorded, published a volume of her verses. who reads it now? |