The Hundred Best English Poems.

by Various.

PREFATORY NOTE.

Let me frankly admit, to begin with, that the attractiveness and probable selling qualities of the t.i.tle of this little book, "The Hundred Best English Poems," proved, when it had been once thought of, too powerful arguments for it to be abandoned. I am fully conscious of the presumption such a t.i.tle implies in an unknown selector, but at the same time I submit that only a plebiscite of duly qualified lovers of poetry could make a selection that could claim to deserve this t.i.tle beyond all question, and such a plebiscite is of course impossible. I can claim no more than that my attempt to realize this t.i.tle is an honest one, and I can a.s.sert, without fear of contradiction, that every one of the poems I have included is a "gem of purest ray serene"; that none can be too often read or too often repeated to one's self; that every one of them should be known by heart by every lover of good literature, so that each may become, as it were, a part of his inner being.

I have not inserted any poems by living authors.

I have taken the greatest care with the texts of the poems. The editions followed have been mentioned in every case. I have scrupulously retained the punctuation of these original editions, and only modernized the spelling of the old copies; while I have not ventured to omit any part of any poem. I have not supplied t.i.tles of my own, but have adopted those I found already employed in the editions used as models, or, in some of the cases in which I found none, have merely added a descriptive one, such as "Song from 'Don Juan.'"

In conclusion, my very warmest thanks are due to Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd., for permission to include Tennyson's "Crossing the Bar"; to Mr. D. Nutt for permission to insert W. E. Henley's "To R. T. H. B."

and "Margaritae Sorori"; to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. for a like privilege in regard to Browning's "Epilogue," and to Mr. Lloyd Osbourne and Messrs. Chatto & Windus for permission to reproduce Stevenson's "Requiem." Without these poems the volume would have had a much smaller claim to its t.i.tle than it does possess, slight as that may be. My thanks are also due to the following gentlemen who have kindly allowed me to reproduce copyright texts of non-copyright poems from editions published by them: Messrs. Bickers & Son (Ben Jonson), Messrs. Chapman & Hall, Ltd. (Landor), Messrs. Chatto & Windus (Herrick), Mr. Buxton Forman (Keats and Sh.e.l.ley), Mr. Henry Frowde (Wordsworth), Mr. Alex. Gardner and the Rev. George Henderson, B.D.

(Lady Nairne), Messrs. T. C. & E. C. Jack (Burns), Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd. (Clough and Tennyson), Mr. John Murray (Byron), Messrs.

Smith, Elder & Co. (Browning), Messrs. Ward, Lock & Co., Ltd.

(Coleridge and Hood).

A. L. G.

ANONYMOUS.

1. _Madrigal._

Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face; Nor for any outward part, No, nor for my constant heart: For those may fail or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever: Keep therefore a true woman's eye, And love me still, but know not why; So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever.

_1609 Edition._

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

2. _The Forsaken Merman._

Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below.

Now my brothers call from the bay; Now the great winds sh.o.r.ewards blow; Now the salt tides seawards flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.

Children dear, let us away.

This way, this way.

Call her once before you go.

Call once yet.

In a voice that she will know: "Margaret! Margaret!"

Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear: Children's voices, wild with pain.

Surely she will come again.

Call her once and come away.

This way, this way.

"Mother dear, we cannot stay."

The wild white horses foam and fret.

Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down.

Call no more.

One last look at the white-wall'd town, And the little grey church on the windy sh.o.r.e.

Then come down.

She will not come though you call all day.

Come away, come away.

Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay?

In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell?

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; Where the salt weed sways in the stream; Where the sea-beasts rang'd all round Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye?

When did music come this way?

Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away?

Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee.

She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.

She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea.

She said; "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little grey church on the sh.o.r.e to-day.

'Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me!

And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee."

I said; "Go up, dear heart, through the waves.

Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves."

She smil'd, she went up through the surf in the bay.

Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone?

"The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.

Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say.

Come," I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.

We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town.

Through the narrow pav'd streets, where all was still, To the little grey church on the windy hill.

From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.

We climb'd on the graves, on the stones, worn with rains, And we gaz'd up the aisle through the small leaded panes.

She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: "Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.

Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone.

The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."

But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book.

"Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door."

Come away, children, call no more.

Come away, come down, call no more.

Down, down, down.