Decadent Verse: An Anthology of Late-Victorian Poetry, 1872-1900

by Caroline Blyth (Editor)

Overview

This volume is both an essential resource for undergraduates and graduates studying Victorian and Decadent literature and an instructive work for enthusiastic readers of verse. The wide span of the 1872–1900 epoch enables readers to appreciate in great depth the literary developments that led to the fin de siècle, unlike most studies of this period, which focus solely on the 1890s, with no relation to cultural and historical developments in the previous two important decades.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780857284037
Publisher:	Anthem Press
Publication date:	07/01/2011
Series:	Anthem Nineteenth-Century Series
Pages:	950
Product dimensions:	6.10(w) x 9.00(h) x 2.40(d)

About the Author

Caroline Blyth teaches English at Royal Holloway, University of London, and is Visiting Fellow at St Edmund’s College, Cambridge, where she was formerly Fellow and Director of Studies in English.

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Decadent Verse

An Anthology of Late Victorian Poetry, 1872 â" 1900

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By Caroline Blyth

Wimbledon Publishing Company

Copyright © 2011 Caroline Blyth
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-85728-403-7

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CHAPTER 1

Proem: The Way We Live Now

John Addington Symonds (1840–1893)

i. The Camera Obscura

    Inside the skull the wakeful brain,
    Attuned at birth to joy and pain,
    Dwells for a lifetime; even as one
    Who in a closed tower sees the sun
    Cast faint-hued shadows, dim or clear,
    Upon the darkened disc: now near,
    Now far, they flit; while he, within,
    Surveys the world he may not win:
    Whate'er he sees, he notes; for nought
    Escapes the net of living thought;
    And what he notes, he tells again
    To last and build the brains of men.
    Shades are we; and of shades we weave
    A trifling pleasant make-believe;
    Then pass into the shadowy night,
    Where formless shades blindfold the light.

         (1880)

Joseph Skipsey (1832–1903)

ii. 'Get Up!'

    'Get up!' the caller calls, 'Get up!'
       And in the dead of night,
    To win the bairns their bite and sup,
       I rise a weary wight.

    My flannel dudden donn'd, thrice o'er
       My birds are kiss'd, and then
    I with a whistle shut the door,
       I may not ope again.

         (1881)

Alice Meynell (1847–1922)

iii. Song of the Night at Daybreak

    All my stars forsake me,
    And the dawn-winds shake me.
    Where shall I betake me?

    Whither shall I run
    Till the set of sun,
    Till the day be done?

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894)

iv. 'The morning drum-call on my eager ear'

    The morning drum-call on my eager ear
    Thrills unforgotten yet; the morning dew
    Lies yet undried along my field of noon.

    But now I pause at whiles in what I do,
    And count the bell, and tremble lest I hear
    (My work untrimmed) the sunset gun too soon.

         (1895)

Louisa S. Guggenberger (formerly Bevington) (1845–1895)

v. Afternoon

    Purple headland over yonder,
       Fleecy, sun-extinguished moon,
    I am here alone, and ponder
       On the theme of Afternoon.

    Past has made a groove for Present,
       And what fits it is: no more.
    Waves before the wind are weighty;
       Strongest sea-beats shape the shore.

    Just what is is just what can be,
       And the Possible is free;
    'Tis by being, not by effort,
       That the firm cliff juts to sea.

    With an uncontentious calmness
       Drifts the Fact before the 'Law';
    So we name the ordered sequence
       We, remembering, foresaw.

    And a law is mere procession
       Of the forcible and fit;
    Calm of uncontested Being,
       And our thought that comes of it.

    In the mellow shining daylight
       Lies the Afternoon at ease,
    Little willing ripples answer
       To a drift of casual breeze.

    Purple headland to the westward!
       Ebbing tide, and fleecy moon!
    In the 'line of least resistance',
       Flows the life of Afternoon.

         (1876)

Robert Bridges (1844–1930)

vi. 'The evening darkens over'

    The evening darkens over.
    After a day so bright
    The windcapt waves discover
    That wild will be the night.
    There's sound of distant thunder.

    The latest sea-birds hover
    Along the cliff 's sheer height;
    As in the memory wander
    Last flutterings of delight,
    White wings lost on the white.

    There's not a ship in sight;
    And as the sun goes under
    Thick clouds conspire to cover
    The moon that should rise yonder.
    Thou art alone, fond lover.

         (1890)

Thomas Hardy (1840–1928)

vii. I Look Into My Glass

    I look into my glass,
    And view my wasting skin,
    And say, 'Would God it came to pass
    My heart had shrunk as thin!'

    For then, I, undistrest
    By hearts grown cold to me,
    Could lonely wait my endless rest
    With equanimity.

    But Time, to make me grieve,
    Part steals, lets part abide;
    And shakes this fragile frame at eve
    With throbbings of noontide.

Rosamund Marriott Watson (1860–1911)

viii. Aubade

    The lights are out in the street, and a cool wind swings
    Loose poplar plumes on the sky;
    Deep in the gloom of the garden the first bird sings:
    Curt, hurried steps go by
    Loud in the hush of the dawn past the linden screen,
    Lost in a jar and a rattle of wheels unseen
    Beyond on the wide highway:–
    Night lingers dusky and dim in the pear-tree boughs,
    Hangs in the hollows of leaves, though the thrushes rouse,
    And the glimmering lawn grows grey.
    Yours, my heart knoweth, yours only, the jewelled gloom,
    Splendours of opal and amber, the scent, the bloom,
    Yours all, and your own demesne–
    Scent of the dark, of the dawning, of leaves and dew;
    Nothing that was but hath changed–'tis a world made new–
    A lost world risen again.

    The lamps are out in the street, and the air grows bright–
    Come–lest the miracle fade in the broad, bare light,
    The new world wither away:
    Clear is your voice in my heart, and you call me–whence?
    Come–for I listen, I wait,–bid me rise, go hence,
    Or ever the dawn turn day.

A. Mary F. Robinson (1857–1944)

ix. Twilight

    When I was young the twilight seemed too long.

    How often on the western window seat
       I leaned my book against the misty pane
       And spelled the last enchanting lines again,
    The while my mother hummed an ancient song,
    Or sighed a little and said: 'The hour is sweet!'
    When I, rebellious, clamoured for the light.

    But now I love the soft approach of night,
       And now with folded hands I sit and dream
       While all too fleet the hours of twilight seem;
    And thus I know that I am growing old.

    O granaries of Age! O manifold
    And royal harvest of the common years!
    There are in all thy treasure-house no ways
    But lead by soft descent and gradual slope
    To memories more exquisite than Hope.
    Thine is the Iris born of olden tears,
    And thrice more happy are the happy days
    That live divinely in thy lingering rays.

    So autumn roses bear a lovelier flower;
    So in the emerald after-sunset hour
    The orchard wall and trembling aspen trees
    Appear an infinite Hesperides.

    Ay, as at dusk we sit with folded hands,
    Who knows, who cares in what enchanted lands
    We wander while the undying memories throng?

    When I was young the twilight seemed too long.

Mathilde Blind (1841–1896)

x. The Red Sunsets, 1883

    The boding sky was charactered with cloud,
       The scripture of the storm — but high in air,
       Where the unfathomed zenith still was bare,
    A pure expanse of rose-flushed violet glowed
    And, kindling into crimsom light, o'er flowed
       The hurrying wrack with such a blood-red glare.
       That heaven, igniting, wildly seemed to flare
    On the dazed eyes of many an awe-struck crowd.

    And in far lands folk presaged with blanched lips
    Disastrous wars, earthquakes, and foundering ships,
       Such whelming floods as never dykes could stem,
    Or some proud empire's ruin and eclipse:
       Lo, such a sky, they cried, as burned o'er them
       Once lit the sacking of Jerusalem!

The Red Sunsets, 1883

    The twilight heavens are flushed with gathering light,
       And o'er wet roofs and huddling streets below
       Hang with a strange Apocalyptic glow
    On the black fringes of the wintry night.
    Such bursts of glory may have rapt the sight
       Of him to whom on Patmos long ago
       The visionary angel came to show
    That heavenly city built of chrysolite.

    And lo, three factory hands begrimed with soot,
       Aflame with the red splendour, marvelling stand,
    And gaze with lifted faces awed and mute.
       Starved of earth's beauty by Man's grudging hand,
    O toilers, robbed of labour's golden fruit,
       Ye, too, may feast in Nature's fairyland.

William Renton (fl. 1852–post 1905)

xi. After Nightfall

    Ample the air above the western peaks;
    Within the peaks a silence uncompelled.
    It is the hour of abnegation's self,
    In clear obeisance of the mountain thrones,
    And cloudless self-surrender of the skies:
    The very retrospect of skiey calm,
    And selfless self-approval of the hills.

         (1876)

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1836–1904)

xii. Moonrise

    I awoke in the Midsummer not-to-call night, in the white and the walk of the morning:
    The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a fingernail held to the candle,
    Or paring of paradisaïcal fruit, lovely in waning but lustreless,
    Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, of dark Maenefa the mountain;
    A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, entangled him, not quit utterly.
    This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, presented so easily,
    Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of slumber.

William Frederick Stevenson (fl. 1883)

1. Life and Impellance

    There went most passionately to Life, Impellance,
    And thrilled it with the high perception of divines;
    And through a blight of gloom its request fought for
    Heaven, its hospice, light, investure ante-natal,
    And hope, impact of fathom, lucid suavity.

2. A Planet of Descendance

    A planet of descendance rent,
       A scatter of an effluence;
    Before the princes of content,
       Angels of deliverance.

    See, methought, the silent hills,
       And the valleys, and the sea;
    There is propent death of skills,
       And invalid's puissancy.

R. (Rowland) E. (Eyles) Egerton-Warburton (1804–1891)


3. Modern Chivalry

    I.

    Time was, with sword and battle-axe,
       All clad in armour bright,
    When cleaving skulls Asunder
      Was the business of a knight.

    II.

    Now chivalry means surgery, 5
       And spurs are won by him
    Who can mend a skull when broken,
       Or piece a frac1tured limb.

    III.

    Our knights of old couch'd lances,
       Drew long swords from the sheath, 10
    Now knighthood couches eye-balls,
       And chivalry draws teeth.

    IV.

    See! rescued from confinement,
       To charm our ravish'd fight,
    Fair ladies are deliver'd 15
       By the arm of a true knight.

    V

    Behold! the knight chirurgeon
       To deeds of blood advance,
    A bandage for a banner!
       And a lancet for a lance! 20

    VI.

    To heroes of the hospital
       The "bloody hand" is due,
    But ye heralds bend the fingers,
       Or the fee may tumble through.

4. French Clocks, 1876

    Electric clocks in Paris now on trial,
       So prompt are Frenchmen to adopt improvement;
    We truft the hands may not be on the dial
       Symbols of revolutionary movement.

    Working by pendulum, like old French clock 5
       Ne'er yet have Frenchmen gone two days alike;
    Bleft would they be, could one elec1tric fhock
       Compel them all in unifon to ftrike.

5. A Mystery

    Thus a young wife, alighting from the train,
    Rebuk'd her hufband in the gentleft ftrain,
    "When we in darknefs through a tunnel glide,
    You fhould not kifs me, deareft, though your bride."
    "Kifs you! Not I! I kiffed you not."The pair 5
    In mute amazement at each other stare.

6. Argument of a Dissenter

    IN FAVOUR OF THE BURIAL BILL

    I never to the church will give
    My foul's fubmiffion while I live;
    But why fhould fhe exclude when dead
    My body from a churchyard-bed?
    Becaufe when fhe haf feen it laid 5
    In fafety by her fexton's fpade
    She furely cannot feel diftrefs
    That there is one Diffenter lefs.


Frederick Tennyson (1807–1898)

7. The Prospect of Evil Days

    'Tis not a time for triumph and delight,
    For dance and song, for jocund thoughts and ease;
    Like cloud on cloud before a stormy night
    Sorrows I see, and doleful deeds increase:
    Destruction, like the Uragan, shall come, 5
    And change, like mighty winds, whose lowering moan
    Swells to a shout that makes the thunder dumb;
    And bloody Anarchs call the earth their own.
    But when this time of terror and despair
    Is past, tho' I be weary and o'erworn, 10
    Still let me live to breathe the freshened air,
    And hail the glory of that happy morn,
    When the new day shall o'er the mountains roll,
    And love again pour down his sunny soul!

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Decadent Verse by Caroline Blyth. Copyright © 2011 Caroline Blyth. Excerpted by permission of Wimbledon Publishing Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Preface; Acknowledgements; Decadent Art 1872-1900; Introduction; Comparative Prose 1872-1900; Proem: The Way We Live Now; Verse selections from William Frederick Stevenson, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Edward Lear, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Mary E. Coleridge, Thomas Hardy, Alice Meynell, and many others; Sources and Names; Index of Titles; Index of First Lines; Index of Poets

What People are Saying About This

From the Publisher

'A much-needed textbook for Victorian literature courses.' —Angela Leighton, Professor of English, University of Cambridge

'Sprightly, witty and stimulating.' —Rod Edmond, Professor of English, University of Kent at Canterbury

'I look forward to this for our Victorian literature courses.' —Daniel Karlin, Professor of English, University of Sheffield

Editorial Reviews

‘It is a strength of “Decadent Verse” that it sets out to reconfigure the familiar precincts of Decadence by offering up a panoply of new (and old) poets as potential members of the movement.’ —Jamie Horrocks, ‘English Literature in Transition, 1880–1920’

From the Publisher