Tell us, ye dead! will none of you, in pityTo those you left behind, disclose the secret?Oh! that some courteous ghost would blab it out,—What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be.I've heard that souls departed have sometimesForewarn'd men of their death. 'Twas kindly doneTo knock, and give the alarum. But what meansThis stinted charity? 'Tis but lame kindnessThat does its work by halves. Why might you notTell us what 'tis to die? Do the strict lawsOf your society forbid your speakingUpon a point so nice? I'll ask no more:Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shineEnlightens but yourselves. Well, 'tis no matter;A very little time will clear up allAnd make us learn'd as you are, and as close.
Tell us, ye dead! will none of you, in pityTo those you left behind, disclose the secret?Oh! that some courteous ghost would blab it out,—What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be.I've heard that souls departed have sometimesForewarn'd men of their death. 'Twas kindly doneTo knock, and give the alarum. But what meansThis stinted charity? 'Tis but lame kindnessThat does its work by halves. Why might you notTell us what 'tis to die? Do the strict lawsOf your society forbid your speakingUpon a point so nice? I'll ask no more:Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shineEnlightens but yourselves. Well, 'tis no matter;A very little time will clear up allAnd make us learn'd as you are, and as close.
(Robert Blair:The Grave. 1743.)
This poem was one of those connected with the revival of blank verse, for didactic poetry, near the middle of the eighteenth century. Of Blair's verse Mr. Saintsbury says that it "is by no means to be despised. Technically its only fault is the use and abuse of the redundant syllable. The quality ... is in every respect rather moulded upon dramatic than upon purely poetical models, and he shows little trace of imitation either of Milton, or of his contemporary, Thomson." (Ward'sEnglish Poets, vol. iii. p. 217.)
Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends,At first thin wavering; till at last the flakesFall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the dayWith a continual flow. The cherished fieldsPut on their winter-robe of purest white.'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow meltsAlong the mazy current. Low the woodsBow their hoar head; and, ere the languid sunFaint from the west emits his evening ray,Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill,Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wideThe works of man. Drooping, the laborer-oxStands covered o'er with snow, and then demandsThe fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,Tamed by the cruel season, crowd aroundThe winnowing store, and claim the little boonWhich Providence assigns them. One alone,The redbreast, sacred to the household gods,Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,In joyless fields and thorny thickets leavesHis shivering mates, and pays to trusted manHis annual visit. Half-afraid, he firstAgainst the window beats; then, brisk, alightsOn the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,Eyes all the smiling family askance,And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is—Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbsAttract his slender feet.
Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends,At first thin wavering; till at last the flakesFall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the dayWith a continual flow. The cherished fieldsPut on their winter-robe of purest white.'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow meltsAlong the mazy current. Low the woodsBow their hoar head; and, ere the languid sunFaint from the west emits his evening ray,Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill,Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wideThe works of man. Drooping, the laborer-oxStands covered o'er with snow, and then demandsThe fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,Tamed by the cruel season, crowd aroundThe winnowing store, and claim the little boonWhich Providence assigns them. One alone,The redbreast, sacred to the household gods,Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,In joyless fields and thorny thickets leavesHis shivering mates, and pays to trusted manHis annual visit. Half-afraid, he firstAgainst the window beats; then, brisk, alightsOn the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,Eyes all the smiling family askance,And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is—Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbsAttract his slender feet.
(Thomson:The Seasons; Winter. 1726.)
Thomson'sSeasonswas undoubtedly the most influential of the poems of the blank-verse revival of this period. Saintsbury says: "His blank verse in especial cannot receive too much commendation. With that of Milton, and that of the present Poet Laureate [Tennyson], it must rank as one of the chief original models of the metre to be found in English poetry." (Ward'sEnglish Poets, vol. iii. p. 169.)
Other influential poems of the same period, written in blank verse, were Glover'sLeonidas(1737), Young'sNight Thoughts(1742-1744), and Akenside'sPleasures of the Imagination(1744). Much earlier than these had come the curious poem of John Philips onCider(1708). Philips is praised by Thomson as the successor of Milton in some lines ofAutumn:
"Philips, Pomona's bard, the second thouWho nobly durst, in rhyme-unfetter'd verseWith British freedom sing the British song."
"Philips, Pomona's bard, the second thouWho nobly durst, in rhyme-unfetter'd verseWith British freedom sing the British song."
In general, the blank verse of all these poets shows the influence of the couplet and lacks flexibility. Thus Mr. Symonds says: "The use of the couplet had unfitted poets for its composition.Their acquired canons of regularity, when applied to loose and flowing metre, led them astray.... Hence it followed, that when blank verse began again to be written, it found itself very much at the point where it had stood before the appearance of Marlowe. Even Thomson ... wrote stiff and languid blank verse with monosyllabic terminations and monotonous cadences—a pedestrian style." (Blank Verse, pp. 61, 62.)[33]
Here unmolested, through whatever signThe sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist,Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me,Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy.Even in the spring and playtime of the year,That calls the unwonted villager abroadWith all her little ones, a sportive train,To gather kingcups in the yellow mead,And prink their hair with daisies, or to pickA cheap but wholesome salad from the brook,These shades are all my own. The timorous hare,Grown so familiar with her frequent guest,Scarce shuns me; and the stockdove unalarmedSits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspendsHis long love-ditty for my near approach.Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elmThat age or injury has hollowed deep,Where on his bed of wool and matted leavesHe has outslept the winter, ventures forthTo frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun,The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play.He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,Ascends the neighboring beech; there whisks his brush,And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud,With all the prettiness of feigned alarm,And anger insignificantly fierce.
Here unmolested, through whatever signThe sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist,Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me,Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy.Even in the spring and playtime of the year,That calls the unwonted villager abroadWith all her little ones, a sportive train,To gather kingcups in the yellow mead,And prink their hair with daisies, or to pickA cheap but wholesome salad from the brook,These shades are all my own. The timorous hare,Grown so familiar with her frequent guest,Scarce shuns me; and the stockdove unalarmedSits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspendsHis long love-ditty for my near approach.Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elmThat age or injury has hollowed deep,Where on his bed of wool and matted leavesHe has outslept the winter, ventures forthTo frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun,The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play.He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,Ascends the neighboring beech; there whisks his brush,And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud,With all the prettiness of feigned alarm,And anger insignificantly fierce.
(Cowper:The Task, book VI. ll. 295-320. 1785.)
"The blank verse of Cowper'sTaskis admirably adapted to the theme," says Professor Corson. "Cowper saw farther than any one before him had seen, into the secrets of the elaborate music of Milton's blank verse, and availed himself of those secrets to some extent—to as far an extent as the simplicity of his themes demanded." (Primer of English Verse, p. 221.) Professor Ward speaks, however, of the "lumbering movement" of Cowper's blank verse as being in contrast to "the neatness and ease of his rhymed couplets." (English Poets, vol. iii. p. 432.) Cowper prided himself, not without reason, on the individuality of his blank verse. In a letter to the Rev. John Newton (Dec. 11, 1784) he said: "Milton's manner was peculiar. So is Thomson's. He that should write like either of them, would, in my judgment, deserve the name of a copyist, but not of a poet.... Blank verse is susceptible of a much greater diversification of manner than verse in rhyme: and why the modern writers of ithave all thought proper to cast their numbers alike, I know not." In another letter (to Lady Hesketh, March 20, 1786) Cowper reveals his careful study of Milton's verse: "When the sense requires it, or when for the sake of avoiding a monotonous cadence of the lines, of which there is always danger in so long a work, it shall appear to be prudent, I still leave a verse behind me that has some uneasiness in its formation. It is not possible to readParadise Lost, with an ear for harmony, without being sensible of the great advantage which Milton drew from such a management.... Uncritical readers find that they perform a long journey through several hundred pages perhaps without weariness; they find the numbers harmonious, but are not aware of the art by which that harmony is brought to pass, much less suspect that a violation of all harmony on some occasions is the very thing to which they are not a little indebted for their gratification."
Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast—Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth!Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast—Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth!Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
(Coleridge:Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni, ll. 70-85. 1802.)
It was a den where no insulting lightCould glimmer on their tears; where their own groansThey felt, but heard not, for the solid roarOf thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse,Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where.Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem'dEver as if just rising from a sleep,Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns;And thus in thousand hugest phantasiesMade a fit roofing to this nest of woe.Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon,Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridgeStubborn'd with iron. All were not assembled:Some chain'd in torture, and some wandering.CÅ“us, and Gyges, and Briareus,Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion,With many more, the brawniest in assault,Were pent in regions of laborious breath;Dungeon'd in opaque element, to keepTheir clenched teeth still clench'd, and all their limbsLock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and screw'd;Without a motion, save of their big heartsHeaving in pain, and horribly convuls'dWith sanguine feverous boiling gurge of pulse.
It was a den where no insulting lightCould glimmer on their tears; where their own groansThey felt, but heard not, for the solid roarOf thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse,Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where.Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem'dEver as if just rising from a sleep,Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns;And thus in thousand hugest phantasiesMade a fit roofing to this nest of woe.Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon,Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridgeStubborn'd with iron. All were not assembled:Some chain'd in torture, and some wandering.CÅ“us, and Gyges, and Briareus,Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion,With many more, the brawniest in assault,Were pent in regions of laborious breath;Dungeon'd in opaque element, to keepTheir clenched teeth still clench'd, and all their limbsLock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and screw'd;Without a motion, save of their big heartsHeaving in pain, and horribly convuls'dWith sanguine feverous boiling gurge of pulse.
(Keats:Hyperion, book II. 1820.)
"In Keats at last," says Mr. Symonds, "we find again that inner music which is the soul of true blank verse.... HisHyperionis sung, not written.... Its music is fluid, bound by no external measurement of feet, but determined by the sense and intonation of the poet's thought, while like the crotalos of the Athenian flute-player, the decasyllabic beat maintains an uninterrupted undercurrent of regular pulsations." (Blank Verse, p. 64.)
I have learnedTo look on nature, not as in the hourOf thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimesThe still, sad music of humanity,Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample powerTo chasten and subdue. And I have feltA presence that disturbs me with the joyOf elevated thoughts; a sense sublimeOf something far more deeply interfused,Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,And the round ocean and the living air,And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:A motion and a spirit, that impelsAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,And rolls through all things.
I have learnedTo look on nature, not as in the hourOf thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimesThe still, sad music of humanity,Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample powerTo chasten and subdue. And I have feltA presence that disturbs me with the joyOf elevated thoughts; a sense sublimeOf something far more deeply interfused,Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,And the round ocean and the living air,And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:A motion and a spirit, that impelsAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,And rolls through all things.
(Wordsworth:Lines Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey. 1798.)
Let not high verse, mourning the memoryOf that which is no more, or painting's woeOr sculpture, speak in feeble imageryTheir own cold powers. Art and eloquence,And all the shows o' the world, are frail and vainTo weep a loss that turns their lights to shade.It is a woe 'too deep for tears,' when allIs reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit,Whose light adorned the world around it, leavesThose who remain behind, not sobs or groans,The passionate tumult of a clinging hope;But pale despair and cold tranquillity,Nature's vast frame, the web of human things,Birth and the grave, that are not as they were.
Let not high verse, mourning the memoryOf that which is no more, or painting's woeOr sculpture, speak in feeble imageryTheir own cold powers. Art and eloquence,And all the shows o' the world, are frail and vainTo weep a loss that turns their lights to shade.It is a woe 'too deep for tears,' when allIs reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit,Whose light adorned the world around it, leavesThose who remain behind, not sobs or groans,The passionate tumult of a clinging hope;But pale despair and cold tranquillity,Nature's vast frame, the web of human things,Birth and the grave, that are not as they were.
(Shelley:Alastor, ll. 707-720. 1815.)
The old order changeth, yielding place to new,And God fulfils himself in many ways,Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?I have lived my life, and that which I have doneMay He within himself make pure! but thou,If thou shouldst never see my face again,Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayerThan this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voiceRise like a fountain for me night and day.For what are men better than sheep or goatsThat nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayerBoth for themselves and those who call them friend?For so the whole round earth is every wayBound by gold chains about the feet of God.But now farewell. I am going a long wayWith these thou seest—if indeed I go(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—To the island-valley of Avilion;Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it liesDeep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawnsAnd bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
The old order changeth, yielding place to new,And God fulfils himself in many ways,Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?I have lived my life, and that which I have doneMay He within himself make pure! but thou,If thou shouldst never see my face again,Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayerThan this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voiceRise like a fountain for me night and day.For what are men better than sheep or goatsThat nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayerBoth for themselves and those who call them friend?For so the whole round earth is every wayBound by gold chains about the feet of God.But now farewell. I am going a long wayWith these thou seest—if indeed I go(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—To the island-valley of Avilion;Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it liesDeep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawnsAnd bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
(Tennyson:Idylls of the King; The Passing of Arthur. 1869.)
But that large-moulded man,His visage all agrin as at a wake,Made at me thro' the press, and, staggering backWith stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, cameAs comes a pillar of electric cloud,Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains,And shadowing down the champaign till it strikesOn a wood, and takes, and breaks, and cracks, and splits,And twists the grain with such a roar that EarthReels, and the herdsmen cry; for everythingGave way before him: only Florian, heThat loved me closer than his own right eye,Thrust in between; but Arac rode him down:And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the Prince,With Psyche's color round his helmet, tough,Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms;But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smoteAnd threw him: last I spurr'd; I felt my veinsStretch with fierce heat; a moment hand to hand,And sword to sword, and horse to horse we hung,Till I struck out and shouted; the blade glanc'd;I did but shear a feather, and dream and truthFlow'd from me; darkness closed me; and I fell.
But that large-moulded man,His visage all agrin as at a wake,Made at me thro' the press, and, staggering backWith stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, cameAs comes a pillar of electric cloud,Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains,And shadowing down the champaign till it strikesOn a wood, and takes, and breaks, and cracks, and splits,And twists the grain with such a roar that EarthReels, and the herdsmen cry; for everythingGave way before him: only Florian, heThat loved me closer than his own right eye,Thrust in between; but Arac rode him down:And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the Prince,With Psyche's color round his helmet, tough,Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms;But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smoteAnd threw him: last I spurr'd; I felt my veinsStretch with fierce heat; a moment hand to hand,And sword to sword, and horse to horse we hung,Till I struck out and shouted; the blade glanc'd;I did but shear a feather, and dream and truthFlow'd from me; darkness closed me; and I fell.
(Tennyson:The Princess, v. 1847.)
She knew me, and acknowledg'd me her heir,Pray'd me to keep her debts, and keep the Faith;Then claspt the cross, and pass'd away in peace.I left her lying still and beautiful,More beautiful than in life. Why would you vex yourself,Poor sister? Sir, I swear I have no heartTo be your queen. To reign is restless fence,Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is with the dead.Her life was winter, for her spring was nipt;And she loved much: pray God she be forgiven.
She knew me, and acknowledg'd me her heir,Pray'd me to keep her debts, and keep the Faith;Then claspt the cross, and pass'd away in peace.I left her lying still and beautiful,More beautiful than in life. Why would you vex yourself,Poor sister? Sir, I swear I have no heartTo be your queen. To reign is restless fence,Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is with the dead.Her life was winter, for her spring was nipt;And she loved much: pray God she be forgiven.
(Tennyson:Queen Mary, V. v. 1875.)
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,That brings our friends up from the underworld,Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge;So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,That brings our friends up from the underworld,Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge;So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
(Tennyson:The Princess, iv.; "Tears, Idle Tears." 1847.)
The blank verse of Tennyson is probably to be regarded as the most masterly found among modern poets.[34]Its flexibility is almost infinite, yet never unmelodious. The last of the specimens just quoted illustrates his use of blank verse for short lyrical poems,—an unusual and notable achievement. Perhaps only Collins'sOde to Eveningcan be compared with his success in this direction, and Collins used a more elaborate strophe to fill, in part, the place of rime. Of the unrimed lyrics inThe Princess, Mr. Symonds says that they "are perfect specimens of most melodious and complete minstrelsy in words." In the "Tears, Idle Tears," he goes on to say, the verse "is divided into periods of five lines, each of which terminates with the words 'days that are no more.' This recurrence of sound and meaning is a substitute for rhyme, and suggests rhyme so persuasively that it is impossible to call the poem mere blank verse." See also the specimens on p.144above.
In the case of both Tennyson and Browning the student should compare the form of the narrative blank verse on the onehand with that of the dramatic on the other. Yet in a sense all Browning's blank verse is dramatic. It is no less flexible than Tennyson's, but (as in most of Browning's poetry) sacrifices more of melody in adapting itself to the thought.
To live, and see her learn, and learn by her,Out of the low obscure and petty world—Or only see one purpose and one willEvolve themselves i' the world, change wrong to right:To have to do with nothing but the true,The good, the eternal—and these, not alone,In the main current of the general life,But small experiences of every day,Concerns of the particular hearth and home:To learn not only by a comet's rushBut a rose's birth,—not by the grandeur, God,But the comfort, Christ. All this, how far away!Mere delectation, meet for a minute's dream!—Just as a drudging student trims his lamp,Opens his Plutarch, puts him in the placeOf Roman, Grecian; draws the patch'd gown close,Dreams, "Thus should I fight, save or rule the world!"Then smilingly, contentedly, awakesTo the old solitary nothingness.So I, from such communion, pass content.—O great, just, good God! Miserable me!
To live, and see her learn, and learn by her,Out of the low obscure and petty world—Or only see one purpose and one willEvolve themselves i' the world, change wrong to right:To have to do with nothing but the true,The good, the eternal—and these, not alone,In the main current of the general life,But small experiences of every day,Concerns of the particular hearth and home:To learn not only by a comet's rushBut a rose's birth,—not by the grandeur, God,But the comfort, Christ. All this, how far away!Mere delectation, meet for a minute's dream!—Just as a drudging student trims his lamp,Opens his Plutarch, puts him in the placeOf Roman, Grecian; draws the patch'd gown close,Dreams, "Thus should I fight, save or rule the world!"Then smilingly, contentedly, awakesTo the old solitary nothingness.So I, from such communion, pass content.—O great, just, good God! Miserable me!
(Browning:The Ring and the Book; Caponsacchi. 1868.)
The Ring and the BookProfessor Corson calls "the greatest achievement of the century ... in the effective use of blank verse in the treatment of a great subject.... Its blank verse, while having a most complex variety of character, is the most dramatic blank verse since the Elizabethan era.... One reads it without a sense almost of there being anything artificial in theconstruction of the language; ... one gets the impression that the poet thought and felt spontaneously in blank verse." (Primer of English Verse, pp. 224, 225.)
This eve's the time,This eve intense with yon first trembling starWe seem to pant and reach; scarce aught betweenThe earth that rises and the heaven that bends;All nature self-abandoned, every treeFlung as it will, pursuing its own thoughtsAnd fixed so, every flower and every weed,No pride, no shame, no victory, no defeat;All under God, each measured by itself.These statues round us stand abrupt, distinct,The strong in strength, the weak in weakness fixed,The Muse forever wedded to her lyre,Nymph to her fawn, and Silence to her rose:See God's approval on his universe!Let us do so—aspire to live as theseIn harmony with truth, ourselves being true!Take the first way, and let the second come!
This eve's the time,This eve intense with yon first trembling starWe seem to pant and reach; scarce aught betweenThe earth that rises and the heaven that bends;All nature self-abandoned, every treeFlung as it will, pursuing its own thoughtsAnd fixed so, every flower and every weed,No pride, no shame, no victory, no defeat;All under God, each measured by itself.These statues round us stand abrupt, distinct,The strong in strength, the weak in weakness fixed,The Muse forever wedded to her lyre,Nymph to her fawn, and Silence to her rose:See God's approval on his universe!Let us do so—aspire to live as theseIn harmony with truth, ourselves being true!Take the first way, and let the second come!
(Browning:In a Balcony. 1855.)
The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think?So, the All-Great were the All-Loving too—So, through the thunder comes a human voiceSaying, "O heart I made, a heart beats here!Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself!Thou hast no power nor may'st conceive of mine,But love I gave thee, with myself to love,And thou must love me who have died for thee."The madman saith He said so: it is strange.
The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think?So, the All-Great were the All-Loving too—So, through the thunder comes a human voiceSaying, "O heart I made, a heart beats here!Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself!Thou hast no power nor may'st conceive of mine,But love I gave thee, with myself to love,And thou must love me who have died for thee."The madman saith He said so: it is strange.
(Browning:Epistle of Karshish. 1855.)
God's works—paint any one, and count it crimeTo let a truth slip. Don't object, "His worksAre here already; nature is complete:Suppose you reproduce her—(which you can't)There's no advantage! you must beat her, then."For, don't you mark? we're made so that we loveFirst when we see them painted, things we have passedPerhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;And so they are better, painted—better to us,Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;God uses us to help each other so,Lending our minds out.
God's works—paint any one, and count it crimeTo let a truth slip. Don't object, "His worksAre here already; nature is complete:Suppose you reproduce her—(which you can't)There's no advantage! you must beat her, then."For, don't you mark? we're made so that we loveFirst when we see them painted, things we have passedPerhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;And so they are better, painted—better to us,Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;God uses us to help each other so,Lending our minds out.
(Browning:Fra Lippo Lippi. 1855.)
Of some of Browning's blank verse Mr. Mayor observes: "The extreme harshness of many of these lines is almost a match for anything in Surrey, only what in Surrey is helplessness seems the perversity of strength in Browning.... The Aristophanic vein in Browning is continually leading him to trample under foot the dignity of verse and to shock the uninitiated reader by colloquial familiarities, 'thumps upon the back,' such as the poet Cowper resented; yet no one can be more impressive than he is when he surrenders himself to the pure spirit of poetry, and flows onward in a stream of glorious music, such as that in which Balaustion pictures Athens overwhelmed by an advance of the sea (Aristophanes' Apology, p. 2)." (Chapters on English Metre, 2d ed., pp. 216, 217.)
But the majestic river floated on,Out of the mist and hum of that low land,Into the frosty starlight, and there mov'd,Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste,Under the solitary moon: he flow'dRight for the Polar Star, past Orgunje,Brimming, and bright, and large: then sands beginTo hem his watery march, and dam his streams,And split his currents; that for many a leagueThe shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains alongThrough beds of sand and matted rushy isles—Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he hadIn his high mountain cradle in Pamere,A foil'd, circuitous wanderer:—till at lastThe long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wideHis luminous home of waters opens, brightAnd tranquil, from whose floor the new-bath'd starsEmerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.
But the majestic river floated on,Out of the mist and hum of that low land,Into the frosty starlight, and there mov'd,Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste,Under the solitary moon: he flow'dRight for the Polar Star, past Orgunje,Brimming, and bright, and large: then sands beginTo hem his watery march, and dam his streams,And split his currents; that for many a leagueThe shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains alongThrough beds of sand and matted rushy isles—Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he hadIn his high mountain cradle in Pamere,A foil'd, circuitous wanderer:—till at lastThe long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wideHis luminous home of waters opens, brightAnd tranquil, from whose floor the new-bath'd starsEmerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.
(Matthew Arnold:Sohrab and Rustum. 1853.)
Here is the place: but read it low and sweet.Put out the lamp!—The glimmering page is clear."Now on that day it chanced that Launcelot,Thinking to find the King, found GuenevereAlone; and when he saw her whom he loved,Whom he had met too late, yet loved the more;Such was the tumult at his heart that heCould speak not, for her husband was his friend,His dear familiar friend: and they two heldNo secret from each other until now;But were like brothers born"—my voice breaks off.Read you a little on.—"And Guenevere,Turning, beheld him suddenly whom sheLoved in her thought, and even from that hourWhen first she saw him; for by day, by night,Though lying by her husband's side, did sheWeary for Launcelot, and knew full wellHow ill that love, and yet that love how deep!"I cannot see—the page is dim: read you.—"Now they two were alone, yet could not speak;But heard the beating of each other's hearts.He knew himself a traitor but to stay,Yet could not stir: she pale and yet more paleGrew till she could no more, but smiled on him.Then when he saw that wished smile, he cameNear to her and still near, and trembled; thenHer lips all trembling kissed."—Ah, Launcelot!
Here is the place: but read it low and sweet.Put out the lamp!—The glimmering page is clear."Now on that day it chanced that Launcelot,Thinking to find the King, found GuenevereAlone; and when he saw her whom he loved,Whom he had met too late, yet loved the more;Such was the tumult at his heart that heCould speak not, for her husband was his friend,His dear familiar friend: and they two heldNo secret from each other until now;But were like brothers born"—my voice breaks off.Read you a little on.—"And Guenevere,Turning, beheld him suddenly whom sheLoved in her thought, and even from that hourWhen first she saw him; for by day, by night,Though lying by her husband's side, did sheWeary for Launcelot, and knew full wellHow ill that love, and yet that love how deep!"I cannot see—the page is dim: read you.—"Now they two were alone, yet could not speak;But heard the beating of each other's hearts.He knew himself a traitor but to stay,Yet could not stir: she pale and yet more paleGrew till she could no more, but smiled on him.Then when he saw that wished smile, he cameNear to her and still near, and trembled; thenHer lips all trembling kissed."—Ah, Launcelot!
(Stephen Phillips:Paolo and Francesca, III. iii. 1901.)
The blank verse of Stephen Phillips is the most important—one may say perhaps the only important—that has been written since Tennyson's; and it is of especial interest as forming an actual revival of the form on the English stage. Aside from the dramas, it is seen at its best inMarpessa. Imitating Milton, and at the same time handling the measure with original force, Mr. Phillips introduces unusual cadences, for which he has been severely reproached by the critics. Such lines as the following are typical of these variations from the normal rhythm:
"O all fresh out of beautiful sunlight.""Agamemnon bowed over, and from his wheel.""And to dispel shadows and shadowy fear.""My bloom faded, and waning light of eyes."
"O all fresh out of beautiful sunlight.""Agamemnon bowed over, and from his wheel.""And to dispel shadows and shadowy fear.""My bloom faded, and waning light of eyes."
For a criticism of Mr. Phillips's verse, see Mr. William Archer'sPoets of the Younger Generation, pp. 313-327.
FOOTNOTES:[19]One may easily find other instances of the sporadic appearance of the same measure in the midst of irregular "long lines" or rough alexandrines and septenaries. Compare, for example, the following, from early plays in Manly'sSpecimens of the Pre-Shaksperean Drama:"To be alone, nor very convenyent.""Ye shall not touche yt, for that I forbede.""But ye shuld be as godes resydent.""And many a chaumbyr thou xalt have therinne.""In this flood spylt is many a mannys blood.""Therfore be we now cast in ryght grett care."The context of many of these lines shows that they were intended to be read as four-stress rather than five-stress; but such examples serve to make clear how easily English rhythm would fall into the decasyllabic line.[20]See also an account of Zarncke's monograph (1865)Ueber den fünffussiger Iambus, in Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, Postscript.[21]See the entire Preface in Chalmers'sEnglish Poets, vol. viii. p. 32, and in the Appendix to Gosse'sFrom Shakespeare to Pope. For an analysis of Waller's verse with reference to this Preface, see "A Note upon Waller's Distich," by H. C. Beeching, in the FurnivallMiscellany(1901), p. 4.[22]Beaumont's own verse is of no little interest, and Mr. Gosse, in a recent letter to the present editor, observes that he finds in Beaumont, "far more definitely than in George Sandys, the principal precursor of Waller."[23]See also the verses of Oliver Wendell Holmes onThe Strong Heroic Line(in Stedman'sAmerican Anthology, p. 161), where he says:"Nor let the rhymester of the hour derideThe straight-backed measure with its stately stride:It gave the mighty voice of Dryden scope;It sheathed the steel-bright epigrams of Pope;In Goldsmith's verse it learned a sweeter strain;Byron and Campbell wore its clanking chain;I smile to listen while the critic's scornFlouts the proud purple kings have nobly worn."[24]On the verse of Keats in general, see the remarks of Mr. Robert Bridges in his Introduction to the Muses' Library edition of Keats.[25]On Shelley's metres, see Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., chap. xiv.[26]On the verse of Surrey in general, see W. J. Courthope, in hisHistory of English Poetry, vol. ii. pp. 92-96. Mr. Courthope speaks highly of Surrey as a metrist, in particular attributing to him certain reforms in the handling of English verse: the attempt to use five perfect iambic feet to the line, the harmonious placing of the cesura, the avoidance of rime on weak syllables, the preservation of the accent on the even-numbered syllables. (To some of these reforms, as has been indicated, there are not a few exceptions.) In like manner ten Brink observes that Surrey "is more successful than Wyatt in adapting foreign rules to the rhythmical accent of the English language, and thus he is in reality the founder of the New-English metrical system." (English Literature, Kennedy trans., vol. iii. p. 243.)On the blank verse of Surrey, see also an article by Prof. O. J. Emerson, inModern Language Notes, vol. iv. col. 466, and Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., chap. x.[27]The edition of 1616 has:"One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ!"and omits the preceding line.(See Bullen ed., vol. i. pp. 279, 280.)[28]On Marlowe's verse see also Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., chap. x.[29]On the technical problems of Shakspere's verse, see Fleay'sShakspere Manual; Abbott'sShakespearean Grammar; G. Browne'sNotes on Shakspere's Versification; and Mayor'sChapters on English Metre.[30]"In a play of 2500 lines Massinger might possibly have as many as 1200 double or triple endings, Shakspere in his last period might have as many as 850, while Fletcher would normally have at least 1700, and might not improbably give as many as 2000." (G. C. Macaulay, inFrancis Beaumont, pp. 43, 44. See the entire passage on Fletcher's metre as a test of authorship. Mr. Macaulay also remarks interestingly that Fletcher's metrical style is an outgrowth of his general use of the loose or disjointed, as opposed to the periodic or rounded, style of speech. To this "Shakspere worked his way slowly," while Fletcher "seems to have at once and naturally adopted" it.) See also Fleay'sShakespeare Manual, p. 153.[31]On Massinger's verse see also Fleay'sShakespeare Manual, p. 154.[32]On Milton's verse, see, besides the entire third essay in Mr. Symonds's book, Masson's edition of Milton, vol. iii. pp. 107-133; Robert Bridges'sMilton's Prosody; Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., pp. 71-77 and 96-105; chapter xii. of Corson'sPrimer of English Verse; and a passage in De Quincey's essay on "Milton v. Southey and Landor," in his works, ed. Masson, vol. xi. pp. 463 ff. Says De Quincey: "You might as well tax Mozart with harshness in the divinest passages ofDon Giovannias Milton with any such offence against metrical science. Be assured it is yourself that do not read with understanding, not Milton that by possibility can be found deaf to the demands of perfect harmony."[33]Aaron Hill (1685-1750), an admirer of Thomson, wrote a "Poem in Praise of Blank Verse," opening:"Up from Rhyme's poppied vale! and ride the stormThat thunders in blank verse!"On the other hand, there were not wanting protestants against the form, like Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith (see above, p.205). Robert Lloyd (1733-1764) wrote:"Some Milton-mad (an affectationGlean'd up from college-education)Approve no verse, but that which flowsIn epithetic measur'd prose;...the metre which they callBlank, classic blank, their all in all."(Quoted in Perry'sEnglish Literature in the Eighteenth Century, p. 385.)[34]On its analysis, see Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., chap. xiii.
[19]One may easily find other instances of the sporadic appearance of the same measure in the midst of irregular "long lines" or rough alexandrines and septenaries. Compare, for example, the following, from early plays in Manly'sSpecimens of the Pre-Shaksperean Drama:"To be alone, nor very convenyent.""Ye shall not touche yt, for that I forbede.""But ye shuld be as godes resydent.""And many a chaumbyr thou xalt have therinne.""In this flood spylt is many a mannys blood.""Therfore be we now cast in ryght grett care."The context of many of these lines shows that they were intended to be read as four-stress rather than five-stress; but such examples serve to make clear how easily English rhythm would fall into the decasyllabic line.
[19]One may easily find other instances of the sporadic appearance of the same measure in the midst of irregular "long lines" or rough alexandrines and septenaries. Compare, for example, the following, from early plays in Manly'sSpecimens of the Pre-Shaksperean Drama:
"To be alone, nor very convenyent.""Ye shall not touche yt, for that I forbede.""But ye shuld be as godes resydent.""And many a chaumbyr thou xalt have therinne.""In this flood spylt is many a mannys blood.""Therfore be we now cast in ryght grett care."
"To be alone, nor very convenyent.""Ye shall not touche yt, for that I forbede.""But ye shuld be as godes resydent.""And many a chaumbyr thou xalt have therinne.""In this flood spylt is many a mannys blood.""Therfore be we now cast in ryght grett care."
The context of many of these lines shows that they were intended to be read as four-stress rather than five-stress; but such examples serve to make clear how easily English rhythm would fall into the decasyllabic line.
[20]See also an account of Zarncke's monograph (1865)Ueber den fünffussiger Iambus, in Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, Postscript.
[20]See also an account of Zarncke's monograph (1865)Ueber den fünffussiger Iambus, in Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, Postscript.
[21]See the entire Preface in Chalmers'sEnglish Poets, vol. viii. p. 32, and in the Appendix to Gosse'sFrom Shakespeare to Pope. For an analysis of Waller's verse with reference to this Preface, see "A Note upon Waller's Distich," by H. C. Beeching, in the FurnivallMiscellany(1901), p. 4.
[21]See the entire Preface in Chalmers'sEnglish Poets, vol. viii. p. 32, and in the Appendix to Gosse'sFrom Shakespeare to Pope. For an analysis of Waller's verse with reference to this Preface, see "A Note upon Waller's Distich," by H. C. Beeching, in the FurnivallMiscellany(1901), p. 4.
[22]Beaumont's own verse is of no little interest, and Mr. Gosse, in a recent letter to the present editor, observes that he finds in Beaumont, "far more definitely than in George Sandys, the principal precursor of Waller."
[22]Beaumont's own verse is of no little interest, and Mr. Gosse, in a recent letter to the present editor, observes that he finds in Beaumont, "far more definitely than in George Sandys, the principal precursor of Waller."
[23]See also the verses of Oliver Wendell Holmes onThe Strong Heroic Line(in Stedman'sAmerican Anthology, p. 161), where he says:"Nor let the rhymester of the hour derideThe straight-backed measure with its stately stride:It gave the mighty voice of Dryden scope;It sheathed the steel-bright epigrams of Pope;In Goldsmith's verse it learned a sweeter strain;Byron and Campbell wore its clanking chain;I smile to listen while the critic's scornFlouts the proud purple kings have nobly worn."
[23]See also the verses of Oliver Wendell Holmes onThe Strong Heroic Line(in Stedman'sAmerican Anthology, p. 161), where he says:
"Nor let the rhymester of the hour derideThe straight-backed measure with its stately stride:It gave the mighty voice of Dryden scope;It sheathed the steel-bright epigrams of Pope;In Goldsmith's verse it learned a sweeter strain;Byron and Campbell wore its clanking chain;I smile to listen while the critic's scornFlouts the proud purple kings have nobly worn."
"Nor let the rhymester of the hour derideThe straight-backed measure with its stately stride:It gave the mighty voice of Dryden scope;It sheathed the steel-bright epigrams of Pope;In Goldsmith's verse it learned a sweeter strain;Byron and Campbell wore its clanking chain;I smile to listen while the critic's scornFlouts the proud purple kings have nobly worn."
[24]On the verse of Keats in general, see the remarks of Mr. Robert Bridges in his Introduction to the Muses' Library edition of Keats.
[24]On the verse of Keats in general, see the remarks of Mr. Robert Bridges in his Introduction to the Muses' Library edition of Keats.
[25]On Shelley's metres, see Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., chap. xiv.
[25]On Shelley's metres, see Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., chap. xiv.
[26]On the verse of Surrey in general, see W. J. Courthope, in hisHistory of English Poetry, vol. ii. pp. 92-96. Mr. Courthope speaks highly of Surrey as a metrist, in particular attributing to him certain reforms in the handling of English verse: the attempt to use five perfect iambic feet to the line, the harmonious placing of the cesura, the avoidance of rime on weak syllables, the preservation of the accent on the even-numbered syllables. (To some of these reforms, as has been indicated, there are not a few exceptions.) In like manner ten Brink observes that Surrey "is more successful than Wyatt in adapting foreign rules to the rhythmical accent of the English language, and thus he is in reality the founder of the New-English metrical system." (English Literature, Kennedy trans., vol. iii. p. 243.)On the blank verse of Surrey, see also an article by Prof. O. J. Emerson, inModern Language Notes, vol. iv. col. 466, and Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., chap. x.
[26]On the verse of Surrey in general, see W. J. Courthope, in hisHistory of English Poetry, vol. ii. pp. 92-96. Mr. Courthope speaks highly of Surrey as a metrist, in particular attributing to him certain reforms in the handling of English verse: the attempt to use five perfect iambic feet to the line, the harmonious placing of the cesura, the avoidance of rime on weak syllables, the preservation of the accent on the even-numbered syllables. (To some of these reforms, as has been indicated, there are not a few exceptions.) In like manner ten Brink observes that Surrey "is more successful than Wyatt in adapting foreign rules to the rhythmical accent of the English language, and thus he is in reality the founder of the New-English metrical system." (English Literature, Kennedy trans., vol. iii. p. 243.)
On the blank verse of Surrey, see also an article by Prof. O. J. Emerson, inModern Language Notes, vol. iv. col. 466, and Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., chap. x.
[27]The edition of 1616 has:"One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ!"and omits the preceding line.(See Bullen ed., vol. i. pp. 279, 280.)
[27]The edition of 1616 has:
"One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ!"
"One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ!"
and omits the preceding line.
(See Bullen ed., vol. i. pp. 279, 280.)
[28]On Marlowe's verse see also Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., chap. x.
[28]On Marlowe's verse see also Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., chap. x.
[29]On the technical problems of Shakspere's verse, see Fleay'sShakspere Manual; Abbott'sShakespearean Grammar; G. Browne'sNotes on Shakspere's Versification; and Mayor'sChapters on English Metre.
[29]On the technical problems of Shakspere's verse, see Fleay'sShakspere Manual; Abbott'sShakespearean Grammar; G. Browne'sNotes on Shakspere's Versification; and Mayor'sChapters on English Metre.
[30]"In a play of 2500 lines Massinger might possibly have as many as 1200 double or triple endings, Shakspere in his last period might have as many as 850, while Fletcher would normally have at least 1700, and might not improbably give as many as 2000." (G. C. Macaulay, inFrancis Beaumont, pp. 43, 44. See the entire passage on Fletcher's metre as a test of authorship. Mr. Macaulay also remarks interestingly that Fletcher's metrical style is an outgrowth of his general use of the loose or disjointed, as opposed to the periodic or rounded, style of speech. To this "Shakspere worked his way slowly," while Fletcher "seems to have at once and naturally adopted" it.) See also Fleay'sShakespeare Manual, p. 153.
[30]"In a play of 2500 lines Massinger might possibly have as many as 1200 double or triple endings, Shakspere in his last period might have as many as 850, while Fletcher would normally have at least 1700, and might not improbably give as many as 2000." (G. C. Macaulay, inFrancis Beaumont, pp. 43, 44. See the entire passage on Fletcher's metre as a test of authorship. Mr. Macaulay also remarks interestingly that Fletcher's metrical style is an outgrowth of his general use of the loose or disjointed, as opposed to the periodic or rounded, style of speech. To this "Shakspere worked his way slowly," while Fletcher "seems to have at once and naturally adopted" it.) See also Fleay'sShakespeare Manual, p. 153.
[31]On Massinger's verse see also Fleay'sShakespeare Manual, p. 154.
[31]On Massinger's verse see also Fleay'sShakespeare Manual, p. 154.
[32]On Milton's verse, see, besides the entire third essay in Mr. Symonds's book, Masson's edition of Milton, vol. iii. pp. 107-133; Robert Bridges'sMilton's Prosody; Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., pp. 71-77 and 96-105; chapter xii. of Corson'sPrimer of English Verse; and a passage in De Quincey's essay on "Milton v. Southey and Landor," in his works, ed. Masson, vol. xi. pp. 463 ff. Says De Quincey: "You might as well tax Mozart with harshness in the divinest passages ofDon Giovannias Milton with any such offence against metrical science. Be assured it is yourself that do not read with understanding, not Milton that by possibility can be found deaf to the demands of perfect harmony."
[32]On Milton's verse, see, besides the entire third essay in Mr. Symonds's book, Masson's edition of Milton, vol. iii. pp. 107-133; Robert Bridges'sMilton's Prosody; Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., pp. 71-77 and 96-105; chapter xii. of Corson'sPrimer of English Verse; and a passage in De Quincey's essay on "Milton v. Southey and Landor," in his works, ed. Masson, vol. xi. pp. 463 ff. Says De Quincey: "You might as well tax Mozart with harshness in the divinest passages ofDon Giovannias Milton with any such offence against metrical science. Be assured it is yourself that do not read with understanding, not Milton that by possibility can be found deaf to the demands of perfect harmony."
[33]Aaron Hill (1685-1750), an admirer of Thomson, wrote a "Poem in Praise of Blank Verse," opening:"Up from Rhyme's poppied vale! and ride the stormThat thunders in blank verse!"On the other hand, there were not wanting protestants against the form, like Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith (see above, p.205). Robert Lloyd (1733-1764) wrote:"Some Milton-mad (an affectationGlean'd up from college-education)Approve no verse, but that which flowsIn epithetic measur'd prose;...the metre which they callBlank, classic blank, their all in all."(Quoted in Perry'sEnglish Literature in the Eighteenth Century, p. 385.)
[33]Aaron Hill (1685-1750), an admirer of Thomson, wrote a "Poem in Praise of Blank Verse," opening:
"Up from Rhyme's poppied vale! and ride the stormThat thunders in blank verse!"
"Up from Rhyme's poppied vale! and ride the stormThat thunders in blank verse!"
On the other hand, there were not wanting protestants against the form, like Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith (see above, p.205). Robert Lloyd (1733-1764) wrote:
"Some Milton-mad (an affectationGlean'd up from college-education)Approve no verse, but that which flowsIn epithetic measur'd prose;...the metre which they callBlank, classic blank, their all in all."
"Some Milton-mad (an affectationGlean'd up from college-education)Approve no verse, but that which flowsIn epithetic measur'd prose;...the metre which they callBlank, classic blank, their all in all."
(Quoted in Perry'sEnglish Literature in the Eighteenth Century, p. 385.)
[34]On its analysis, see Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., chap. xiii.
[34]On its analysis, see Mayor'sChapters on English Metre, 2d ed., chap. xiii.
The alexandrine was introduced into English from French verse, as early (according to Schipper) as the early part of the thirteenth century. Early poems in this metre alone, however, are almost wholly wanting, if they ever existed. The early alexandrines usually appear in conjunction with the septenary (seven-stress verse). The French alexandrine has almost always been characterized by a regular and strongly marked medial cesura, and this very commonly appears in the English form, but by no means universally.
The French alexandrine is of uncertain origin. Kawczynski would trace it to the classical Asclepiadean verse, as in
"Mæcenas atavis edite regibus,"
"Mæcenas atavis edite regibus,"
which at least has the requisite number of syllables. It appeared in France as early as the first part of the twelfth century, and in four-line stanzas was the favorite for didactic poetry as late as the beginning of the fifteenth century; otherwise, in the close of the fourteenth century, it was supplanted by the decasyllabic. In the middle of the sixteenth century it again won precedence over the decasyllabic—in part through the influence of Ronsard—and is of course the standard measure of modern French poetry. The name "alexandrine" seems to have been applied in the fifteenth century, from the familiar use of the measure in the Alexander romance. The earliest known mention of the term is in Herenc'sDoctrinal de la secunde Retorique. (See Stengel's article in Gröber'sGrundriss der Romanischen Philologie, from which these statements are taken.)
The French alexandrine is in a sense a quite different measure from the English form. Accent is an element of so comparatively slight importance in the French language and French rhythm, that its place seems partly to be filled by regularity of cesural pause and regularity in the counting of syllables. The French alexandrine, therefore, may often be described as a verse of twelve syllables, divided into two equal parts by a pause, with marked accents on the sixth and twelfth syllables, but with the other accents irregularly disposed. Often it seems to an English reader to have an anapestic effect, and to be best described as anapestic tetrameter. In English, however, while the regularity in the number of syllables is followed, and very commonly the medial pause, there is also observed the regularity of alternate accents which gives the verse the characteristic form indicated by the term "six-stress."