In Cupid’s Court

EDITED BY
Ina Russelle Warren

New York
R. H. Russell
1900

COPYRIGHT 1900
BY
ROBERT HOWARD RUSSELL

TO T.

If the world’s entirety

Is two eyes that shine on me,

Lay the blame at Love’s door, dearest:

Thus he made my world to be.

He’s the key to Heaven’s gate;

He’s the scorn that tramples fate;

He’s the worth of living, dearest,

He’s the laugh that makes Death late.

He’s the morning sun that wakes us

To the worth of all things, dearest,

He’s the influence that makes us

Daily gladder, ’till God takes us!

Tomas Beauling.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

It will be readily apparent that the aim of this volume is to collect the choicest poems on Cupid scattered throughout English literature. A large harvest has been gleaned, and what my judgment counts excellent, so far as practicable, is represented. The attitude towards Cupid has mostly been one of obstinate resistance, but he has the element that wins,—sometimes fantastically, sometimes pathetically. The beleaguering little rogue never quits the field defeated,—to him no suit is hopeless.

If some of the verses are not of high value as compositions they are all-important when considered relative to the subject, and a majority of the poems are of unquestionable literary merit.

I beg to acknowledge the gracious favor of The Century Co., Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Life Publishing Co., Frederick A. Stokes Co., G. P. Putnam’s Sons, Charles Scribner’s Sons, Cassell Publishing Co., and D. Appleton & Co., for the use of copyright poems. I also gratefully acknowledge the eminent courtesy of individual authors for permission to reprint.

I. R. W.

IN CUPID’S COURT

CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD OF LOVE

O most fair God, O Love both new and old,

That wast before the flowers of morning blew,

Before the glad sun in his mail of gold

Leapt into light across the first day’s dew;

That art the first and last of our delight,

That in the blue day and the purple night

Holdest the hearts of servant and of king,

Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,

That in thy hand hast heaven’s golden key

And hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

What thing rejects thy mastery? Who so bold

But at thine altars in the dusk they sue?

Even the straight pale goddess, silver-stoled,

That kissed Endymion when the spring was new,

To thee did homage in her own despite,

When in the shadow of her wings of white

She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring

To where the Latmian youth lay slumbering,

And in that kiss put off cold chastity.

Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string,

“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”

Master of men and gods, in every fold

Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew

The labouring earth, tranced with the winter’s cold,

Lie hid—the quintessential charms that woo

The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might

Of the dead year, and draw them to the light.

Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling;

Skyward and seaward, whilst thy white palms fling

Their spells of healing over land and sea,

One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,

“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”

I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands hold

Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue:

Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,

And in thine eyes the royal heaven’s hue:

But in thy lips’ clear colour, ruddy bright,

The heart’s blood shines of many a hapless wight.

Thou art not only fair and sweet as Spring;

Terror and beauty, fear and wondering

Meet on thy front, amazing all who see:

All men do praise thee, ay, and everything!

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

I fear thee, though I love. Who can behold

The sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue,

What while the noontide over hill and wold

Flames like a fire, except his mazèd view

Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight

Fills me with mingled gladness and affright.

Thy visage haunts me in the wavering

Of dreams, and in the dawn, awakening,

I feel thy splendour streaming full on me.

Both joy and fear unto thy feet I bring;

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

ENVOY

God above Gods, High and Eternal King,

Whose praise, the symphonies of heaven sing,

I find no whither from thy power to flee,

Save in thy pinions’ vast o’ershadowing:

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

John Payne.

CUPID MISTAKEN

As after noon, one summer’s day,

Venus stood bathing in a river,

Cupid a-shooting went that way,

New strung his bow, new filled his quiver.

With skill he chose his sharpest dart,

With all his might his bow he drew;

Swift to his beauteous parent’s heart

The too well-guided arrow flew.

“I faint! I die!” the goddess cried;

“O cruel, couldst thou find none other

To wreak thy spleen on? Parricide!

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.”

Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak:

“Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye;

Alas! how easy my mistake;

I took you for your likeness, Cloe.”

Matthew Prior.

CUPID ONCE UPON A BED

Cupid once upon a bed

Of roses laid his weary head;

Luckless urchin not to see

Within the leaves a slumbering bee!

The bee awaked—with anger wild

The bee awaked and stung the child.

Loud and piteous are his cries;

To Venus quick he runs, he flies!

“O mother! I am wounded through—

I die with pain—in sooth I do!

Stung by some little angry thing,

Some serpent on a tiny wing—

A bee it was—for once, I know,

I heard a rustic call it so.”

Thus he spoke, and she the while

Heard him with a soothing smile;

Then said, “My infant, if so much

Thou feel the little wild bee’s touch,

How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be—

The hapless heart that’s stung by thee?”

Thomas Moore.
(Odes of Anacreon.)

CUPID’S BIRTH

At Cupid’s birth, Joy left the bounds of space,

And, heeding not the stars, flew fast to earth,

To hold the hearts of men in warm embrace,

At Cupid’s birth.

Then Life, with beaming eyes and quickened pace,

And new-found god-like strength, first knew her worth;

While Fate began the future to retrace.

But Death stood gently by with quiet grace,

Aloof from all the tumult and mad mirth,

A sweet, sad smile lit up his steadfast face

At Cupid’s birth.

R. W. Bunny.

CUPID AT COURT

Young Cupid strung his bow one day,

And sallied out for sport;

As country hearts were easy prey,

Odd Darts! he went to court.

Of all that wore the puff and patch,

Belinda led the fair:

With falbala, and fan to match,

I trow she made him stare!

“Oho!” he cried, and quickly drew

His bow upon the sly;—

But though he pierced her bosom through,

She never breathed a sigh!

This was a turn, beyond a doubt,

That filled him with amaze,

And so he sought his mother out,

With tear-bewildered gaze.

“You silly boy,” Dame Venus said,

“Why did you waste your art?

Go clip your curls and hide your head,—

Belinda has no heart!”

Samuel Minturn Peck.

CUPID

Why was Cupid a boy,

And why a boy was he?

He should have been a girl,

For aught that I can see.

For he shoots with his bow,

And the girl shoots with her eye;

And they both are merry and glad,

And laugh when we do cry.

Then to make Cupid a boy

Was surely a woman’s plan,

For a boy never learns so much

Till he has become a man:

And then he’s so pierced with cares,

And wounded with arrowy smarts,

That the whole business of his life

Is to pick out the heads of the darts.

William Blake.

CUPID’S LOTTERY

A Lottery, a Lottery,

In Cupid’s Court there used to be;

Two roguish eyes

The highest prize

In Cupid’s scheming Lottery;

And kisses, too,

As good as new,

Which weren’t very hard to win,

For he who won

The eyes of fun

Was sure to have the kisses in.

A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

This Lottery, this Lottery

In Cupid’s court went merrily,

And Cupid played

A Jewish trade

In this his scheming Lottery;

For hearts, we’re told,

In shares he sold

To many a fond believing drone,

And cut the hearts

In sixteen parts

So well, each thought the whole his own,

A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

Thomas Moore.

CUPID’S CURSE

My love is fair, my love is gay,

As fresh as are the flowers in May;

And of my love the roundelay,

My merry, merry roundelay,

Concludes with Cupid’s curse:

They that do change old love for new,

Pray gods they change for worse!

My love can pipe, my love can sing,

My love can many a pretty thing,

And of his lovely praises ring

My merry, merry roundelays.

Amen to Cupid’s curse!

They that do change old love for new,

Pray gods they change for worse!

George Peele.

LOVE’S FLITTING

When Love is coming, coming,

Meet him with songs and joy,

Bid him alight and enter,

Flatter and feast the boy;

Crown him with gems and roses,

Charm him with winning wiles,

Bind him with lovely garlands,

And kisses, and smiles.

When Love is going, going,

Leaving you all alone,

Craving, the fickle tyrant,

Some newer slave and throne,

Hinder him not, but quickly,

Even though your heart may bleed,

Saddle a horse for his journey,

And bid him God-speed!

Elizabeth Akers.

LOVE’S TYRANNY

Love’s tyranny now wherefore should I praise,

Not being enamoured of my altered plight!

I often sigh who once sang roundelays;

I know the sleepless gnomes that haunt the night.

I turn with feverish jealousy to hear

Words that were spoken when I was not near.

I shroud my eyes from sights I dare not see,

Yet who so spies must tell his tale to me.

Madman am I, who give my vote for death,

Yet heed not the grim hand that beckoneth.

Love I entreat to go, and while I pray

Grasp him with nervous fingers, lest he stray.