different ways of looking at the world; that scientists likewise vary in their views of it; that artists also frequently diverge in opinion as to both the world and art. And I wonder whether it ever occurs to those, of all parties, who agree that a God exists greater than man or the Sun, that possibly such a God may be able to combine these several conflicting ways of looking at the world. It is conceivable that, putting them together like a series of lenses, God beholds the world through them as a coherent, well-proportioned whole. At all events, the women poets, notwithstanding so much affluence of controversy, do not hesitate to come in with their gentle chorus of affirmation and belief. They sing of their own sufferings, of the problems of life; they recite, with a pathetic yet uncomplaining fidelity, the sorrows of womanhood and the griefs and joys of childhood; as, for example, Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt. They are not wanting in responsiveness to the fierce demands of fate upon men, and can sometimes raise the song of patriotism, or celebrate defiant courage. They catch the meaning of the lights and shadows in landscape, with a swift and discerning eye. They look upon all the moods of humanity with a sort of divine, brooding, affectionate compassion. And so we have D. M. Craik, Jean Ingelow, Mary Mapes Dodge, Christina Rossetti, Louise Guiney, Mrs. Dorr, Mrs. Stowe, Mrs. Spofford, Celia Thaxter, Edith Thomas, Elizabeth Akers Allen, and a number more, who sing of that which is beautiful; or, if they encounter ugliness and pain, transform those wraiths into sources of consolation and hope.

"And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead,"

says Mrs. Dodge, finding a new thought of comfort, in the shadow of that mystery which is the hardest of all for us to bear. Swinburne perceives in the sea only a vast, unhelpful, destroying force, part of the pitiless power that watches the struggle and waste of man. But Jean Ingelow makes an old fisherman, in Brothers And A Sermon," speak to God of

having drawn up good food and money out of Thy great sea." It is always the heart that woman touches in poetry, as she should in life; and she is instinctively on the side of religion. It is always resignation, or faith, hope and aid, that we get from woman's poetry. . I do not recall any woman poet who was a sceptic, a passionate railer, against fate, or a modern pagan. That women, in whom the life of the race reposes and on whom it depends who give breath and being to man and nurse him into viable strength-should speak for courage and faith and the hope of a still higher life, seems nothing more than normal.

Swinburne does not appear in the present collection, but we may for a moment contrast the sun-worship which he has freely expressed, with George Macdonald's "Light" (which, like many modern poems, is much too long for its meaning). Swinburne recognizes in the sun, the physical and seen source of light, a deity; but Macdonald sums up thus:

"Enlighten me, O light! Why art thou such?

Why art thou awful to our eyes and sweet?

Here is a very significant difference. One conceives of light as being God. Thus, Swinburne, in "Off Shore":

"Arise, shine, lighten upon me, O sun that we see to be God."

The other, Macdonald, declares that "God is light," exactly reversing the order of reasoning and the meaning. Thus we find the poets differing among themselves, precisely as other people differ. But the advantage which they have is, that they differ in small space; and no one of them claims to be infallible, or backed by all the celestial and terrestrial powers. It still remains a privilege of the poets to condense the problems of existence, so that we may listen to them and then to our own hearts, and, by comparing the reports on either side, reach our own conclusion.

There are many of the contributors to this volume whom I

have not mentioned, or of whom I have spoken inadequately. Their verse, however, speaks for them. Enough, it may be, has been said in this Introduction, to suggest that our generation finds an ample outlet for its doubts, strivings, beliefs, sorrows and joys, in the songs of its own singers. Von Humboldt thought that man belongs to the singing species of animals. There is as yet no convincing evidence that he was wrong. The earliest laws of the race were put into verse. We cannot even speak a sentence, without making a tune of it; as Sidney Lanier has proved, in "The Science of English Verse." Keats said:

"The poetry of earth is ceasing never;"

and he was right. We may criticise, theorize, vaporize at will; but the symphony of the poets goes on completing itself, and will always go on, in spite of our interference. There is evidence enough in this volume, I think, to show that poetry in our day keeps abreast of the loves and aspirations of humanity, and records its doubts and hesitations, as clearly as the sersometer registers vibrations in the earth's substance.

Inconsistencies occur in poetic utterance, no doubt, as they do in all other human utterance; and that there is need of much discrimination between the perfect and imperfect artistic execution of poems cannot be questioned. But let us listen impartially to everything that is reasonably well rendered. Let us try not to miss the eagle's song of which Heine speaks, by assuming beforehand the well-supported scientific view that the eagle cannot sing. Let us try to lure him down into our atmosphere, instead of forcing him to ascend towards the sun, in order to give tongue to the music that is in him. And, as we do not always know which poetic fledgling is to grow into this sort of eagle, we ought carefully to nurture the whole brood of birds that have once proved themselves to be something better than mere barnyard fowl.

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.

PREFACE.

THE

HE idea of this book was suggested to me through my own desire to know what the poets regarded as their most representative poems; and I thought, if I have such a desire, why is it not possessed by a great many others? I therefore determined to make a book of such selections if I should receive sufficient encouragement from the poets. The plan no sooner suggested itself than it was adopted, and I immediately made out a list of representative living poets, to each of whom I addressed a letter asking if he would kindly name for me the three or four of his poems which he thought best represented his work. The idea seemed to strike the poets as favorably as it had struck me, and many of them expressed themselves as greatly pleased at having an opportunity to make a selection from their own verses. In the case of Lord Tennyson, I requested an intimate friend of the Laureate to obtain the desired list for me. He replied that Lord Tennyson would not designate the poems in so many words, but that it was generally known in his family that certain ones, which he named, were Lord Tennyson's favorites. I copied out the list, and sent it to the Hon. Hallam Tennyson, with the request that he would submit it to his father for approval, and in due time the reply was received that the selections would "answer the purpose." In the case of the author of "John Halifax, Gentleman," I suggested the poems, and she replied, "I quite approve of the list." In one or two instances where the poets hesitated—possibly through a misunderstanding of my plan—to make selections, I made

suggestions which were in each case either thoroughly approved or else amended by them.

The inequality in the amount of space devoted to the different poets may be readily explained by the fact that I simply requested them to make their own choice, without regard to length. Some liked their shorter poems better-for the purpose, at least; others preferred their longer ones. As the collection was made to please the poets and their admirers, this explanation wiil, I am sure, prove satisfactory. By an inadvertence, two poems named by Col. T. W. Higginson, "The Baby Sorcerer" and "The Reed Immortal," are not in this volume, and I have the same misfortune to chronicle in the case of Miss Emma Lazarus, who named, besides the poems here printed, "The New Colossus," Phantasies," and “A March Violet."

I regret the absence of "H. H." (Helen Jackson) from this choir of living poets, but I will name the poems she selected a few weeks before her death. They were, "Spinning," "Thought," "Two Moths," and "To April." The three former are to be found in her published volume; the latter appeared in The Century Magazine.

I have given some expression to my gratitude to the poets for their kind co-operation, by dedicating this book to them. To the publishers, both American and English, whose names are here given, I must acknowledge my indebtedness for their generosity and courtesy; for without their permission so cheerfully given to quote from their copyrighted books, this collection could not have been made. I must thank, first of all, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., for the use of the poems of John Hay, J. J. Piatt, S. M. B. Piatt, C. G. Leland, J. R. Lowell, W. W. Story, O. W. Holmes, E. S. Phelps, Bret Harte, Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney, E. C. Stedman, J. G. Whittier, T. B. Aldrich, Lucy Larcom, Celia Thaxter, Edith M. Thomas, H. B. Stowe, T. W. Higginson, Harriet P. Spofford, C. P. Cranch, and J. T. Trowbridge.